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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
- 12
- 13
- 14
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, swearing
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Chapter 13

Several days later, he was interrupted in his latest attempts to decipher the text messages by an insistent knocking on the front door. He waited for Mrs. Hudson to answer it, but the landlady was apparently out. When the knocking continued to interrupt his concentration, he finally gave in and went to see who was being so loud so early in the morning.
A woman was standing on the doorstep, late thirties, freckles all over her face, a mass of shocking red hair, colorful and bohemian clothes, and the obvious hand markings and posture of a low-level office secretary. She jumped at his abrupt appearance but appeared otherwise unfazed. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry – I was looking for John Watson. Is he at home?” She peered into the hallway past him, as if he were hiding John somehow.
“No,” he replied brusquely and started to close the door.
Her hand on the doorjamb stopped him. “You’re his detective, right? The one who can find out anything about anyone? He writes about you all the time. Do you think you’d be able to help me? See, I was actually coming to ask John’s advice on this really weird new job I’ve got, but if you’re as brilliant as John’s always saying then I suppose you could tell me if it’s legit and worth trying for. My name’s Jamie Wilson. John’s been a friend going all the way back to, gosh, primary school, I suppose. Can I come in?” During this torrent of words, punctuated by wild gestures and frequent finger jabs, Jamie Wilson had managed to work her way around Sherlock and into the entryway entirely, so there was really no point in denying her entry. “I don’t know if you read John’s blog at all, but he’s always going on about how you can figure out anything and help anybody. Do you know when he’s expected back? It’s just that I’ve got to be at work in an hour. Well, I say work, but that’s the problem, really. I’m not exactly sure what to call it, but I’ve got to be in the office in an hour. I hope you don’t mind if I come in, Mr. Holmes. John talks about you on his blog all the time, and you must be really fantastic. This job I’ve got, the one I wanted to ask John about, is really bizarre and I’m starting to get a little spooked about the whole thing, but it’s good money, and I don’t want to quit unless I really have to, because I haven’t got anything else lined up at the moment. I’m sure you know what I mean, how hard it is to get a job if you’ve already left your old one. Well, maybe you don’t know, brilliant as you are. Is this your flat? It’s lovely. Mind if I have a seat?” As she spoke, she led the way up the stairs to the flat, and Sherlock found himself with no alternative but to follow her. He was completely unable to interrupt the stream of syllables or ask any questions.
As soon as she had sat herself down on the sofa, the red-head looked up at him and said, much more calmly and deliberately, “Now, then, Mr. Holmes. As I was saying, I have a very strange employer, and I want to know before I return to work whether it is actually safe to do so. I was going to ask John what he thought about it – he’s looked out for me before – but my timing must be off today. This actually works out just as well. I’ll admit that I had been hoping to meet you and ask your opinion when I came over here this morning. From what John’s said about you, if half of it is true, you’re pretty amazing.”
Sherlock stared at her. This woman was nearly as good at bowling people over as he was. That flighty act on the stairs had been a very effective ploy to get into the flat. She must know, as he did, that most people will not physically evict a visitor posing no threat if that visitor is already physically in the room. Clever. He had to admit, despite himself, that he was intrigued. John had never mentioned this Jamie Wilson, so there was a chance that the whole thing was a ruse. Still…
“Alright, Ms Wilson. A friend of John’s is a friend of mine.” He gave her his most charming smile.
She was not impressed. “Don’t bother. I know you’re an arrogant sod. We don’t have to like each other, you know. I’ll tell you everything I know about this whole thing, you’ll tell me what’s really going, and we can both go on with our lives comfortably forgetting each other. Agreed?”
This time, his smile was genuine. It was pity John hadn’t brought this woman around earlier. He found he rather liked her blunt honesty. “Agreed. But how do I know that you’re not a deranged assassin sent by a psychotic criminal mastermind to gain access to my flat and kill me?”
“I’d have to be a daft assassin to wear shoes like these when going off to kill someone. And I keep a photo in my purse of me and John and Harry together, just before Harry went off to Uni.” As she spoke, she pulled out a faded photograph showing three teenagers. The two girls, Jamie and Harry, had their arms around each others’ shoulders, laughing at something. From the angle of her hips and the direction of her gaze, it was clear that Jamie had some sort of romantic inclination toward Harry Watson. Whether it was returned was less clear.
