HELLO AGAIN
(((i'm resisting the urge to pull a moriarty-esque 'MISS ME?')))
so i tried writing other things on other accounts and i didn't like it that much, so here i am again. i am home. sort of.
basically, i made an executive decision to start using this account again after not touching it for such a long time (was it like,,, 10 months or something?) and just carry on and use it like any other account. that means i won't be writing frerard anymore (i have moved on) and the fics will be of other things and other fandoms (hence the fact that this is sherlock related) but the frerard will stay and i can still have all you cool kids to talk to and discuss things with. ((fuckin,, missed you all))
so hopefully this will interest some of you and those it doesn't won't be too annoyed that i've come crawling back to this account like an unpleasant rash
thanks for everything:)
enjoy ?
-georgia
----
"Mr Holmes, this case has been closed for such a significant amount of time that no detective would ever even consider..."
The man's words had absolutely no effect on Sherlock, who simply looked mildly curious as to what meaning those words was actually supposed to have. His head shook ever so slightly, incredulously, disturbing his mop of hair (though it seemed to have done the 'style' some slight degree of a favour, John thought, because he looked less wild now and in turn, easier to take seriously.)
"Yes," he agreed pleasantly. "I know all that, Mr Walker." For a moment, it would have seemed that Sherlock had dismissed any possibility of continuing, but John knew him better than that, no matter how much he often resented that fact. Like now, for example. Now being the fact that they were sat in the office of the central London police archives, begging one of the curators for access to the notes of a cold case that the detective had heard of and become somewhat obsessed with.
"But I'm very bored. We're very bored, aren't we John?"
John, who could think of nothing better than an end to Sherlock's schemes, pointless or otherwise, didn't offer a single word in response. The suited man sitting opposite didn't even seem to notice that John had been incorporated into the conversation, such was the intensity with which he was staring at the tall detective. He seemed to have almost given up already, and John could hardly blame him.
"Mr Holmes, no police force in the world would commission you to solve this case. It simply cannot be solved."
"I don't want to be commissioned," Sherlock retorted, in that manner of his that made everything seem so horribly obvious. He could have pointed out that the seventh brick down in the wall opposite, twelve in from the right, had been manufactured in a tiny independent smelters in post-communist Russia by a tiny black haired man named Vladimir, transported to London by accident in a cargo ship, and stolen from the streets by urchins who were helping building projects for money, and John would somehow feel like kicking himself for not noticing. It was something he was only just beginning to stop hating, that measured way that Holmes spoke in, the pleasant tone that proved his intellect beyond doubt. No one else ever seemed to talk like that. (Anyone else would have got a good smack in the face, is probably why.)
"And besides, I'm not a police detective. I am a consulting detective. Nobody needs to commission me."
The man suddenly looked defeated, an expression that- where Sherlock was concerned- was commonplace. John had to hide the beginnings of the smile that was threatening to break across his face. He often found it hilarious when other people had to deal with Sherlock, mainly because it gave him a break.
It was quiet for a moment, the only sounds being the clicking of computer mouses (or was it mice?) and rattling keyboards from other parts of the office. How Sherlock had even found this office was beyond anyone's fathoming- but he knew the man sat in front of him and that was the only reason he hadn't been kicked out yet. His name was Robert Walker, he worked in the highly secretive police archives in the centre of London, and Sherlock Holmes was really starting to piss him off now. So was, actually, the stupid expression of the fawn-haired man sat next to him, like there was something hilarious just out of reach.
Walker had known Sherlock for years, mainly because he never stayed out of police business and because he'd been in here snooping around the files more than someone who was actually paid to. Walker was the 'boss', but that term was practically colloquial- he didn't do anything other than make sure no one was breaking in and fax the odd old link through to Scotland Yard. And dealing with Sherlock Holmes, but that was something never formally written into his contract.
"You really think you can solve this, Sherlock?" Walker said suddenly, losing his patience all at once. John noticed with outsider's amusement that Robert's resolve seemed to fall away from him completely, like wet paper. The expressions of the men sat on the opposite side of the desk barely changed, irritatingly enough. Walker had been rather childishly hoping that he'd managed to surprise Holmes, but it didn't seem that he'd managed. He never quite managed that, actually.
"Yes." There was nothing else to that reply- no arrogance or unpleasantness, just quiet and confident assurance that, in any other situation, would have been comforting.
"He usually can," John interjected, almost without meaning to.
"John."
"Sorry, Sherlock."
