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Home?
Mar 17, 2013 11:17:48 GMT 1
Post by Sherlock Holmes on Mar 17, 2013 11:17:48 GMT 1
Sherlock Holmes was not dead. He knew that many people believed him dead and to be frank, sometimes he felt dead. However; there was a big difference in the act of feeling dead and being dead. How had he survived, most would marvel. They had seen him plummet to his death. It wasn't possible. Well, that story was saved for another day, perhaps a day where a certain Doctor was reunited with a certain Detective.
Today, however; was not that day. Sherlock Holmes was alive and at the moment, that was all anyone needed to know- not that they did, he mused, they buried him. They all thought him dead still.
Sherlock leaned against the unusually pristine walls of 221B Baker street, his passive and moody expression never wavering from his face, and if it weren't for his surroundings, people might actually believe it was just yesterday when Sherlock told John to go shopping for more milk and had spent another day on the couch solving a case people deemed unsolvable. No. It didn't do to dwell on things that were forgotten, Sherlock thought to himself, letting his eyes sweep the residence he had once taken up two years prior.
The walls had obviously been fixed a year after he left, since there were no bullet punctures in the walls anymore and the layer of dust that usually covered the now empty mantle piece which no longer sported his Skull, was clean as a whistle. There was no clutter laying around and there wasn't even an odd knickknack under the dining table or over the t.v. set. Heck, they even changed the wallpaper.
After he had supposedly died, John had moved out to deal with the pain, Mrs. Hudson quickly following, thus condemning his flat to be sold off. It was being resided in by a new occupant tomorrow morning and Sherlock had come by for a sense of closure, a dramatic farewell. He knew now that the only reason he had come was because even after two years of solitude and work and tracking down everyone of Jim's contacts, Sherlock missed it.
He missed John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Scotland Yard, the busy honks and shouts of Cabbies in London, the thrill of a new case, the life of a Detective, hell; he even missed Anderson. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, staring at the empty flat bare of furniture and thought to himself, 'This isn't home. Not really.' No, this would never be home.
Home was where the mess lay. Home was the place he could come to and be able to sit down and be able to do what he did best. Home was where he was able to do whatever he wanted in peace. Home was a place you felt at ease. No, this wasn't home.
Sherlock buttoned up his trench coat, walking out of the flat and sinking in with the shadows, making sure to tread in the cameras stationed around his flat blind spots. It had been extremely risky coming here, what with Mycroft still looking for him, but Sherlock knew that he needed it.
Because Sherlock Holmes had not had a home in the last two years.
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Home?
Mar 17, 2013 16:05:37 GMT 1
Post by victor on Mar 17, 2013 16:05:37 GMT 1
But no matter how careful Sherlock would be, in London it was really impossible to hide away for long from Mycroft's eyes. The man who was waiting a few steps away from the entrance to Baker Street 221b did not look anything out of the ordinary. He also did not seem very excited to be here, guessing from the expression in his eyes while he kept his face overall neutral. When he approached the detective a limp became visible, most likely a reminder of a past injury he had received somewhere.
At first he did not address him as it seemed as if he was going to simply walk past him but then he stopped sharply and started to walk alongside of Holmes. "You should not have come here, Mister Holmes." he said then, voice deep yet flat sounding as if he was delivering a message that had no connection to him. "I'm sure you are aware that there are still enough people out there that believe you're responsible for the death of a beloved actor and innocent man." He tried to meet the other man's gaze briefly to see wether the detective would be willing to listen or try to get away in a hurry.
Victor didn't really know much about Sherlock Holmes but the things he had read about him in the newspapers. But he knew this man was Mycroft Holmes' younger brother and while the Ice Man did not seem to care much about anything but queen and country, he seemed to care enough to make sure his sibling would be safe. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the envelope he had been given beforehand, holding it out towards the detective.
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Home?
Mar 17, 2013 19:50:06 GMT 1
Post by Sherlock Holmes on Mar 17, 2013 19:50:06 GMT 1
Sherlock didn't reply to the limping man at first. He wasn't stupid. He had expected a confrontation from Mycroft- or someone who worked under him- once he came by the flat, but he had been hoping to avoid it. He frowned slightly and cocked his head at the man, the corners of Sherlock's lips twisting up into an amused smirk. He knew his intent staring would attract attention but at the moment, he didn't care.
The man was easy to read. The inside of his index finger has a straight cut, meaning he used a gun since the slide pinches his skin at the bottom of the gun. He was more accommodated with a pistol then a rifle though since there were only light bruises on his knuckles which would bruise from the weight of the gun pressing down on it, meaning he didn't use it as often, but he still used it. He was a light smoker seeing as there was a noticeable nicotine stain on his hand due to the hole in their filter.
