(Sherlock's POV)
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Sherlock sat in the back of a cab, tapping his knee as he thought and impatiently waiting to arrive at his destination.
It would have been faster to take the tube at this rate, he thought bitterly, tapping his fingers against the door now in a more frantic rhythm before whipping out his phone and checking to see if he'd received a text from John. Or Mycroft.
John and Everly had gone to Vauxhall to meet Mr Leigh Kavon whereas Sherlock was heading to Westminster to the address given for Mr Kevin Harris.
He couldn't help but think that the whole investigative process had taken ages and scoffed at Mycroft's ignorance and not sharing what information he had. Sherlock wondered if they could have arrested the murderer by now if he'd been allowed to know what was happening. It wasn't as if Mycroft was close to cracking the case, in fact, he was far from it.
The cabbie turned onto Herrick Street and pulled up outside a small house numbered with a brass 4.
Sherlock clambered out and paid before approaching the front door and knocking briskly twice.
There were flowers in the window boxes; well watered - the soil was damp and there hadn't been rain for two days, so someone had watered them that morning. Far too responsible for a man struggling for money, so he lives with his mother. The flowers, purple hydrangeas, matched the drapes in the front windows, so it's all colour coordinated. Definitely the sign of a woman's touch but not many of the younger generation kept flowers, especially in London, so that backs up the point that he lives with his mother and not girlfriend.
Sherlock smiled as the door opened.
"Mr Harris?" Sherlock inquired even though it was obvious this was Harris.
Harris nodded, "Yes, who are you?" He asked nervously.
Sherlock produced one of Lestrades' police badges, "Can I have a word?" and without waiting for a response, walked past Harris and into the house.
Definitely lives with his mother, Sherlock deduced, the wall paper is patterned and old fashioned, the carpets light and well kept, even the corners have been cleaned. No man takes time to meticulously clean corners. Harris is well dressed, casual shirt and jeans, so doesn't care for patterns and fancy things, this house doesn't reflect him as a person.
Sherlock found the front room and stood by the fire place aware that Mr Harris had followed him into the room carefully.
"What's this about?" Harris asked, nervously perching on the arm of the settee.
"Murder, Mr Harris." Sherlock said sharply then studied the other man's face.
Harris looked pale and appalled before spluttering, "Murder?"
"Yes, that's what I said." Sherlock complained. Why did people have to repeat what he said? Were they deaf or just not listening? It irritated him.
"I don't understand." Harris admitted.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You've applied for loans at several banks and been denied them, yes?"
Harris sat for a moment then nodded, "Yes, I need the mon-,"
Sherlock quickly cut him off, "Yes, yes. I know you need the money to put a deposit on a house of your own. You're sick of living here with your mother, everything's too old fashioned for you, like the wall paper for instance. There're patches where you've tried to peel it away from the wall in an attempt to get her to redecorate. You've got flakes of it still under your nails." Sherlock gestured to Harris's hands. "Also there is the added embarrassment that you live with your mother and I presume that makes it quite difficult to find a compatible female."
Harris looked disappointed and uncomfortable.
"It's true, I just want someplace else to live." He mumbled, "But all the banks I've tried keep refusing my application. I don't understand." He looked up at Sherlock whose face was a mask showing the expression of someone who really didn't care.
"Why did you say you were here again?" Harris asked, confused.
Sherlock rolled his eyes then smiled, "It doesn't matter anymore but thank you for wasting my time." He said before walking from the sitting room and calling, "I'll show myself out. Have a nice life!" And slammed the door behind him.
"Stupid people," Sherlock grumbled to himself as he slumped away from the house towards the buzz of a main road where he hoped to hail a cab. If not he didn't think he was far from Pimlico Station where he could maybe catch the tube.
How could Harris have been the murder? His whole profile was all wrong. In fact Sherlock was annoyed with himself because he'd known it wasn't Harris the moment he'd opened the door.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and was about to cross the road when a black Jaguar pulled up.
Sherlock stopped and turned to walk away in the other direction.
"Sherlock! Don't be childish." His brother called out to him once he'd exited the Jaguar.
Sherlock turned, his brother was dressed in the usual smart black suit, shirt and tie. His shoes were shined. However, his eyes were weary, and his features sharp and nervous.
This intrigued Sherlock enough to walk back towards Mycroft and face him.
"What do you want?" He snapped unpleasantly.
"Always so nice." Mycroft said in a way that annoyed Sherlock immensely, "Get in the car."
Sherlock frowned, "Why?"
"Just get in." Mycroft said through gritted teeth.
Sherlock pulled at his coat then checked the street before slipping into the back of the Jaguar.
Mycroft got in, closed the door and Sherlock felt the car soundlessly pull away from the pavement.
"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked then looked at him brother, "Oh, nowhere. So you just thought you'd drive me around the block in your fancy car? The nearest station would be more convenient though."
Mycroft pulled a briefcase onto his knee and popped open the clasps. He pulled out a file then viciously threw it at Sherlock. He caught it before it could drop to his feet but never opened it when it settled on his lap. He wasn't stupid, he knew what it was.
"That is a formal report stating that at eleven fifty this morning my personal server was corrupted. At eleven fifty-five my personal and private documents were broken into; the protections on the files bypassed and unlocked. Following that, at twelve o' five, my own personal ghost drive, that wasn't even in the room at that precise time; was located and broken into and some of the most private files in the country were read!" Mycroft's voce was heating up with irritation.
"At twelve ten I received a message from several banks asking me why I was looking though their employee databases and extracting and crosschecking their data. I didn't have a computer near me Sherlock! Then to finish, at precisely twelve thirteen my officials sent out, via the server, a lock-and-key program which should have eliminated the problem. One of the most secure, intricate -so I am informed- protection programs in the country, and within half a minute the whole thing was terminated to a point where no one could locate the source of the problem." Mycroft spat, "So tell me Sherlock, why the bloody hell Miss Sapphire was breaking into my secure files!"
Sherlock sat for a moment, thumbing through the file curiously before passing it back.
"You should share your information." He said simply. "And how do you know it was Everly?"
Mycroft looked close to exploding, "Who else could it have been? The Russians? Very clever of her and all trying to throw me a false line and all. The fact that you set her up to it is even worse! And I don't have to share information, especially if it is top secret information!"
"But it wasn't really was it." Sherlock groaned, "It was a few plans to, apparently, improve the loans system in banks. The rest was all the murder evidence you've been hiding from me."
Mycroft bit down on his lip and glared at his little brother, "That was also classified."
"Why? Because if the media found out they'd be asking questions as to why banks were refusing to help people needing loans and why someone was suddenly killing loan advisers?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft sat silently for a moment then said, "Why were you at number 4 Herrick Street?"
Sherlock watched his brothers face carefully, "You already know."
"No, I know that a Mr Kevin Harris lives there and that he lives with his mother and has a small, part time job at a cleaning firm." Mycroft said flatly, closing the briefcase again.
"Why should I tell you?" Sherlock sneered, "You didn't tell me anything I wanted to know, I had to find it out for myself."
"Because, Sherlock, I have another missing person!" Mycroft yelled impatiently, getting to the point that Sherlock was waiting to hear.
Sherlock sat for a moment and pondered this: another missing person?
"Another loan adviser?" He asked and Mycroft sat still then nodded.
"Yes but-,"
Sherlock reluctantly reeled off everything that he'd found out in the last two days: the paint, the banks the links between people asking for loans.
Mycroft was stunned then rubbed his temples, "So all you need now is the man who's done it all?"
"Pretty much." Sherlock said then whipped out his phone, "And if there's another person missing then my esteemed blogger and criminal protege may be walking into a trap."