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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.

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Title: Anomalies

Author: Harpling

Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC

Rating: NC17

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, violence, fluffiness

Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Chapter Twenty One

As expected, they soon arrived in front of the same townhouse where he and John had been knocked off the roof all those weeks ago. Stupid of him, really, not to have seen it earlier. He blamed the irrational thought patterns caused by unrecognized hormones flooding his system at the time.

At the driver’s impatient gesturing, Sherlock got out and approached the door in the middle. This time, he noticed the bright yellow jessamine growing up a trellis at the window. The sweet perfume, familiar by now, wafted over him as he rang the bell.

The man who opened the door could have stepped straight out of a Victorian advertisement for a butler, complete with the starched collar and black tailcoat. From his height (tall enough to have been the assailant on the rooftop), he blinked impassively at the consulting detective on the doorstep before intoning, “Right this way, Mr Holmes. Mrs Honeywell is expecting you.”

Sherlock had no choice but to follow the swish of perfectly pressed coattails into the dimly lit hallway. He barely had time to register the neatly stacked boxes against the stairs before the butler was showing him into a sitting room that looked like something out of a magazine photo shoot. Elegantly upholstered furniture was arranged to form a pleasant conversation circle centred on a single, enormous armchair beneath a framed flag on the wall. Seated in the armchair quite as if it was her own personal throne was an elderly woman gripping a cane in one exquisitely manicured hand. (Muscle atrophy in the left arm, wear on the outside of the left shoe, unevenly with the right, minor signs of drooping in the right eyelid and right corner of the mouth: survived a stroke approximately one year ago.)

“Well, come on in, sugar,” she called in a refined drawl. “No sense dawdling on the doorstep now you’ve come all this way.” For a long moment, they stared at each other, and Sherlock had the uncomfortable sensation that this woman saw nearly as much in him as he did in her. “Have a seat, darlin’. How’d you like some tea?” Without waiting for a response, she handed him something brown and cold in a tall glass. Someone had put mint leaves on top for some reason. Sherlock sniffed it suspiciously.

Ignoring his reaction, the old woman continued, “You know, I have to confess I’m more than a little disappointed, hun. From the way everyone talks about you, I was expecting a bit more of a challenge when I came to London. Still, I suppose I really ought to thank you for making things so very easy for me. I was trying so hard to be clever with the message codes and the directions I wrote into that awful song and pretending everything was the Russians, leaving all the heavy work to the Vory, and it turned out I didn’t even need to bother.”

She paused to drink from her own glass of brown liquid with apparent enjoyment, which prompted Sherlock to follow suit. He grimaced at the awful stuff. Perhaps it was poisoned after all. Who would ruin a perfectly good cup of tea by putting ice in it? And the mint was simply adding insult to injury. To hide his revulsion, he prompted the old woman, “So sorry to disappoint you, Mrs Honeywell. But I believe you had some information for me?”

“Oh, call me Bea, sugar. Everyone does. Or Honeybee if you’re feeling extra bold.” She treated him to a playful wink, and Sherlock had to fight not to roll his eyes. “But as for information, well, what kind were you looking for? Surely the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t need little old me to tell him anything!”

“There’s only one thing I can’t quite work out. Why do it in the first place? There’s no logical reason for uprooting completely from South Carolina to come to a foreign country and start a dangerous and illegal operation like this. What was the point?”

She laughed at him, a rich throaty chuckle that had probably driven men crazy sixty years ago. “Oh, sugar, don’t tell me you’re still hung up on the idea of some grand scheme with a deep, dark motive! Why, bless your little heart, Sherlock, you just want everything to be too clever. It was just a lark, hun, just something to keep from being bored.

“After Laurence passed, God rest him, and the boys had taken over the business, there was nothing left for me to do in Charleston. There’s only so many church committees and quilting circles I can stand, you realize. Book clubs get old so very quickly. I needed something a little more interesting in my golden years.”

Sherlock stared at her incredulously. She sounded far too much like Moriarty for comfort. “And they didn’t have badminton at the country club? What made you think smuggling was a good idea?”

“Oh, it was a friend of my daddy’s, really.” She waved one gnarled and manicured hand in airy dismissal. “He was a rum-runner during Prohibition, you see, and every time he came to call he told the most fascinating and exciting stories. And then, of course, I hosted so many dinner parties for business partners of Laurence, God rest him, that I picked up a fair bit about the business over the years. I figured I might as well try my hand at my own sort of rum-running.

“Well, I’m afraid you made things rather too easy for me. All those puzzles I had worked out to keep you off the scent, the codes and the red herrings, and then you didn’t even notice. Why, I might as well have been selling cookies at the school bake sale for all the excitement I had. So you see, sugar, no hidden plans, no devious motives.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the deceptively frail figure opposite him. He’d known this was a trap, but it was starting to seem like even more of an obvious one than he’d thought. “Then why call me here this morning? If you’ve nothing to prove and nothing to reveal, why am I here?”