People who smoked light cigarettes usually had to smoke it because they had finished a meeting or deal and the other party offered it in a peace offering, and since it would be rude to deny, they accepted. Which meant the man in front of him was a government official- which also confirmed his suspicions of him working for Mycroft. However, the limp in his leg suggested something else and despite the obviously professional and experienced tone in his voice, it was obvious the man disliked his job. His shoulders hunched over which meant he spent a lot of time over a desk and there was a fleck of ink on this right pinkie from an ink well pen usually found at desks.
But it didn't make sense since he used guns and obviously sustained the injury to his leg in battle. So it meant that he didn't like his job and was only forced to do paper work since he could fight with his injury slowing him down. His left index finger twitched, proving that he usually spent his time typing, only further providing a point to his claims."You work for my brother, I presume. I take it he knows I'm alive then." Sherlock didn't say much more, only taking the envelope from him, already knowing what to expect.
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Home?
Mar 17, 2013 20:12:19 GMT 1
Post by victor on Mar 17, 2013 20:12:19 GMT 1
„He knows you never died, Mr. Holmes so I dare to say that’s the same.” Victor replied, feeling the other man’s eyes examine him thoroughly. He had heard of Sherlock Holmes’ uncanny ability to deduct most everything about a person and their life from reading tiny details and he almost felt compelled to ask what it was that the younger Holmes brother could read by looking at him. “I was sent here to guide you to your new temporary residence. Your brother would like to meet up with you at some point to discuss how to proceed from here and it would be quite foolish to reject his help, wouldn’t it?” The man said the words he had been told to say but he couldn’t care less about either Holmes. It was just part of his job.
Walking alongside the other man still he then gestured down the road where a car was waiting. Why the government cars had to be black with tinted windows was something that always made Victor scoff. If one wanted to be inconspicuous then why wouldn’t they use cab? Nobody really cared about people sitting in a cab. He also halfway hoped Holmes would try to run away. Not that he’d try to stop him but it would save him the tedious car ride as he was certain the other man didn’t intend to tell him anything about where he had been or how he had survived. It was odd though that Mycroft had not been part of the entire ruse.
When they reached the car he opened the door for Holmes, giving him a strange expectant, almost challenging glance. “You can of course also walk the entire way. But this might be more comfortable.” Victor was quite certain the man had not had a decent night of sleep nor a full meal lately. At least Sherlock’s pale face and the dark shadows under the detective’s eyes made him believe so. “I really don’t care either way. I just know the flat Mr. Holmes chose for you is a lot nicer than my own.”
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Home?
Mar 17, 2013 23:46:58 GMT 1
Post by Sherlock Holmes on Mar 17, 2013 23:46:58 GMT 1
Sherlock's vivid grey eyes were focused on the envelope as the man spoke. Oak tree, common but still formal. One word written in black fountain ink found only in the center of Italy, Sherlock. He almost smirked at Mycroft's sublimity. He always was one for the dramatics. "Your name, Sir. I'm afraid even after all that has been said, you haven't once given out your name." Sherlock didn't even glance up at the man before ripping the envelope in half, knowing fully well that there was nothing in there. Mycroft, was and always would be, melodramatic. Sherlock fixed his scarf and finally looked up at the limping man who held open a black tinted car door open.
"Foolish? No. Heavens no. Stubborn, yes. Walk? I'm not stupid. If you really were giving me the option of walking, the address of where I am supposedly to walk would already have been discussed. How's the office life treating you Mr. Dupré? Oh, don't bother asking. Really, if you plan on being inconspicuous, tell your Russian tailor to stop sewing your name into the edge of your sleeve. I enjoy your taste though. Where was the leather from those shoes made? Southern Europe? Or central India? I hear they're trading in now and have the same materials. " Sherlock shot him a charming smile that oozed of false pretenses.
"Now, if you don't mind Mr. Dupré, I have things to do, people to black mail." Sherlock didn't bother giving the man another glimpse, he had a feeling that the man would easily be swayed to the opposing team by a little persuasion and held no trust in him- then again, he held everyone else in the same regards. And why wouldn't Dupre' be swayed? He was like John. Most people were. They craved adventure. They had tasted excitement and thrill of the chase and then been pushed back into the normal boredom of the prosaic and material life they lived in. Boredom did things to people. He knew.
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Home?
Mar 18, 2013 21:03:26 GMT 1
Post by victor on Mar 18, 2013 21:03:26 GMT 1
For a moment Victor was genuinely surprised as the other man pulled all these facts out of thin air. But when the explanation followed a light grin returned to the agent’s lips. “Clever. Very clever. Maybe you should consider working with the Mi6 for a while until things have been sorted out. But I doubt you’d be interested. And I fear I will have to sue the man who sold me the shoes because he claimed they were from Italy. You can’t trust anybody anymore these days, now can you?” He clicked his tongue as if this was something really regrettable. “Blackmail?” he added then at Holmes’ last words, “I didn’t take you for the man to pursue such things. I’m intrigued.”
