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Anomalies	By : Harpling Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock, the BBC, or any of the characters mentioned herein, nor am I making any money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Title: Anomalies

Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: PG
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies. Things out of place formed the bulk of his work, after all. But why was he so slow to notice them in his own behaviour?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I am making no money from them.
Warnings: Manly man love, Mycroft (yeah, he comes with his own warning label)
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Chapter 12

Someone was in the flat. From the entryway, Sherlock could hear the sounds of someone in the sitting room: quiet breathing, faint rustling of clothes, minute squeaking of the battered armchair. It wasn't someone trying to hide; the breathing was too regular and calm for that. In fact, it sounded suspiciously like someone with a mild weight problem who was trained in being unobtrusive. Mycroft. There was no sense in leaving now. No doubt Mycroft had heard him come in, and to leave now would look suspiciously like retreat. With a sigh of resignation, Sherlock made his way up the steps to face his nemesis.
As expected, the impeccably dressed figure of his brother was perched with studied nonchalance in the old red armchair. John's chair. John's laptop, which had been left on the table just to the left, was gone. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Where is John's computer? What have you done to him?"
At the venom in his younger brother's tone, Mycroft merely smiled serenely. "I’m afraid I haven't had the pleasure of Doctor Watson's company for some time now. As for where his computer is, I would assume that it is with him. In New Zealand."
Sherlock quickly ran through the possibilities. Mycroft could be lying, but what could he possibly gain from that particular lie? If it was just an attempt to annoy his younger brother, there were better ways to accomplish that. It couldn't be an attempt to study Sherlock's reaction, because Mycroft had never before shown any interest in such things. There was no chance that Mycroft was mistaken. He had a very tiresome ability to know where people were at all times. It really was quite annoying. Therefore, John was actually in New Zealand.
How had he gotten there? He couldn't afford last-minute plane tickets halfway around the world, not on a locum salary. Obviously, someone had paid the fare for him. The most likely suspect was currently twirling the handle of his umbrella and gazing at his younger brother with a self-satisfied smirk just hinting at the corners of his mouth.
Before Sherlock could even speak, Mycroft continued, "I can assure you that I had nothing to do with Doctor Watson’s sudden change of vacation plans. It seems a grateful patient from the surgery works for one of the major airlines in some official capacity. To thank the man responsible for treating his son's chicken pox, the man offered him a pair of tickets. Quite generous of him, don’t you think? Blurs the line somewhat in the question of bribing physicians, but I believe we can overlook that in this particular case." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, daring him to challenge the obvious falsehood.
Of all that, Sherlock focused on the most relevant detail. "A pair of tickets?"
"Yes. Doctor Sawyer has accompanied him. His decision to make the trip now must be due to frustration from the rather inadequate resolution of the matter with Mr. Moriarty. I'm sure his abrupt departure from here last week and the fact that he stayed at Mr. Stamford's residence for several days have nothing to do with his timing." Mycroft gave Sherlock a piercing stare, which he tried to return with careless indifference.
When he couldn't meet his brother's gaze any longer, Sherlock turned away and spoke to skull on the mantle instead. "Has John been gone? I hadn't noticed. Been working on a case, you know."
"Ah, yes, of course. The weapons smugglers. And how is that progressing? Was Mr. Philips able to provide you with any new information?" Mycroft's tone left no doubt that he was perfectly aware of the nature of Sherlock's interview. It couldn't be his appearance; he had checked himself carefully before leaving. Must have been the cameras no doubt hidden in the club and the street outside. Trust Mycroft to be watching footage from security cameras in a public washroom. No matter.
"He was able to shed some light on a particular connection I had been missing, yes. I'm sure you'll receive a full report from your spies at the Yard."
"Excellent. I'm glad to hear you haven't allowed any... distractions to get in the way of your work. From your rather erratic behavior of the past few weeks, I had begun to wonder if perhaps your mind was on something other than finding the culprits. Such inattention would have been most inconvenient. Firearms are so terribly dangerous. What would we do if everyone began running about London with a pistol in his pocket?” Mycroft’s not-so-subtle reminder that he was fully aware of John’s equally illegal gun was resolutely ignored. “Still, Sherlock, it isn’t like you to become emotional like this. I’m sure Mummy will be delighted to hear of your new attachment, though I can’t see that it has improved your abilities in any significant way. Should we be expecting a happy announcement any time soon?”
With a great effort of will, Sherlock refrained from punching his brother in his smug face and spoke very evenly in the general direction of the skull, “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Mycroft. I haven’t formed any attachments, and I certainly haven’t become emotional. We both know I’m a sociopath.”
“Of course. Well, perhaps that’s for the best. You wouldn’t want to start leaving crime scenes unexplored or suspects unquestioned due to some frivolous emotional concern. That would inevitably be detrimental to the quality of service you are able to offer the fine law enforcement agencies of this great nation,” Mycroft drawled. Sherlock refused to dignify that with a response. There had been nothing more to see in Earl’s Court, and Karolinski was obviously not going to say anything, so there had been no point in hanging about either time. John was not involved in the decision to leave in any way.
Mycroft continued, “Still, this does lead me to put to you a proposal of a rather… delicate nature. Based on your recent activities, one cannot help but speculate about potential motivating factors.” He paused and appeared to be considering his next words. “I understand that you have, to some degree, managed to overcome certain physical necessities. Admirable though I find this ability, it has undeniably left you ill equipped to handle the situation in which I believe you now find yourself. Society has decreed that the task of assisting you with this problem falls to me, as your elder brother, distasteful though I find it.”
