Chapter Text
Act 1: The Introduction
I.
“Hello listeners! Gang. Group. Sherlock & Co listeners. What am I even supposed to call you guys? Hey fam! No that just sounds stupid.”
“What are you doing?”
There wasn’t supposed to be anyone at the flat today, which was why I was elbow deep (so to speak) in data trying to figure out a better opening for the podcast.
Laptop set up on the desk in my room, Mic the mic set next to me so I can try different ways of introductions. I know it was all going to sound stupid, which is why I chose this time.
Sherlock left this morning saying he had a meeting or something. Mariana was out with friends from her old job at Hudson’s. Someone’s getting married or something and they were planning a boozy lunch?
At least I think that’s what she told me. I was busy at that time, trying to get Archie to stop eating duck poo.
Either way, Mari is gone, Sherls is gone, and Archie is sound asleep in the living room. Flat on his back, tongue lolling and occasionally letting out the most rancid gas. I had to open a window…or three.
What I was not expecting was the distinctly familiar voice coming from my open bedroom doorway.
No I did not scream like a girl, thank you very much. I was dignified and manly about the whole thing.
“Jesus!” My hand clutched to my manly chest, I stared at my roommate who looked nonplussed about the whole thing.
He did the head tilt thing that reminds me of Archie before repeating himself.
“What are you doing?”
“Christ mate, you about gave me a heart attack. What are you doing home?”
“Meeting was finished. I came home. Why are you in here talking to yourself and making odd introductions?”
“Trying to find a better introduction to the podcast. What meeting was this?”
“You’ve been doing this podcast for nearly 24 months now. The time to choose a better introduction was 22 months ago.”
I note he doesn’t tell me who he saw and make a mental note to bring it up later. When Mariana’s home. So she can help. The man is my best friend but sometimes I swear Mariana is like the Sherlock whisperer.
“Thought I’d change it up y’know? Like, something hip that the kids will like.”
He shifted, putting weight on his left leg and says nothing for a moment. Got that look on his face like he’s digging through a file to pick just the right insult-
“The last time you tried something hip that you thought the kids would like, someone threw a phone at your head.”
-and there it is.
“Hey now! That was an aberration.”
“Do you even know what that word means?”
“You’re in a mood today. Does this have to do with that meeting of yours? That mysterious meeting you won’t tell me about. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you avoiding the question each time I ask.”
Sherlock suddenly straightened up, frowned, then turned to leave my doorway.
“I must speak with you and Mariana when she returns.”
A phone chimes and Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, head bent to read whatever popped up on his phone.
A moment later his door slammed shut and I’m still sat there wondering what the hell that was all about.
II.
“Did he give you any idea what he wanted to talk to us about?”
Mariana came home bubbly and laughing. Once she found me in the office going through emails to find a case, she cornered me, talking a mile a minute as she went through the entire luncheon in agonizing detail.
I sat at the desk, chin on my hand listening to her as she walked in a little circle in front of the desk, laughing and waving her hands as she spoke. I should conduct an experiment to see if Mariana could talk without waving her hands.
Her accent gets thicker the more she drinks too. It’s cute. Cute in a “Oh she might regret this in the morning” way not cute in the…you know what, never mind.
When she took a breath, I jumped in with my own little bombshell.
“Sherlock wants to talk to us.” I reached over and quietly put the computer to sleep. Just in case the enjoyable fog around Mari’s head clears and she realizes that I’m down here going through things. This is her domain-or so she thinks- and anyone’s presence in her domain always gets questioned.
“Why? Did he give you any idea what he wanted to talk to us about?”
“Not a clue.” Mic the mic was sitting on the desk, just out of sight catching this entire enlightening conversation.
“What did he say exactly?”
“He said,” I cleared my throat and used my best Sherlock Holmes impression. “I must speak with you and Mariana when she returns. Then his phone buzzed and he went to his room and that’s the last I’ve seen of him.”
“Passable impression but not quite accurate. Keep trying.”
I didn’t scream. I don’t care what the mic picked up, that wasn’t me. Sherlock stood in the doorway of 221 A looking far too smug for his own good. I shot Mariana a dark look. Not that she could see it with the way she was doubled over laughing so hard sound wasn’t coming from her. One day, I’m going to be laughing at them while they’re trying to get their heart rate back down to double digits.
