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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
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Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: NC17 (R for this chapter)
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
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Sherlock awoke to an entirely new set of sensory inputs. The first was the novel realization that he was actually waking up during a case. Which meant that he had actually slept during a case. When this realization finally filtered through his sleep-fogged brain, he took stock of the rest of his surroundings. A warm, fuzzy arm was draped across his chest, blunt fingers splayed across pale ribs. Hot breath streamed across his neck, tickling his cheek. His shoulder was damp and sticky where a small puddle of drool was swiftly cooling. His knee itched a bit where the coarse hairs of a hard thigh rubbed against it. Steady against his arm, he felt the rhythm of a sleepy heartbeat, pressed down by the weight of a broad chest.
Very cautiously, Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction. The tanned face of Doctor John Watson was resting on his shoulder, still relaxed in sleep. So. Last night had not been a particularly vivid hallucination, then. More thorough self-assessment revealed to him the fact that certain parts of his body were extremely sore. He hadn't shared a bed with another person as far as he could remember, and the proximity was ... intriguing.
This close, Sherlock could see every tiny detail of John’s face. Fine lines around his eyes, minute scars from shaving accidents, stubby eyelashes against the delicate skin below his eyes, faint streaks of grey at his temples, slightly uneven sideburns. He had seen it all before, of course, but never from this angle. And never while John was sleeping beside him, drooling on his shoulder. It was nice, he decided.
He shifted his focus down, taking in all of John’s body that he could see. Early morning sunlight leaked in around the curtain, leaving streaks of gold across John’s arm and shoulder, like honey. Moving slowly so as not to disturb his slumber, Sherlock ghosted his free hand just above the whorls of hair covering John’s arm. Everything about this man was so obvious on the surface, yet so contradictory beneath. It would take him a lifetime to learn everything there was to know about John Watson, and Sherlock intended to start right now.
He must have shifted something because John stirred and blinked, wariness creeping over his face as he took in his surroundings. Finally, he turned and yawned. “Morning. So, uh, well. That happened.”
Sherlock was not sure how he was supposed to respond to this less than coherent statement, but he thought that more kissing might be in order. John seemed to agree, stretching lazily against him and sliding his hands into sleep-mussed curls. This new position brought to light certain elements of John’s body that were very much awake. The gentle nudging against his thigh made Sherlock laugh. “Again, John? You’re much more spry than I anticipated.”
“What? Oh, no. I mean, well, yeah, but um, no. It’s just a morning, um, yeah. I’ve got to go, um, you know. Right.” With a final brush of his lips, John crawled out of the bed and walked stiffly out the door. Sherlock lay there for a bit, listening to the faint sounds of John downstairs, before giving up and following. Leaving his own clothes in a rumpled heap on the floor, he wrapped himself in John’s dressing gown. The worn flannel felt nice against his skin, and it enveloped him in the echo of John’s scent.
As he started the kettle for tea, Sherlock considered the options for breakfast. John liked eating breakfast, and he liked to see Sherlock pretending to eat breakfast. Sherlock would make breakfast. There was no milk. The single egg left was clearly gone off. A half loaf of bread stashed behind the centrifuge was hard as a rock where it wasn’t covered in green fuzz. And there was no tea. Well. They would just have to go out for breakfast.
John wandered into the kitchen with just a towel wrapped around his hips. This time, Sherlock knew why his mouth had gone dry and his heart rate sped up. Seeing this reaction, John smirked. “I can give you a proper good morning this time,” he said, stretching up to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s slack jaw. “Is that my robe? Guess this means you’re not regretting yesterday, then.” He pulled away just when things were getting really interesting. “Slow down, you. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? I haven’t even had a chance to show you what I brought back for you from Down Under.”
From a rucksack in the corner of the sitting room, John produced a large, fluffy, brown and yellow object and presented it to him. Sherlock stared at the thing without taking it, completely flummoxed. The more he stared in confused horror, the wider John smiled.
“John… What is that?”
“It’s a kiwi hat. I thought it’d keep your head warm. Here, try it on.”