Sherlock spun to face him but couldn’t quite meet his brother’s eyes as he ground out, “Please tell me you’re not offering what I think you’re offering.”
“No, no, of course not.” Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. “I am merely offering to arrange an introduction with a very discreet acquaintance who would be able to provide a certain measure of physical relaxation. We employ several people who, in addition to their regular duties, perform such a function when absolute discretion is required. I can make the necessary arrangements, should you desire.”
For a full minute (sixty three seconds, to be precise), Sherlock was unable to form a coherent response. Then, “Get out” was the best he could manage. He turned his back again and gripped the mantel to hide the shaking in his hands. Mycroft’s suggestion was absurd. And insulting. And infuriating, utterly infuriating. Like most of his offers, this was completely out of line and wholly unwanted. With a last smirk, Mycroft left.
Sherlock remained standing like that, with his back to the door, until he heard Mycroft's carefully measured steps go down the stairs and out the front door, then he flopped dramatically down on the sofa. John was gone, again. Well, really, he had never returned. But now he was really gone, on the other side of the world. For all purposes that mattered, he was completely out of reach. Did it matter? Why did it matter? Of course it didn't matter. John's whereabouts had absolutely no effect on Sherlock's ability to think. It couldn't. That would be absurd. Observing, deducing, thinking, that was all that mattered. Everything else was just transport.
It would be inconvenient, naturally. He had allowed himself to fall into the reprehensible habit of relying too much on another person for minor material matters. Procuring food, paying the bills, personal defense, and other things that didn't really matter. His sexual fascination with John was something that would, of course, fade without John's presence to remind him of his poor judgment. When John returned, the whole matter would have been forgotten and things could return to the way they had been.
The idea that John might not return was not worth considering. Of course John would come back. He had to. That was all there was to it.
His recent attraction to John was exactly as he had told Mycroft: purely physical. Sherlock was a sociopath. He knew it, Mycroft knew it, John knew it, everyone knew it. As a sociopath, he was incapable of forming any deep emotional attachments. Therefore, this obsession with John Watson was purely physical. It was based entirely on the reactions of his body to John's considerable physical attractions, such as the breadth of his shoulders (signaling an ability to provide physical protection), the squareness of his jaw (indicating high levels of testosterone), the agility of his fingers (suggesting skill with manual stimulation), the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed (meaning... what?).
That last bit was completely irrational. Clearly, his brain was no longer working properly. Perhaps Mycroft had been right, though it pained him to admit it. This obsession with John had distracted him from his work. In the week prior to that last, disastrous experiment, Sherlock had made almost no progress on determining the connection between the anomalies presented by the data. He needed to focus. He needed to think.
Despite his resolutions, however, his mind refused to settle. Thoughts swirled round and round, mixing and coming together again in wholly different configurations, like a child’s toy blocks. Had someone paid off radio stations to make sure Equinox by the Musgrave Five was played frequently, despite being so terrible? Why was Karolinski sleeping in the warehouse? Did he have nowhere else to go, or had he been expecting more activity there? Whom had he been meeting in Kevin’s flat? What happened to the contents of the empty cases in the warehouse? Why was everyone avoiding Earl’s Court? Why was the thought of Kevin’s mouth so off-putting, but the memory of John’s mouth was still enough to cause an increase in pulse rate and heightened sensitivity in particular areas of anatomy? No, that was irrelevant. Think. Think think think.
Russians who weren’t Russians. Strippers from Blackwall with Russian mafia tattoos. An invisible assailant on a rooftop in Earl’s Court. Coded instructions sung on the radio for anyone to hear. Dozens of text messages with no clear pattern to the nonsense. Large rifles in cases where they had no business being used. It didn’t make sense. He felt like he was chasing shadows through a maze that kept shifting beneath his feet.
His mind flashed to the small bag of white powder concealed inside the skull, but John wouldn’t like it if he knew. Not that John’s opinion mattered, of course. Sherlock had quit the habit of his own accord, and John had nothing to do with his continued sobriety. Nothing at all. Instead, he grabbed his stash of nicotine patches and carefully applied one. This case didn’t yet merit the use of multiple patches. John had insisted that he only use multiple patches when he was absolutely out of other options. Something about poison in his blood. John was a very good doctor, which was the only reason Sherlock made any attempt to follow his advice on the matter. It was absolutely not because John looked so worried whenever he saw three or four patches on his flatmate’s arm.
Stop it. Think about the case. What did those text messages mean? What had Karolinski been doing in the flat in Blackwall? Where did the cases that had been in the warehouse go? Why was Karolinski still sleeping down there after everything had been cleared out? Who was behind the lyrics of that awful song?
Hours later, he had a bad crick in his neck but no better ideas about how it all fit together. An insistent beeping from his phone finally roused him enough to fetch it from the table. A text from Lestrade informed him, as he had expected, that any traces of the Russian in Kevin Philips’s flat were gone. Apart from small amounts of recreational drugs, the police had found nothing of interest. Boring.
There was a card on the table, in the spot where John had left his computer. Printed across the front of the expensive card stock, in engraved ink, was the name Daniel Taylor, with appropriate contact details. Mycroft must have left it, the card of one of those discreet employees. Sherlock took some small measure of satisfaction in burning it.
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- 13
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Anomalies