Off to the side a bit, not quite looking at the camera, was a short boy with sandy brown hair and a bright grin. Even so young, his body showed clear signs of the broad shoulders and square jaw he would eventually develop. His face was unlined, carefree, happy, without any trace of the constant stress and trauma that would later etch such deep lines. As he stared at the young John Watson, Sherlock was struck by an absolutely illogical wish that he had known this boy in his own youth. Well, that was absurd.
He handed the photo back to the woman on the sofa. “The photo could have been doctored; you could have looked up any details I’d ask you on the Net. However, as you say, those shoes are utterly impractical and would hamper mobility far too much to be worn by anyone with an aim to cause physical damage. So – what exactly is the nature of your problem? And try to be specific. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”
Jamie laughed at him, clearly not put out by his rudeness. “Well, I’d been working as a secretary for a solicitor’s firm for the past couple of years. The pay was awful, but the hours were good and the other people in the office were easy to get along with. Then, last week, my flatmate tells me she’s found an ad online that I ought to be interested in. It’s a listing for a research assistant at a place called the Gingers Advancement League. Some sort of public relations firm, but they only worked for red-haired clients. Said they were looking for someone with red hair and basic office skills to help them with research that might help their clients. From what I found out later, some bloke in America died and left all his money to starting this group, to ‘improve the image and options of red-headed persons throughout the world.’ At least, that’s what it says on their website.
“As you can see, I fit the bill pretty well for what they were after. I was curious about what it was all about, so I called and set up an interview. Took a half-day off my job at the solicitors to do so. Anyway, I get to the address they gave me, and it’s a pretty posh office on Fleet Street. Doorman downstairs, marble columns, all that sort of thing. Up in the hallway, there’s a couple of other people waiting around, all gingers. And I think it’s odd that there’s no lobby to wait in, they’ve got us out in the hall.
“So they finally call me in. The office, there’s just the one room, is pretty empty, like they hadn’t finished moving in yet. Piles of boxes and some camp chairs, and that’s about it. There’s two blokes sitting there, Mr. Ross and Mr. Spaulding, and they’ve both got red hair, of course. First, they asked the usual questions about my CV and availability. It was an evening job, so I’d only have to cut back my hours at the solicitors by a bit, and I’d be getting a whole extra paycheque. The pay they mentioned was more than twice what I’d been getting at the solicitors’. And then I’m hired. Just like that. They didn’t even talk to the rest of the people waiting in the hall. I’m to report to the office the next day at 5 and do my research on different benefits of having red hair, all to be made into an article and published in a magazine.
“I went in the next evening and they had a desk and computer all set up and the boxes cleared out. Mr. Ross, he was the younger of the two, was waiting there for me. He got me all set up with email passcodes and internet service and explained what I was to do. Then he said he’d got some kind of long meeting to attend and not to expect him back that night. And I didn’t see another person in the office until I left at ten. It was a little spooky, being there all by myself, but the work was easy and kind of fun, too. So I went back again the next night. This time, there was nobody there even when I arrived. Just a note on my computer saying I’m to keep on where I’d left off the night before.
“In all the days since then, Mr. Holmes, I haven’t seen anyone in that office. There was a cheque on the desk when I came in on Friday, all filled out and proper, with a note thanking me and asking me to come back in on Monday. You can see why I’m starting to get a little freaked out now. Just because I can’t think of any reason why some creeper would want me in the office alone all night doesn’t mean there isn’t some crazy bastard out there getting his jollies by watching me type or something. So, before I go in tonight, I want to make sure I’m not getting myself into something stupid.”
She handed Sherlock photocopies of the original advertisement and her paycheque as she finished speaking. Both were printed, so there was no hope of learning anything from the handwriting. Without the original of the cheque, which was at the bank, he couldn’t determine anything about the type of paper used or the hand size of the person tearing it. The routing number and account information were all those printed on starter cheques for people who didn’t have an established account. The screen name and reply information of the online advertisement were only interesting in their absolute lack of revealing information.
“Did you look up anything about this company before agreeing to work there?” he asked absently.
