Sherlock-Criminal Mastermind 2

John Watson sighed.

He and Sherlock's breaking and entering attempt was not going well so far. He hadn't believed Sherlock when the man had initially told him that all criminal activities the great detective took part it always went disastrously wrong but he was swiftly coming to realise the truth behind Sherlock's words.

John had nearly had a panic attack at the sight of Milverton's pet snake, Sherlock had single-handedly destroyed half of the man's furniture and they had been here for over an HOUR and they STILL hadn't found the blackmail materials they were searching for.

The length of time that they had been illegally occupying the property whilst the owner was at the theatre was making Sherlock jumpy and as such he was having John stand look out whilst he searched Milverton's study alone. John knew it was a worthy task, but after a while it did become chronically dull.

He sighed again. Then, reaching onto Milverton's desk, he hefted a crystal paperweight in his hand and held it up to his face, watching his reflection in it. Then, for lack of anything better to do, he put on a pompous accent and did the 'alas, poor Yorrick, I knew him well' speech from Hamlet. Then, just for giggles, he did it with a highly exaggerated Welsh accent.

"John . . ." Sherlock growled from where he was clinging to the top of a bookcase, searching between the books in case the blackmail materials were hidden there.

"Sherlock . . ." John mimicked him.

"Stop mucking about and keep look out."

"Yes, oh Great One." John muttered, turning and leaning against the doorway. Then he ambled out into the hallway slightly. Then he moved back into the room and peered out the window. The room partially overlooked Milverton's back garden, through the darkness John could just make out the rickety wall that enclosed the space.

"John . . . You're not being look out . . ."

"I am. I'm standing here . . ." He pointed at the floor. "And I'm looking out." He said, pointing down into the garden.

"John!"

"Oh all bloody right . . ."

Two minutes later Sherlock spoke again.

"Will you stop humming!"

"What, you don't like the Beatles?"

"No!"

Just to be sadistic John began to sing for real. "In the town where I was born,
Lived a man who sailed to sea,
And he told us of his life,
In the land of submarines . . ."

"Shut up . . ."

"So we sailed on to the sun,
Till we found the sea of green . . ."

"Seriously, shut up."

"And we lived beneath the waves,
In our Yellow Submarine . . ."

"You know that putrefied leg in the bath? Well that's going in your bed when we get back."

John turned and grinned up at Sherlock.

"We all live in a Yellow Submarine,
Yellow Submarine,
Yellow Submarine . . ."

Losing his patience, Sherlock yanked a book off the shelf and lobbed it at John, who ducked nimbly out of the way. Unfortunately the movement of Sherlock's weight caused the bookshelf to wobble, dislodging the detective.

John darted forwards to catch Sherlock, the tall man crashing onto him and throwing them both to the floor. John had just enough wit left in him to roll them hastily to the side before the bookshelf crashed to the floor where they had just been lying.

Their ears ringing with the splintering boom of wood hitting the floor and bodies pumping with adrenaline, they just lay there in a heap for a long moment, staring at the remains of the bookshelf.

Eventually, John spoke. "We seem to be killing his furniture at a remarkable rate, don't we? What's the tally now?"

"A cupboard, a hat-stand, two chests of drawers, a grandfather clock, a bookshelf and that footstool you threw at the draught excluder because you thought it was the snake escaping again."

" . . . So much for leaving no trace of our presence anyway . . ."

"Hmm."

There was a brief pause.

" . . . Sherlock?"

" . . .Yes?"

"You can let go of me now."

Blushing slightly, Sherlock awkwardly untangled his gangly limbs from John's and stood up.

"I think you've pretty much searched this room from top to bottom anyway, haven't you?"

"Yes, no memory sticks, no photos, no photographic negatives, no false books that might contain any of the former and all the files on his computer are holiday pictures." Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes through his balaclava. He hated wearing it, his head was hot and sweaty and itchy but it was effective in containing hairs that might leave DNA evidence and it concealed his face. John had pulled his own up over his nose in order to aid the breathing process.

They made their way to Milverton's bedroom, succeeding in doing so with no mishaps save for John stubbing his toe on the remains of the hat stand.

It was a large and rather minimalist room with the bed on a large square dais along one wall and two chests of drawers being the only furniture.

Sherlock let out a long breath. "Well, this shouldn't take long to search. I'll do the bed."

John's search of the two chests of drawers didn't take long. After removing the drawers and shaking out their contents, then checking the framework and undersides of the cabinets and drawers, he turned around and informed Sherlock it wasn't there.

Sherlock was doing a similar search, having shaken out the quilt and pillow covers, removing the mattress and searching for slits where something could have been concealed within.

Nothing.

Sherlock looked up at John, finding the doctor staring back nervously. They were taking a massive risk by being there. Their get-out-of-jail-free card had been the blackmail materials. If they had found it then Milverton would be unable to go to the police as he could hardly report something stolen if he wasn't meant to have it in the first place. But, if he had the blackmail materials in his possession then he could simply hide them and pretend something else had been stolen, and given the utter debacle of Sherlock and John's attempts at burglary it was highly likely they may have unwittingly left some evidence behind . . .