He snatched the pile of fuzz out of John’s grasp before it could come in contact with his head. It was furry and completely absurd, with a protrusion coming from the front that he supposed was supposed to be a beak. Flaps extended from either side to be tied beneath the wearer’s chin and complete the appearance of absolute ridiculousness.
“I don’t wear hats. What use would I have for a hat? It’s not even a well-made hat. Look at the lining here – it wouldn’t even keep my head warm. There’s no bill to shade the face, no vents to provide cooling. What is the purpose of something like this?”
“That’s the point of a souvenir, Sherlock. There is no point. They’re useless and ridiculous and tacky and proof that someone was thinking about you even while on holiday.”
That made Sherlock pause, taking another look at the fluffy monstrosity. “You were thinking about me while in New Zealand?”
“Every minute.” John’s ears turned a bit pink, but he didn’t look away. “It was a bit awkward, you know, being on the beach with Sarah walking about in a bikini and all I could think about was your skinny arse.”
Sherlock had a sudden urge to shout from the windows. (John thought about him! John had been in another country with a gorgeous woman and thinking about him!) He considered what to do with his new treasure. Wearing it was out of the question, regardless of the sentiment with which it had been purchased. Still, he wanted everyone to see it, to know that John Watson, that extraordinary, surprising, beautiful man, thought about him while on holiday. He settled for displaying the bird-shaped hat on the skull on the mantle, atop Jamie’s knickers. The corner of orange lace poking out over an empty eye socket was just a bit of complementary garishness.
Satisfied, Sherlock turned back to smirk at the mostly naked man in front of him. “Breakfast?”

Melissa, the absurdly cheerful waitress at the café appeared to have downed an entire pot of coffee before coming in to work, but she took John’s extensive order with no sign of a pad or pencil. Good memory, then. When she brought their tea, her hands shook just a bit (nails filed down completely, not bitten, little finger nail left a bit longer, well-developed muscles in both forearms, heavy callouses on the tips and sides of the fingers, easy finger articulation: concert harpist). Perhaps she had drunk the whole pot of coffee, after all. Caffeine overdose would explain the jitters.
Sherlock was mildly amazed at the amount of food that arrived, but John handed him a fork with a stern admonition to eat. “Yeah, I know, eating on a case slows you down and all that, but after your, uh, activities yesterday, you’re going to need food. Especially if you want to have another go. Now, as your doctor, I forbid you from taking part in any more of that sort of recreation unless you’ve eaten some protein.”
Under the stern gaze and suggestive wink of a RAMC Captain, Sherlock swallowed a few bites of whatever was in front of him. That commanding voice was surprisingly arousing.
Satisfied, John turned back to his own plate. “So, clearly a lot’s been happening while I was away. You went from knocks on the head to murdered security guards. What have I missed?”
Sherlock laid out everything he had discovered about the case so far, starting when he had first noticed the anomalies, explaining his deductions about the false trail laid by the Russians, the hints Doctor Bell gave him about the text message code, the link he had found with Kevin Philips.
“Wait, hang on,” John interrupted him. “You were running your hands through the stripper’s hair?”
“Not that it matters, but I was trying to interrupt his… unpleasant… tongue manoeuvres. He wasn’t responding to my other attempts to pull him off.”
“Pull him off what?”
“My… er… Well, I was trying to determine the extent of my frustration after you left, and it seemed like an appropriate… method of investigation.”
“You got sucked off by a stripper to get over me? I don’t know whether to be jealous or flattered!”
Sherlock could feel his face heating. “It was an all-round unpleasant experience and not one I’ll be repeating, no matter what Mycroft suggests.” John was obviously going to ask him more on the subject, but Sherlock continued his narrative, cutting on any more embarrassing questions. He had a few pictures on his phone that he called up to illustrate various elements of the case. Translations of the Russian phrases used, a listing of all the references to bees and honey that he had connected.
“And this, found it on the inside of a bandage wrapped around Karolinski’s knee. Some sort of beeswax salve with Gelsemium sempervirens mixed in.” John’s face looked very thoughtful, as if he was trying to remember something. “What, John?”
“Gelsemium semperivens… that’s yellow jessamine, yeah?” At Sherlock’s nod, he continued, “Well, that would make sense, given his rheumatism and all."