He watched the other man take a few steps past the car and with that granting his wish. Of course he would not draw a gun on the detective. Nor would he try to tackle him down. Such options were simply ridiculous seeing how there were people around. He also could have just let him walk away but he had been given orders to bring Holmes to the address Mycroft had given him and he had to see this through even if he hardly cared. This was not even his field. He was working with criminals and had to get answers out of them by all means necessary. Surely if he could shoot Holmes in the knee it would make a few things easier, would it not?
With a deep sigh he closed the door again, gesturing the driver to stay as he limped after the detective, trying to keep up with him, cursing his crippled body. “I do understand why you have no interest in accepting help from your brother but you should see it this way- you can empty his fridge. get a shower, fresh clothes, rest for a few hours at a safe place and then leave again. I was not told to handcuff you to the bed after all.” Dupré chuckled a bit at his own words. “And if you like company I can stay and tell you a bit about the good doctor….”
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Home?
Mar 19, 2013 0:57:51 GMT 1
Post by Sherlock Holmes on Mar 19, 2013 0:57:51 GMT 1
Sherlock abruptly paused in mid step, causing an array of limbs to be tangled together as a stranger walking behind Sherlock hadn't anticipated the stop and bumped into him. "Watch where you're going pal," the stranger snarled and walked passed him hurriedly in a huff- to see his secret lover his wife didn't know about Sherlock added in his mind without really thinking about it. "There's only one good Doctor I know, so there's only one Doctor you could possibly be talking about. John, then. I have kept myself updated but I would, of course, enjoy hearing about Watson from someone with access to his medical files." Sherlock nodded and his eyes flashed in amusement.
"Oh, no. I wouldn't worry about the man who sold you those shoes. He's in mid Atlantic by now, trying to con another pair of- what is it that the younger people call them these days? Oh yes, suckers into buying his false items." Sherlock was slightly miffed at the tone Durpé took when talking about his extra curricular actives concerning Moriarty's men. "Yes, blackmail, a man has to do something in his spare time, in which I find myself having a lot of." Sherlock told him his sharp gray eyes swirling around with sarcasm. It wasn't exactly anticipated, Durpé's casual tone when touching the usually soft subject of black mail.
Did the man take part in such acts? He didn't know why he was so surprised, he was a government official, it was a common take place for one man to black mail another. However, for some bizarre reason, Durpé had come onto him as the sort of righteous, blunt man who wasn't used to slithering his was through things. Perhaps he misjudged the man? Sherlock played with the idea for a while before discarding it. It was rare and unlikely. "I shall come along with you," he told the man, "but once I've finished with Mycroft's endless and persistent chatter, I will require a ride back to this exact location."
He knew the request might baffle Durpé as it would most, but despite what most people would think had they known Sherlock was here in the first place, he didn't come here just to weep over the loss of his flat and relish in old memories. It was reality, not some corny soap Oprah. He had people to meet a couple miles away from here, but he had specifically instructed them to wait for him in the case of his running late. Sherlock turned and started walking back to the black tinted government issued car, holding back an annoyed sigh. There would be people annoyed with him no doubt.
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Home?
Mar 19, 2013 19:38:00 GMT 1
Post by victor on Mar 19, 2013 19:38:00 GMT 1
Sherlock’s reaction to his words shouldn’t have amused him as much as it did. Of course the detective would want to hear more about John Watson. In a way it was soothing to know that even somebody who seemed so detached and cold would have something they cared about. Or rather somebody in this case. “I have access to all the files.” Victor only replied with the lightest of smiles, watching Holmes’ get rather upset with his nonchalant approach to the topic of black mail. “You would have less spare time if you’d consider working for us, Mr. Holmes. There are sometimes the kind of riddles that could tickle your fancy. I’m more for the rough parts as you might have deducted by now.” He was accepting Holmes’ ability as something matter of fact. This way he wouldn’t find himself too surprised anymore. It made it easier to deal with the detective and his biting sarcasm.
“I’m glad to hear you changed your mind.” he said then as they stepped back towards the car. Holding open the door the door once more he waited for Holmes to take a seat before closing it and stepping around to slip into the vehicle from the other side. The only thing he found himself able to agree about was that the government issued cars had very nice leather seats. However he still believed that they were everything but inconspicuous. Nodding to the driver he fell silent again, not intending to give away either their goal or what might await Holmes there besides food, rest and a shower. And the promised information.
The detective’s request to be dropped back at the same spot did not confuse Dupré much. Mostly because he simply did not care what Holmes would or would not do once the agent was done with his part of the job. When the car finally came to a halt he led the man into a building and upstairs to a flat. Opening the door he then handed the key to Holmes, leaving it up to him whether to keep it or to discard it somewhere in-or outside the building. The flat was filled with modern furniture and not even an iota of anything personal. On the small desk set near the window was a laptop which was the only thing that filled the space of empty shelves and empty cupboards. “Take a seat.” Victor said, gesturing to the desk, “I’ll get you something to drink? Or would you rather want to eat? Or...” He reached into his pocket, taking out a pack of cigarettes which he placed next to the laptop.
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