Bea shook her head ruefully at him, clucking her tongue in an annoyingly condescending manner. “Bless your heart, Sherlock, but you’re quite a bit slower than I expected, given your reputation. I’m off to try my hand at some other venture. I think perhaps a warmer climate this time; the weather in London has been just awful for my rheumatism. But after what you said at breakfast this morning, I realized that you might make my departure more than a little complicated. You’re one of those little loose ends that I’ve just got to tidy up before I make my departure.”

How had this woman known what he’d discussed at breakfast? Ah, the waitress, of course. Bea Honeywell must have nearly as many spies as Mycroft. The thought of her knowing his movements so intimately was more than a little disconcerting. If she knew what he and John discussed at breakfast, was she also aware of the previous night’s activities that had led to the increased appetite? He would have to check the flat carefully for cameras when he got back. If he got back. “What does that entail, tidying up the loose ends?”

“Oh, surely I don’t have to spell it out for you, sugar. I can’t have you getting in my way at this stage of the game. Not to worry, though. Hobson is very efficient at removing obstacles for me. Ah, Hobson, darlin’, would you take Sherlock here out to the back garden?”

The butler’s sudden and silent appearance in the room was a bit startling, made all the more so by the gun held casually and comfortably in his right hand. “Are you certain the garden is the most appropriate location, madam? The neighbours might notice the noise.”

“Oh, I keep forgetting about them. Y’all live so very close together here in London. Well, what do you propose, Hobson?”

“Perhaps a quieter method of dispatch, madam? Strangulation or the like would have the advantage of being feasible within doors, without all the mess.”

“That sounds lovely, Hobson. I’ll just leave it all in your hands. Now, I just have a few more things to see to before Misha pulls the car around.” She rose with the help of her cane and turned to Sherlock, who had been edging away from the door since the appearance of the butler. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Sherlock. So sorry things have to end like this, but, well, you didn’t make things very interesting. All talk and no action, bless your little heart. Maybe I’ll come across someone a little more formidable the next place I go.”

This was turning dramatic much too quickly for Sherlock’s liking. He hadn’t counted on a woman who simply seemed not to care at all. Most of the criminal population, when finally caught, couldn’t resist the chance to boast and grandstand, to make florid speeches praising their own cleverness, all of which took time. Sherlock had counted on that time for John to find the note and work out where he’d gone. For John to bring Lestrade, possibly even Special Ops. But this… this Bea Honeywell seemed completely uninterested in proving to him how clever she’d been.

With a start, he forced his mind to consider all the logical possibilities for surviving this current encounter. The butler was armed and held his gun with deceptive carelessness, but the lines of tension down his arm told Sherlock that the man was ready to pull the trigger at a moment’s notice. Despite the man’s impassive gaze, the barrel of the pistol never wavered in its aim for Sherlock’s chest.

Options. There had to be options. The window to his right was fully large enough for a tall man to clamber through, but the closed curtains were a fairly substantial fabric and might hinder his escape long enough for the butler to get off an accurate shot. Briefly, Sherlock considered rushing Hobson directly, but the man was nearly as tall as himself and considerably broader. The only objects in the room that might serve as close-range weapons were the remains of the awful tea and, though the pitcher looked heavy enough, it was closer to Bea than to Sherlock at the moment. While the tea was certain disgusting enough, it was neither hot enough nor caustic enough to cause more than a momentary distraction to the butler, during which time Hobson could certainly get off a clean shot. The chairs were too heavy to be easily kicked across the room, as was the settee. Where was John now, when he was really needed?

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have faced his inevitable death with little more than vague curiosity, but now… now there was John to consider. John, who would be waiting for him when he got out of the shower. John, who refused to be had cheaply. John, who was probably back at the flat wondering where he was right now. John, who… would actually be disappointed if he didn’t return. And Sherlock now wanted very much to return to John.

As these considerations and realisations flashed through his mind, Sherlock edged backward, away from the door. Hobson stepped in the room to stand beside Bea, both of them considering him as if he were nothing more than a particularly difficult puzzle to solve. At the discrete clearing of the old woman’s throat, Hobson walked slowly toward Sherlock, calmly and smoothly, as one would approach a rabid animal.

And Sherlock suddenly had to work very hard to stare directly at the butler’s carefully impassive face, because he could see a familiar outline in the hall behind. He breathed once, twice, trying desperately not to give away John’s silent approach, but something of his desperate relief must have shown on his face. With a politely inquiring look on his face, Hobson just started to turn toward the danger he didn’t know he was in.

With a swift, nearly noiseless blow to the back of the head, Hobson crumpled in an ungainly heap. John’s efficient handling of the situation hadn’t even caused a spike in his respiratory processes. He checked the senseless pile of formerly elegant butler for signs of life.