"What do you mean?"
"Yellow jessamine. Some people claim it helps with headaches and rheumatism. The stuff's poisonous to ingest, so it'd have to be used as a salve. A Yank I met in Afghanistan used to swear by the stuff, said it could cure just about everything."
Sherlock tuned him out, mentally comparing the notes in Karolinski's chart with what he remembered of the man's physical appearance. Stiff gait, bulging trouser leg where the bandage had been wrapped around the knee, definitely favouring the right leg. A man unaccustomed to trusting any outside authority like that would be much more eager to rely on folk remedies. But why would a Russian gangster be using an American medicine?
"This doctor in Afghanistan - what was he like?"
"He wasn't a doctor, just some bloke who like hanging round the hospital and trying to pitch in. Typical Yank: loud, very friendly, claimed he wasn't a Yank because he was from some other part of the country, quite proud of his home in South Carolina. That's why he kept trying to push the jessamine on us, I think. It's some sort of official flower mascot over there. And it's not like it actually hurt anything. Smelled nice enough, I guess." John trailed off at the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. "Um, Sherlock? Everything alright?"
"South Carolina. Brilliant! South Carolina, John! Don't you see? Yellow jessamine in the window box in Earl's Court should have been a dead give-away right there, but you were distracting me."
"I was distracting you? So now it's my fault whenever your mind wanders to your trousers? You may have just accidentally complimented me, you know."
Everything was falling into place now, the speed of his deductions drowning out everything around him. "The man in charge of all this must have some connection with South Carolina; it all fits. Indigo and Magnolia, both trademarks of the southern United States, particularly of South Carolina; that’d be the connection between the warehouse where the distribution was stored and the company where Anya Karjavin worked. The ship from Charleston that happened to be in the harbour just before the biggest shipment. The jessamine perfume in Jamie's flat.
"The Russians were a red herring all along; oh, that is clever. Not Moriarty's style, but just as clever! John, I could kiss you!"
John blushed and cleared his throat. "Well, yeah, you could. Mind if I finish breakfast before you declare your eternal devotion for me, though? I need to keep up my strength if you plan on showing your appreciation like you did last night." His smirk was almost enough to derail Sherlock's train of thought. Almost.
"I still don't know who's been behind this whole scheme. I know where, and I know how. But who? And why? I'm still missing something John. Why would someone from South Carolina be so interested in smuggling assault rifles into London?"
"Dunno. Protest over the British Invasion?"
"What? When did England invade South Carolina?"
"No, it was the all those bands, Beatles and the Rolling Stones in... You know what? Never mind. You probably deleted it."
"Then why bring it up?" He considered several theories as John finished his chips. None of them were worth much, but thinking about the case kept him from throwing John over the table and kissing him until neither could breathe.

Back at the flat, John busied himself with unpacking while Sherlock considered the ramifications of everything he had just learned. Victor Trevor had obviously realized something that could lead them to the people responsible, but Windibank/Angel had erased it after his initial panic.
Oh! No, not quite. What had those letters been on the dead man's hand? Ho.... ell.... Be.... The spaces between the letters could have the answer. Sherlock realized that he could never tell Doctor Bell about what he had just realized. The old man would never let him forget it.
Quickly, he called up a search engine on John's laptop and entered the appropriate parameters. It wasn't long before the results returned with an article from the Charleston Courier about shipping magnate Laurence Honeywell's plans to open a hub office in London. Interesting, but there was no reason for a successful businessman to delve into illegal smuggling activities. The next few links were similar - articles and interviews featuring Laurence Honeywell or his children, their plans for capital growth, exploits in school, nothing pertinent.
Laurence Honeywell, Local Shipping Magnate, Dead at 73
Finally, something useful. Sherlock read quickly through the obituary, but there were no signs of foul play in the old man's death. Survived by his wife of fifty years, Beatrice, and their three children, Paul, Tammy, and Kimberly. Beatrice. Beatrice Honeywell.