“Very funny,” I wheezed. Sherlock still looked smug, so I looked back at the now shut down computer, grumbling under my breath about smart arsed detectives. Mariana’s laughter was dying down, reduced now to small gasps of air, remaining giggles and wiping her eyes while trying to catch her breath.
“If we could all be seated,” The amusement in my friend’s face changed into something more serious. Mariana noticed as well and pulling a tissue from the box on the desk, began wiping at her eyes in earnest, heading to the back of the office where her flat spread out behind a door. I got up and followed, taking one last look towards the entrance of our building, checking for errant clients that might suddenly walk in looking for the services of Sherlock Holmes.
As always, Mariana’s flat was cozy and calm, opposite the upstairs flat where Sherlock and I lived. And Archie, mustn’t forget him.
Settling around Mariana’s small kitchen table, the two of us looked expectantly at Sherlock who paced on the small patch of tile between the table and the countertops.
“Before I begin,” Sherlock spun on a heel and focused his attention at me. “John, I need you to turn off the mic.”
“We never turn off the mic.”
I glanced over at Mariana, and she had the same look I expect was on my face. Turn off the recorder? We haven’t done that since we began this adventure. Or if we did, one of us turned on our phone recorders. And in that Sherlock was ahead of us as well.
“No phone recorders either. This deserves the utmost privacy and if that cannot happen, I will continue this next job alone.”
“Sherlock…”
That was Mariana, always the tactician, the Sherlock whisperer, the one who was able to calmly cut to the root of the issue. Whereas I…
“That’s blackmail. Pure manipulation. We record all our jobs, always have. What’s so important about this one that you’re demanding us to lose a potential case for the podcast?”
“John…”
Now Mariana was trying to use her abilities on me, but I wasn’t having it. Sherlock remained where he stood, hands clasp behind him, watching us both with that silent stare he perfected. The one that usually either gets me to confess to taking the last chocolate hobnob or trying to figure out if we are out of milk or penne or what I need to pick up.
This time, I glared back, undeterred.
“Why don’t you tell us why you don’t want this potential case recorded,” Mariana was asking, trying to find the middle ground. “Give us something Sherlock, an explanation at least. Then we can discuss it.”
It sounded sensible but then, mostly everything Mariana says in that tone is made to sound sensible. Sherlock must have thought so too because the grip on his hands behind him loosened just a smidge.
“This is a family matter. The person I am about to speak of does not need the publicity. And I would not have them thrust into the spotlight.”
Silence reigned the small kitchen. Then Mariana reached over and put her hand on mine. My hand was holding on to the recorder.
“John. Turn it off.”
I looked at her in disbelief. She was taking his side?!
“But-”
“John. This is a family matter. We owe Sherlock this at the very least.”
I was about to snap back that family hasn’t been exempt before. Mary hadn’t been exempted; her death hadn’t been exempted. Except it had. While the podcast picked up the moment she was shot, I did not record anything that followed. Except for a small conversation between us when I thought she was getting better, that she would be released soon and would be going home. But nothing after that. Not the sudden loss of her, nor the pain that followed. I had the opportunity to not add that in. Had I not, both Mariana and Sherlock would have understood. There are some things that are too private to be in the podcast.
Wordlessly, I switched the recorder off. Then I pulled out my phone and put it on the table as well, showing that it was not recording.
Mariana did the same with her own phone.
Only then did Sherlock relax completely.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. So, what’s this about?”
“Do you remember when we stole into Charles Augustus Milverton’s home to break into his safe?”
A shudder of revulsion swept over me.
“I don’t think I could forget.”
Sherlock had pulled out the third chair and took a seat at the table with us. “And do you remember the device I had that allowed us to drain the lock to the safe?”
“The clamp thing and the power thing that got all the information out of the safe? Yeah?”
“And do you remember whom I spoke of that gave those devices to me?”
I thought. The entire evening was adrenalin fueled and I don’t remember half the things that happened that evening. But I do remember Sherlock telling me about family…was it…
“A cousin? I think? An expert in, what exactly?”
“Very good Watson. Yes. My cousin. She asked for my assistance, which is astonishing enough. She has, let say a situation, that she needs my, or rather, our assistance with.”
Now Mariana spoke up. “Wait, I remember this from the podcast. Raffles?”