The detective turned back to Walker. His expression was either impossible to read or just entirely nonexistent. "I've not slumped a case yet, Robert."
"But you've never had a case like this one."
"No," Sherlock agreed, measuredly. He had a very pleasant manner about him that made it almost impossible for Walker to feel the true intensity of resentment towards him that he probably should have. The only thing he really felt towards Sherlock, other than the awe that came with the true brilliance of the detective, was exasperation. Sherlock shrugged. "But I'm trying to broaden my interests these days."
Walker made a strange noise then, a sort of mixture between a sob, a laugh, and a long sigh of defeat. He chanced a look at the man next to him- Holmes' new assistant, he'd been told, an old army doctor by the name of John Watson who'd done three tours in Afghanistan before being shot and as a result suffering with mobility in his left side. (He'd read a file or two.) Why was he with Sherlock, he wondered. Had he simply not realised what the detective was like?
Walker let the papers in his hand fall onto the desk. He had been measuring up the pros and cons of the situation, of giving the detective free reign over some old files and having him run around the city in exchange for him leaving him alone. He sighed. "You know what, Sherlock? Do it. You can do it, if you really want to. No one's going to pay you, and no one really cares about it anymore, but if it would make you happy, go and find who murdered Michael Clare. Chances are they're dead themselves."
Sherlock's expression barely changed. He looked more like a man who had got exactly what he'd been expecting rather than a man who'd argued and only won eventually, and under sufferance. There had never been any question about who was going to win. He did, however, smile endearingly at Robert.
"Thank you very much, Mr Walker. You've made me a happy man."
"You have," John agreed, mournfully, understanding what this meant for him now Holmes would be running ragged around London until he'd found a face to this murdered man. It wasn't even a case John could remember being in the news, so he couldn't have said what the situation was surrounding it, or what trying to solve it would entail.
The tall detective stood up, the chair rolling away from him ever so slightly and sticking in the carpet. When Robert was sitting down and Sherlock was not, he seemed to take up the entire room. Though he was a slim man, with limited physical power, with nothing immediately aggressive or intimidating about him- there was something coiled about Sherlock, that he could simply go off at any point with no warning whatsoever. That was what Robert was so uneasy about.
John followed suit, a good head smaller than his companion. "I assume you'll be wanting me to find the files myself?"
"Oh god, Sherlock. Even I can't find them anymore. Knock yourself out."
Holmes smiled at Walker again, before turning around in that over-dramatic manner of his that honestly wasn't necessary most of the time, and opening the door in one sweeping motion and allowing John out into the corridor first.
"Thank you, Robert."
"Piss off, Sherlock."
He shut the door behind him gently, turning to John and smiling wanly. He looked every inch any detective in that moment, completely devoid of his usual slightly wired, wide-eyed expression. It didn't last very long, though, as he started off down the wide corridor, gesturing with his hands and muttering to himself. It was a good job John was so used to him, because anyone else would have been seriously concerned. This was 'worked up' Sherlock. 'New job' Sherlock. 'Oh god there he goes again' Sherlock.
"Do you really think you'll be able to do this?" John asked, meeting the second man with raised eyebrows. His tone was measured and reasonable, trying to get his companion to see sense. It wasn't that he didn't believe in his abilities, more that this case was notoriously cold, notoriously ignored. The kind of cases that Sherlock was, horribly, drawn to.
"Yes. Granted, it might take me a while, but yes."
"All the leads are cold," John pressed, hoping to put him off this latest harebrained scheme. He'd not once managed to change Sherlock's mind since he'd known him, so it was a complete mystery as to why he still kept trying.
"Not all. Never all, John." They rounded a corner at unnecessary speed, barely noticing.
"The biggest inconvenience at the moment is the fact I've missed the Golden Hour, but I don't imagine it will be a huge problem."
John's eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. "What's the Golden Hour?" He was still not entirely sure of all this detective lingo that Sherlock insisted on using. It drove him insane. The prick even texted him like that.
"It's the prime time for picking up evidence, finding clues, suspects, things like that. It's the first twenty-four hours immediately after the incident has happened." He was checking his watch.
"Oh," John nodded. "And when was this Michael Clare killed?"
"Sixty three years ago."
Sherlock disappeared around an alcove, and John stopped. He balled his hands into loose fists, his face contorting into a sarcastic smile. "Of course," he muttered, baring his teeth to stop himself screaming. "Sixty three years."
He caught sight of the black coat-tails of Holmes disappearing into a maze of filing cabinets, and sighed.
"Excellent."