The name fit: Honey Bee. The age certainly fit the footprints in the warehouse. The connections to shipping certainly fit. But why would a retired old lady want to come halfway around the world to smuggle guns? It was an anomaly, just like the size of the weapons. Anomalies needed to be explained. Where was the logic? What possible motive could there be?
The chirping of his mobile pulled him out of his concentration. Found Edward Windibanks body. Garrotted. Come take a look. Lestrade
Pointless. He knew who was responsible for the boy's death, even if she hadn't actually been the one to pull the wire. He turned his mobile to silent so he wouldn't have any more interruptions.
At this point, he could tell Lestrade what he knew about Beatrice Honeywell. He supposed he really should tell Lestrade, it would be the legal thing to do. But then he might never find the answer to his last question. Why?
Mrs Hudson knocked tentatively on the door before poking her head in. "Yoo-hoo! Not interrupting anything, am I, Sherlock? Not that I mind, really. When my husband and I were first married, we found ourselves in much more compromising positions more than once, I can tell you! I just wish you'd keep such behaviour to your bedrooms, if you don't mind. Never know who might be coming in the door, you know. Oh, it's so good to see you two back together, dear. I was so afraid your row of a few weeks back was serious, what with Doctor Watson leaving so shortly after. Glad you've patched everything together again."
"So glad you approve, Mrs Hudson. Was there an actual reason for this little visit?"
"Post's just come, and I thought I'd bring it up for you. Just this once, mind; I'm not your housekeeper. Just wanted to see how you two were getting on." She deposited the small pile of envelopes on the table and left, leaving the flat once more blissfully quiet.
An envelope on top of the pile caught his attention. Pale green, expensive stationery, embossed flourishes. It was addressed simply to Mr Sherlock Holmes, no postmark. Hand-delivered, then. It was on top of the other post, so it had been slipped through the mail slot after the official post was dropped off. Mrs Hudson liked to pick up the post as soon as it arrived, so this envelope must have arrived within the last few minutes.
The writing on the front was from an expensive pen, modern, not a fountain pen. The formation of the capitals was in the style of copybooks used before 1950. Slant and t-bars indicated a female writer; uneven pressure pointed to a loss of fine motor control with advanced age. The paper was of British manufacture, but the style of the ‘S’ was more commonly taught in America. Beatrice Honeywell.
My dear Mr. Holmes,
I understand that you’ve developed quite an interest in my little business endeavors. While I’m awfully glad that I can be so entertaining for you, you’ve made things extremely inconvenient for me. As civilized people, I do hope we can come to an understanding.
If it’s convenient for you, I’d love to have you over for a little chat this morning. Perhaps we can clear up some areas that have been confusing for both of us. Since we have matters of a delicate nature to discuss, I think it would be best if you came to see me alone. Surely your good friend the doctor would rather stay at home and rest after his vacation. I’m afraid I can’t allow any more mistakes like young Edward.
My driver will be waiting for you outside, but I’m sure you know the way.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Laurence Honeywell
Sherlock considered his options. If he took John to Earl’s Court with him, this woman would set her henchmen on him; the threat was quite clear. No doubt she would carry out similar violence if the police arrived. The legal option, the one Lestrade would demand of him, would be to phone the police and let a squadron of snipers and Special Ops surround the house and take out Beatrice Honeywell.
However, she had just demonstrated that she knew their movements and was watching both the flat and Lestrade’s team. If Sherlock phoned the police, she would know it by their movements and would no doubt vanish. Then he would never meet this woman and get his answers.
On the other hand, it was obviously a trap. He would be stupid to go in alone. And John would be very angry with him for risking his life unnecessarily. Such things had to be taken into consideration now. After deliberating with himself for a moment, Sherlock left the card on the keyboard of John’s computer and let himself out of the flat.
Waiting at the curb, as promised, was a long black car. Without a word, the driver opened the door and gestured inside. Every visible inch of the man’s arms and neck were covered in tattoos, advertising his skill as a pickpocket, his willingness to kill, and his affiliation with anarchists. The second knuckle of his fingers bore the distinct marks left by pulling a thin wire very tightly between his hands. Edward Windibanks’s murderer, then.
As Sherlock settled into the car, the driver pulled off in the direction of Earl’s Court.
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Anomalies