“I know everyone you deal with is a complete, dithering idiot, Mr. Holmes, but I have got some common sense.” The sarcasm in her response made him look up. “I found their website online, customer reviews going back four years, mentions of their expansion to England in one of the business journals, photos of their headquarters in Pennsylvania, and LinkedIn pages for both of the blokes who interviewed me. I did my research.”
“Mmm…. Ms Wilson, would you mind if I accompanied you to the office tonight? I’d like to see what I can find by looking about.”
She smiled up at him in triumph. “It would be my pleasure.”
In the cab on the way over to Fleet Street, Jamie Wilson stared at him, almost ogling. When he couldn’t ignore it any longer, Sherlock finally snapped, “What?”
“You’re not at all what I expected. From the way John talks about you, I thought you’d be some great posh prat, all brooding and cerebral. I thought I’d have to do a lot more to convince you to help me out.”
“Your situation is interesting. I like things that interest me. That’s all.”
“So happy I could entertain you, Mr. Holmes. It’s always been a dream of mine to catch the interest of the most brilliant detective in the world. Such genius, and all devoted to me!”
Again, with the sarcasm. He looked at her, then said, “You’ve known John since primary school, but you’ve kept up the acquaintance since then, which means you were either very close friends or you didn’t have many other friends. Judging by your clothes and irritating demeanour, I’d say it was the latter, at least on your part. You were attracted to his sister Harry; probably the reason you befriended John in the first place.
“Despite your age and obvious intelligence, you still work at entry-level office jobs. You don’t have poor work habits: you were insistent upon being punctual for the job this evening, and the signs of squinting at a computer screen and the wear on the undersides of your cuffs speak to diligence while in the office. Therefore, it must be your talent for angering your supervisors that has prevented you from rising any higher.
“The shoes you’re wearing are a very expensive brand, but you’ve had them resoled: you don’t have money to spend on clothes, but you still want to look nice. Despite being the only person in your office, you wore shoes that will considerably hamper your mobility in an effort to impress someone in particular. Not me, I’m not really your type. You’ve come straight from your other job, but you haven’t got enough space in your bag to hold your dinner, at least not the size dinner you’re clearly used to eating, so you intend to go out for dinner. You’ve worn those shoes in hopes of running into someone, someone you want to attract. All the drivers on the Fleet Street lines are men and they rotate irregularly, so the only person you could reasonably hope to run into with the possibility of attraction would be someone at a dining establishment near your office, then. You couldn’t walk very far in those shoes, anyway.”
When he finished, she stared at him for a moment, and he waited for the inevitable recoil. John had been the only one ever who hadn’t been thoroughly repulsed by his deductions. She didn’t pull away, though, or flinch. She laughed. At Sherlock’s obvious bemusement, she just laughed harder. “Oh, god, John warned me about that. I thought he was kidding! That was quite a thrill, being on the receiving end of all that brilliance! If you’re not careful, Mr. Holmes, you’ll make me play for the other team!” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, still chuckling. “You were a bit off, though. I met John long before he introduced me to Harry. I’d just transferred to his school because my mum got a job change. There were some kids teasing me about gingers not having souls, just stupid playground stuff. And here comes John like Sir Galahad, rushing to defend my honour. We both got demerits for fighting, but no one bothered me after that. He was already something of a hero on the rugby team. All the other girls in our year were jealous.” She winked at him. “It wasn’t until sixth year that I realized I was carrying a torch for his sister. She was too old for me then, of course. And John kind of panicked when I told him. Said I was too nice to get pulled apart by Hurricane Harry. He was right, or course. Didn’t stop me from sleeping with her once or twice, but the sex wasn’t worth it.”
Sherlock could think of no intelligent reply to all that. This friend of John’s was very odd indeed.
The exterior of the building was just as posh as described. Although the doorman was initially reluctant to let Sherlock enter after hours, a stolen Detective Inspector’s badge worked wonders in gaining him access. Jamie didn’t bat an eye when she saw what he had done.
The third-floor office was just a single room. A single desk of cheap, pre-fab wood and a plain black chair looked entirely out of place surrounded by thick, red carpet and heavy, velvet drapes. Even the wallpaper looked expensive. The desktop computer was at least five years obsolete, with a software system even older. Indentations in the carpet showed where other furniture had been sitting for a very long time, but there was no sign of another desk having been in the room within the past few weeks. Odd. Why rent an office space for just one person? Why go to the trouble of sending in another worker if there were no arrangements for anyone else to occupy this space?