Sherlock began to pace, his hands steepled in front of him. He had traced Milverton's movements for the past month; he had gone nowhere near anywhere that might have a safe or a safety deposit box. Milverton didn't appear to have any close contacts that he could trust to look after the blackmail materials. They HAD to be in this house. But WHERE? They'd searched every logical hiding place and most of the illogical ones too!

John watched anxiously as his friend's pacing increased in speed. Sherlock's logical mind was clearly working at triple capacity, trying to figure out where they went wrong. John just stood there and tried not to breathe or think too loudly, not wanting to disturb him.

Sherlock's pacing finally peaked and he wheeled around in frustration, lashing a foot out at the bed with a bellow of 'WHERE THE HELL IS IT?!'

John flinched at the sound of splintering wood. Add the bed to the list as well . . .

As John had closed his eyes at the noise, he missed the look of shock on his friend's face.

"John?"

"Yeah?" John said, hopefully.

"You know your earlier comment about this being like an episode of Scooby Doo? I'm starting to agree with you."

Sherlock's enraged kick had knocked the wooden dais of the bed about five inches off centre. Beneath was a hollow where a floorboard had been removed.

Eagerly, Sherlock fell to his knees and shoved his hand in, removing a plastic wallet full of photographs.

"Yesss!" He hissed in delight. They were in luck. In his arrogance, Milverton had been stupid. The wallet contained not only the photographs, but the negatives as well.

"Brilliant!" John breathed, as Sherlock removed the photographs to make sure they had them all.

They looked at one of the photographs.

Sherlock's pale face flushed a deep red and John's eyebrows shot up his forehead and tried to become one with his hairline.

John cleared his throat, his normally unflappable air looking a bit shaky now. "Well . . . I can see why she wouldn't want her dear old Catholic mother seeing THAT . . ."

"She MUST have had her tonsils out . . . There is literally no way that's possible otherwise."

They looked at another photo and their faces took on an expression of confusion.

Sherlock turned it upside down.

"Actually, I think you were right the first time you know."

He turned it back again. "I thought you couldn't do that without rupturing something?"

"So did I, and I'm a doctor! But they seem to be managing . . ."

They moved to the third picture and their faces contracted with horror.

"Oh GOD!"

"Put them away! Put them away!"

Sherlock hastily shoved the pictures back in the plastic folder.

John sat there with his hands pressed over his face. He let out a low whine. "My eyes . . ."

"You want to worry . . ." Sherlock said, shakily. "I've got a photographic bloody memory . . ."

John opened his mouth to reply but the words never came out.

A door had opened downstairs.


His gaze met Sherlock's and underneath the balaclava he could see the man's eyes were wide with horror.

They scrambled to their feet, Sherlock shoving the plastic wallet of photographs into his backpack.

The footsteps downstairs paused, and then started moving with greater urgency up and onto the stairs.

"Shit!" Sherlock hissed, hauling the window open as quickly and as quietly as he could. He had just dropped down into the darkness outside when they heard Milverton's cry of rage upon discovering the state of the landing.

John scrambled out awkwardly just as Milverton entered the room.

"HEY!" The man bellowed.

John let himself drop, his leg buckling slightly as one foot landed on concrete and one on grass. Desperate hands yanked him upwards and Sherlock dragged him into a sprint. They could feel plants whipping past them and being crushed underfoot, at one point they even splashed through an ornamental pond (John sparing a brief guilty thought for the welfare of the fish) but the speed at which they were travelling made them more irritants than obstacles.

They heard Milverton come hurtling out of the patio door just as they reached the wall. Sherlock's lean nimble frame was up and over in a heartbeat and John lunged upwards, grabbing onto the top of the wall.

If his heart had shrank when Milverton entered the house, it swelled rapidly again with pure terror as the old, crumbling stone gave beneath his hands.

He scrabbled desperately at the top of the wall, feeling the stones tumbling around him.

ShitShitShitShitSHIT! John felt himself slipping back and lashed out wildly with his feet in a seemingly hopeless attempt to gain more leverage.

Luckily, John's desperate kick coincided exactly with Milverton catching up with him. As the blackmailer moved forward and reached up, John's foot was travelling backwards and down with some force. The subsequent connection resulted in a sickening crunch as Milverton's nose smashed but John was not aware of this. Milverton's face with John's boot planted in the middle of it provided just enough leverage for him to propel himself up and over the wall, crashing to the floor in an inelegant, mildly concussed tangle of limbs.

Hands quickly turned him over. "Are you alright?!" Sherlock demanded, eyes flashing in the darkness. "Say something!"

"'M fine, just bruised . . ." John groaned. In the silence that followed they could hear Milverton's continuing howls of pain. Gritting his teeth, John staggered upright. "Time to run."

Moving quickly lest Milverton attempt to follow them further, they continued on into the park. As they did so they shed their balaclavas and gloves and Sherlock retrieved his scarf and a lighter coloured jumper for John. Just enough to make them different from Milverton's mental picture of them as two men dressed all in black. If he or anyone else was searching for them and only gave them a quick look, they might just dismiss them out of hand.

