Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) (22 page)

John snorted at this. That was bound to be a hot night: Sherlock and the TM3000 Tabletop Microscope of his dreams. Oh, and John.

They hurried into their Baker Street apartment. Sherlock threw a few things in a bag and spent the rest of his time packing up his precious microscope. His last act before the cab was to update to his blog. It read:

Lions, lambs, rowans – interesting exhibition by the local Photography Club. But I’ll pass.

It made John grin. His phone had told him Sherlock had updated just as Holmes clapped the netbook closed and they rushed down the stairs to the cab. They hurried into the back together.

“So… you can’t see her again this trip.” John said carefully.

“Yes,” Sherlock sat back from giving the cabbie the address. “Don’t worry about the booking. I know the owner and I’ve sent a text that it’s a bit of a predicament. He’ll give us a place to lay low for a few days. Upshot, you can see the Royal Mews from there. Do you like horses, John? I know someone. We could go hacking. Quite relaxing. I can’t believe I never asked.”

“Slow down.”

“Was I going fast?” He looked up from his phone – Internet searching something about hacking.

“So you can’t see her again while she’s in London-” John began again.

Sherlock tossed his scarf down on the seat between them to get it out of his hands. His typing picked up speed. “Ah, that again? I believe I answered you already.”

“Yes, Sherlock, but it’s just that I think you two need to-”

Sherlock blocked the fading light when he rounded on John. “No, I don’t need people. Do you understand?” The quite visceral expression on his face struck John dumb. His green eyes searched John for signs he was listening and could twig.

There must have been some signal, because Holmes settled back in his seat and continued his search of the internet. “Oh, and there are some solid hunter-jumpers. Are you any good, John? It’s really quite technical.”

John settled back in his seat with a sigh. Sherlock did notice the lack of response, but it was unlikely to bother him. The important thing was to make certain he didn’t notice the pity.

***

They were just in the elevator when Lestrade texted Sherlock. Holmes nudged him, and John leaned in to see.

Who is this Rowan Helling kid suppose to be?

“Supposed,” Sherlock muttered and shut his eyes, “God.” But he managed not to text about it.

This meant Rowan had arrived at the Yard and surrendered himself there. It was safer in Scotland Yard and/or CIA custody than at the mercy of the other Lions, and much safer than defying Mycroft, de facto leader of the Club until such a time as the transition to a new Speaker was completed.

He just told me check with you for details.

Sherlock nodded at the screen. Yes, he knew that this was also Mycroft getting a finger-hold on the Think Tank – Rowan being his finest Lion, always rampant on Lawrence Water’s London map – but sufficient to the day, Sherlock decided, was the evil thereof, and so he texted a reply.

Rowan Helling hired Delov to remove Lawrence Waters. He may be young, but Helling is a core member of the Photography Club. He’s your Photographer and your man. Boy. He’s your boy. Give him to the CIA. Let them see who he’ll give up.

Well, actually see who else Mycroft had told Rowan Helling to give up. Sherlock glanced around the expensive elevator to the operator running the buttons, and typed.

I’m resting up.

Lestrade came back with:

Reese is asking for you.

Sherlock turned off his phone. John held his tongue, but couldn’t meet his own reflection in the highly polished elevator doors opposite him. In the hall, John glanced at Holmes, trundling along that ridiculous microscope of his – okay, Molly’s. His eyes had diverted to the blue, boxy thing, his expression was disconnected.

***

On the third night, Sherlock vanished. Only, this time, it wasn’t very difficult at all, for John to find him. It took no guess work considering Reese had CC:ed John on her e-mails to Sherlock. Tonight she was leaving for America, and she’d thrown open the gates.

Tonight’s my last night. I don’t care what you’ve done, Sherlock. Come see me.

John found Holmes sitting on a bench outside London Heathrow, his coat’s collar turned up against a damp wind. He watched planes taking off and landing. John paid the cabbie to wait and walked to stand behind the bench. After a moment, he set a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. There was no change in him at all, until he turned his face away. The gloved hand on the arm of the bench tightened, as did the one around his phone.

A moment later he said. “That one.”

John watched the plane streak off the runway and draw further and further into the night. Then it was no more than a firefly light on dark canvas. He looked at Sherlock’s inert stare, straight forward at the tarmac, and didn’t need an explanation. John took his hand away and stuck it into his pocket. He turned to stare at where he figured he’d last seen the plane. It was out there. She was out there at a rate of about 500 miles an hour. Somewhere.

“Stuff’s in the cab.” John said at last.

“Stuff?”

He looked down. “From the hotel? It’s in the cab.”

“Ah.”

“We’re going home.”

Sherlock got stiffly to his feet. He tucked his hands in his pockets. John followed him to the cab. It was a relatively silent ride back, but he brightened automatically when he saw Baker Street.

“Drop it all off and order some take-away?” Sherlock asked as he stepped out on the curb into the passersby and confusion of early evening that he so loved.

Dear God, he was eating again. They’d have to hit a bank machine. Well… Sherlock would. John would call Sarah for an emergency grocery run.

Again, John was forced to pay the cabby to wait. But, as he watched Sherlock shove the door, stalk in, and nod at Mrs. Hudson, it struck him that it was worth it. In for a penny; in for a pound – it was very much worth it, and John even managed a grin as he carried the luggage up to their flat.

John almost stepped over the note from Sofia, shoved under the kitchen door.

When he saw it, he picked it up, and immediately folded and pocketed it.

The man deserved at least one meal between cases.

So John decided it could wait until morning.

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221B Baker Street

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