“Raffles.” Sherlock confirmed. “A.J. Raffles. And she asked for my help.”
III.
We had just finished the case that would be titled A Scandal in Bohemia on the podcast. Milverton seemed like ages ago when in fact it had only been less than a month. This latest case saw us dealing with what we thought might be the blackmail of the Royal Family by an opera star that put my best friend through his paces. One could almost say she beat him at his own game, but I wouldn’t say that. Not in front of him anyway.
I know he still thought about her at times. Not in a “Gosh she was attractive” way, more in a “respect for someone who could play the game as well as he” sort of way.
There’s a lot I still don’t know about my friend and this current case was one of them.
“Cousin?”
We were walking towards SoHo, getting off at the Piccadilly Station. Picadilly Square never ceases to impress me. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a there’s too many bloody people here sort of way. I’ve seen pictures of New York, and it always reminds me of America’s Times Square.
“I didn’t know you had a cousin. I didn’t know you had family. You never talk about them.”
“Did you think I sprung up fully formed from the ground Watson?”
Sherlock strode ahead of me, clearly knowing where he was going, whereas I was hurrying to catch up.
“No. I mean, I know you have or had parents, but you never talk about them. I think the only time I’ve ever heard you mention family was during a mailbag when you told a story about how you snuck out of your house one night and rode the rails. I mean, you know everything about Carol. I don’t know, I think I’m a little hurt you’ve never talked about your parents with me.”
My friend sighed heavily as if he was put upon as we walked down Picadilly. I had no idea where we were heading.
“Very well, you may ask one question. I may or may not answer it.”
“Two. If one is about this mysterious cousin we’re about to see.”
“Deal.”
I took a breath. What to ask? There was so much I wanted to know about Sherlock and now that I had that opportunity, I didn’t know where to start.
“Are your parents still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Do they live in London too?”
“You’ve had your one family question Watson.”
“Ugh, fine.” It couldn’t be that hard to look up Holmes on the internet, could it? I know Sherlock has made the papers, well, rather Sherlock and Co have made the papers. Our cases have seen to that. The high stakes of them. I know Sherlock has past dealings with Commissioner Lestrade. Know that it seems like she’s known him for a very long time. Maybe she would spill some secrets?
Getting distracted. Back to the questions at hand.
“This cousin. Your mum’s side or your dad’s?”
“Mother’s.”
“So Raffles is your mum’s maiden name?”
That just earned a look from my friend. I figured Raffles wasn’t his mum’s maiden name and this might be something Sherlock’s cousin made up. It made sense. I know Sherlock’s name was, in fact, Sherlock. It made sense that his family might choose odd names too.
We walked past a building half constructed and turned into an alleyway.
Things they never tell you about on the London tourist trips. Things that, even with my few years living in London, I didn’t know about. At the end of the alleyway, named Albany Court Yard, was an old Georgian house.
“Oh hell,” I whistled as we continued walking this path towards the elaborate and very posh looking entrance. The further into this alley I walked, the more things opened. It was a courtyard in every sense of the word. A piece of hidden history that nobody would notice walking past. The entrance was only part of it. The entire house was three sided, creating the courtyard itself.
“Sherlock. Where are we?”
“This is the Albany, Watson.” Sherlock went into lecture mode as we entered the open area of the courtyard. The building itself was a brick home with crème trim. Creme pillars held up the entryway of the house. Three stories’ high with arched windows. The wings of the house on either side matched the color of the main house with only two levels on them. The entire establishment screamed wealth and privilege.
“It was built in 1776 for the first Viscount Melbourne. Thus, the main house is called Melbourne House. In 1802 it was converted into 69 bachelor sets. Behind this house are two more rows,” Sherlock continued to explain as we approached the front entrance of the main house. “Long parallel buildings that reach about a city block in length. Many a famous people lived here in their time and now it still has the distinction of being one of the longest remaining apartments in London.”
We reached the steps and climbed them to the entrance. Before we could reach the double doors, they were opened by a man in a suit.
“We have an appointment with Raffles.” Sherlock spoke before I could figure out if this was a tenant or…nope, it looked like this place had its own doorman. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”
A few taps on the tablet in the man’s hand and he stepped back, letting us walk through the doors.
“I’ve sent a message to Miss Raffles that you’ve arrived Sir.”
The doors closed behind us.