John's pulse was thundering, he could feel some evil aches beginning in his legs and side, his sweat was turning clammy in the cold night air and goddammit this was very possibly the happiest he had ever been in his life . . . He tugged the jumper on over his head and ruffled his hair, grateful for the cool breeze on his over-heated skin.

Sherlock too was hastily tugging his scarf around his neck and running his fingers through his now-lank curls, the tension finally start to ebb away from his limbs which had been coiled taut from the second they entered the property. He let his head loll back as they eventually slowed to a walk, sighing in relief.

Finally daring to believe it, John began to speak. "I think we've los-"

HONK!

"What the-?!" Sherlock leapt at the noise.

There was another HONK! and something nipped painfully at his leg. A heavy flapping sound and a yelp from John demonstrated he was in a similar predicament.

Sherlock groped in his rucksack for the torch he had been so reluctant to use earlier. Fighting off whatever it was, correction whatever THEY were, attacking his legs, he hastily turned on the light.

The park as it turned out had a small lake in the middle of it and, by trespassing at this ungodly hour, the two men had unwittingly provoked the ire of the park's geese which were now hissing and pecking repeatedly at them.

"Sherlock, do something!"

"Like what! Do I look like the bloody bird man?!"

"Get off my leg you little-!"

Their attempts to shove their way out of the circle of feathered monstrosities served only to enrage the geese still further.

Sherlock swung his backpack at them in an attempt to frighten them off. "Bollocks to this." He growled, his eyes glinting dangerously. "I am the world's only consulting detective and I will NOT be beaten by the local bloody wildlife!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So what was that you were saying about us not being beaten?" John said five minutes later. Their attempts to escape the geese had failed and the assault had only stopped by John's quick idea about climbing a tree.

"Shut up." Sherlock growled.

Problem was the geese had promptly encircled the tree and were now staring up at them warily, an occasional suspicious HONK! still ringing out into the darkness.

And so the world's only consulting detective and his loyal sidekick were sat halfway up a large Chestnut tree in the middle of the night in deepest darkest December, completely encircled by reincarnated psychopathic killers, otherwise known as a flock of common geese . . .

"I thought your bad luck finished when the crime had been committed?" John inquired.

"So did I." Sherlock said, glaring down at the geese. One of them honked at him. "Oh piss off, will you?" He replied.

John sat back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes but it was no good. The corners of his mouth began to twitch reflexively, his shoulders began to shake and before he could stop himself he was giggling helplessly.

When he eventually forced his streaming eyes open he discovered Sherlock and all the geese staring at him with almost comically quizzical expressions.

"Dare I ask?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows at him.

John just grinned. "We did it. EVERYTHING went wrong, and we still did it!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's adrenaline-crash surge of enthusiasm but before he turned away John just caught a glimpse of a smile.

"We are officially several shades of awesome." John said to himself, smiling up at the stars, the high of success making him giddy.

Then he frowned. "Sherlock, do you hear something?"

Sherlock perked his ears up and looked around.

There was something there . . . It sounded . . . almost like someone shouting 'cooee!'

The geese suddenly scattered as a small white and brown blob charged up to the tree, barking happily.

"GLADSTONE!" John yelled, joyfully.

"MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock realised, flabbergasted.

No guardian angel was ever greeted with more delight than that small purple-coated figure was right then.

"Hello boys." She smiled up at them. "You alright?"

This said to two men halfway up a tree . . .

Sherlock and John looked at each other. "Not so bad." John said, eventually, beaming from ear to ear. "What are you doing out so late?"

"Neither of us could sleep, nothing good on telly since they stopped that show about the stupid people getting married so we decided we'd come for a walk, bit of fresh air, didn't we Gladstone?" She cooed, bending down and patting the bulldog fondly on the head.

There was a faint honk from the distance as one of the geese attempted to return but it was dissuaded by a low growl from the dog.

Sherlock and John shared a look again. "Not really safe for you to be out alone this late, Mrs Hudson." John said.

"We'll walk you back!" Sherlock offered and they swung down from the tree, both of them linking arms with the faintly stunned old lady and John taking the lead off her.

"Well, very kind of you boys, I must say." She chattered happily. "Always nice to have company when you're out. I mean Gladstone's a dear little thing but he's not a big one for conversation, are you poppet?" Here she noticed their dishevelled appearances. "Ooh dear, you'll both be wanting a bit of a clean up when you get back won't you? Look at the state of the pair of you. Do try not to get too much mud on the carpets."

"We won't, Mrs Hudson." The two men chorused, the smiles audible in their voices.

"Oh yes!" She realised suddenly. "You were doing that spot of house-breaking, weren't you? How did you get on with that?"

Once again the men's eyes met. Filthy, bruised, humiliated by wildlife and their own criminal ineptitude, exhausted from prolonged tension and covered with wood splinters from both the tree and all the furniture that they had destroyed between them . . . The two men just grinned.

"Went perfectly, Mrs Hudson."