He checked very carefully in the all the corners, along the sill of the single window, around the doorframe, behind the electric sockets, and anywhere else he could imagine a hidden camera. Experience with Mycroft had given him extensive knowledge of where one could hide recording devices. There was nothing he could find.
Jamie Wilson had turned on the computer and started working while he searched. He watched her for a minute before asking, “What exactly do your duties here entail, Ms. Wilson?”
“You can call me, Jamie, y’know. I’m to look through all these health journals and psychiatry magazines and try to find any references to gingers. Doesn’t matter if the story is about gingers or written by gingers. The bloke running this show just wants some sort of proof that gingers are out there, making a name for themselves. And then I record anything I find and email the particulars to the office in America. Sounds daft, if you ask me. Part of the reason why I thought this whole set-up was a bit dodgy.”
Sherlock stepped back to consider that. Then he considered the woman before him, with her wildly colorful blouse, daringly short skirt, ridiculous shoes, and outrageous hair, as out of place in this staid office building as the old computer and cheap desk. “Of course it’s daft. The assignment is ludicrous – anyone could do it. But they hired you. Why? It’s certainly not your professional appearance. You dress like a runaway from a travelling carnival. If you had any specially marketable skills, you wouldn’t be working as a solicitor’s assistant secretary. But they hired you without bothering to interview the other candidates. The notice online would almost seem to have been written to fit your particular tastes. Why go to such trouble to have you working here?
“It can’t be about you in particular; you’ve got nothing special to offer. No, it must be something else your employers hope to gain by having you here. There are no hidden cameras that I can find, but even hidden cameras wouldn’t explain much. After all, what could someone want with watching you work? You’re not particularly attractive or likely to inspire erotic stimulation. You don’t have access to any important information that you’d be likely to reveal unconsciously while working. Whoever set this up has to be after something else.”
She batted her eyes at him and pretended to fan herself. “Oh, stop, you. I’m blushing! You sure know how to charm a lady, Mr. Holmes.”
He actually laughed aloud at that. “Call me Sherlock. Now, then, Jamie, where did your flatmate find the advertisement?”
“It was on one of those Help-Wanted websites. She said she’d been looking for tech jobs for herself when she stumbled across it.”
“And I assume she was not gifted with hair like yours?”
“Nope, she’s boring and blonde. One of those Nordic types, you know. All blue eyes and long legs. I fancied her quite a bit when I first moved in, not that I ever let on. Somehow I don’t think I’m quite her type, if you know what I mean.”
“Have you known each other long?”
“Not really. I moved in about six months ago. Had a falling-out with the landlady at my last place, if you can imagine. Anya didn’t really seem too keen on the idea of having a flat-share, but she needed the money for rent.”
“Without a job, it’s no wonder she needed money.”
“Oh, she’s got a job. Something in tech support.”
“Then why was she looking through the help wanted ads?”
“Dunno. Maybe she wanted a better one. Or one that paid more.”
“Mmm. Possible. Unlikely. Stay here and go on with your evening as if nothing’s changed.”
“Okay,” she said and turned back to the computer.
Sherlock paused with his hand on the door. “That’s it? ‘Okay?’ You’re very accepting.”
“Well, it’s obvious, innit?” she replied without looking up from the screen. “You think Anya is involved in all this somehow, so you’re off to talk to her, maybe even get a look at the flat somehow. You must have got the address when you lifted my wallet out of my handbag while we were in the cab. I got it back, by the way. And you think whoever’s in charge of this whole game might have a lurker watching the building to see if I leave, so you want me to stay here so’s not to give the alert. When you leave, I’m calling the police and letting ‘em know what you’re up to, though. I don’t fancy being a sitting duck just waiting here for someone to realize something’s going on. I think I’ll call that Detective Inspector Lestrade, seeing as how he was so kind as to write his mobile number on the back of his card and all. Oh, don’t look at me like that – I picked your pocket, too. Would you like your billfold back, Sherlock?”
He tried very hard to glare at her as she demurely laid his wallet on the desk. Tried.
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Anomalies