“Right, there’s him sorted. Sherlock, what the bloody hell were you thinking?! I’d’ve thought you’d learned not to go haring after mad criminals on your own after what happened at the pool!” John retrieved the pistol from the butler’s limp fingers and stood in one swift motion. “You could’ve at least told me where you were going so I didn’t have to try to figure it out from that stupid letter on the keyboard.”

“The threat against you was fairly clear, John. I couldn’t risk your safety like that. Besides, I had confidence that you’d figure it out, as you did.”

“And somehow that’s supposed to make it alright that you ran off and left me again, Sherlock? I thought we were supposed to be partners now.”

The word ‘partners’ sent a vague thrill up Sherlock’s spine for reasons he couldn’t quite put a name to. He felt an urge to grab John and hold him close, quite unlike the urge he had felt the previous evening at the crime scene. This was less of an urge to have John naked and more of an urge simply to have John. Without realizing it, Sherlock stepped toward his… partner, his arms reaching out quite of their own volition. The soft click of a safety catch being removed from a gun brought him up short.

“How touching, gentlemen. However, I’m afraid I really must break up this little reunion. Sherlock, honey, you’re still in my way. And Doctor Watson, I’m afraid you’ve become a nuisance as well, bless your little heart. You boys are going to make such a mess of my rug, but I s’pose there’s just no help for it now.” With only minor trembling evident in her not-quite-recovered arm, she aimed her dainty, pearl-handled gun directly at Sherlock, who was edging slowly away from John as she spoke.

“John, shoot her. She can’t possibly hit both of us.”

“I can’t shoot her, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared incredulously at the man holding a pistol trained on a woman who had repeatedly demonstrated her ability to spread mayhem and murder in absolutely cold blood. “Why not? Is the gun in your hand not working?”

“She…” John paused, looking distinctly embarrassed. “She looks like my Gran.”

Bea smirked and shifted her aim to John, her hand steady enough at the close range to be in no danger of missing vital organs. The situation was entirely too familiar, and Sherlock had a sickening flash of deja vue, his mind recalling quite clearly the image of John covered in dancing red lasers with a bomb strapped to his chest. Rather than distracting him, Sherlock’s possessive anger brought the only possible solution into sudden clarity. Fortunately, Bea appeared to have forgotten about Sherlock momentarily.

In one swift movement, he flung the contents of the glass still clutched in his hand at Bea and took advantage of her distraction to lunge. She jumped as icy tea splashed in her eyes, instinctively throwing her hands up to protect her face. In the small room, Sherlock was behind the old woman before she could react and move the gun away from its position pointed at John’s torso. With a swift and precise application of pressure, just at the base of her neck, Sherlock rendered Bea as unconscious as her butler.

“I would have thought, with your military training, that you wouldn’t fall subject to such irrational displays of sentimentality, John. We’re both lucky her reflexes were substantially dulled with age. The medication she must be taking to control the stroke symptoms no doubt slowed her reactions further.” The adrenaline coursing through his body left Sherlock feeling more than a bit shaky now that the immediate threat had passed. He prowled the room, checking restively for hidden dangers, but found none. “Why did you follow me here, anyway? You were meant to phone the police and send Lestrade and his team.”

John looked up from where he was checking the unconscious criminal mastermind’s pulse. “I did; they’re on their way. Sherlock, did you really just give this woman the Vulcan Neck Pinch?”

“What are you talking about? All I did was temporarily block the Brachial plexus origin, disrupting the carotid artery and some major nerves, causing loss of consciousness. Her advanced age and frailty made it easier. You still haven’t answered my question.”

John shook his head as he rose. “I always knew you were an alien. And I followed you here to make sure there’d be enough of you left to come home with me after. You’re a bit too keen on confronting murderers face to face, you know. You don’t always have to go it alone.”

“I came alone to protect you.”

“Right, because that’s worked out so well for you before. Just promise me you won’t go jumping off any buildings to protect me next, ok?”

Sherlock couldn’t form a reply – his lips were a bit busy mapping the contours of John’s mouth. John’s fingers found their way into dark curls, and he moaned at the desperation evident. Everything that had just happened, the adrenaline, the guns, the sight of John dispatching the butler with one carefully aimed blow, and the sight of John with a gun aimed at his heart again, all crashed into Sherlock’s mind with the force of a bullet. He was suddenly desperate to get his doctor home and naked, to examine John’s entire body under his magnifier to make sure everything was as it should be. And somehow, as John’s broad palms cradled his head so closely, Sherlock knew that he would never be able to let go again.

Finis

Author's Note: Thanks to anyone who has been reading this. I hope you've enjoyed reading it even half as much as I've enjoyed writing it! And special thanks to my wonderful beta, Lynn Maxwell.

There is an epilogue chapter, which is about halfway written.
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Anomalies