Sherlock Holmes in New York (pt 6)

[sunken_standard]

Title: Sherlock Holmes in New York

Rating: R for language, violence, allusions to sexuality, drug use

Pairing: Sherlock/ Irene Adler (past), Sherlock/ John bromance (or pre-slash, if you have your slash goggles on)

Warnings: Nothing extremely graphic, see rating.

Spoilers: All three episodes to be safe.

Wordcount: 24,400

Summary: When Sherlock tracks Moriarty to New York City, he's drawn in to helping an old friend. John isn't sure what to make of any of it.

Betas/ Britpickers: pantropia, herovillian, brewsternorth, marshmellowed

Continued from part 5

John sipped his tea and checked his email. He read the blog comment alerts. Harry requested he bring back as many jars of peanut butter as his suitcase could hold. From there it had devolved into a heated debate between his sister and Sarah over the health risks of homogenized oils vs. creamy texture. He scanned the rest of the messages. Spam, weekly Tesco's special offers, forwarded jokes from Murray. One from A. Moore, the time-stamp reading 15:01. As he clicked open the email he did the conversion from GMT to EST- 10:01 this morning. The message contained three pictures but no text. The first was from a traffic camera, showing John and Irene in the car. They were both in profile, looking left. Irene was smiling. John was startled by the look on his own face. He was scowling at her, eyes narrowed. He couldn't recall any emotional reaction that would have made him pull a face like that. It must have been in the context of a conversation. The next was of Sherlock, midway down a flight of stone steps, coat billowing behind him. He appeared to be carrying an evidence bag. The third was of a tall black man in dark suit getting into a car.

John saved the pictures to the hard drive before tearing up the stairs with the laptop. He burst into the studio and shoved the laptop at Sherlock without a word. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow a him, but his expression turned sharp when he saw the screen.

“What's going on?” Irene twisted around, trying to see the screen.

“Email from Moriarty. Pictures of us this morning. Some other bloke too.”

“Lafferty,” Sherlock supplied.

“What did you find out from the cops, anyway?” Irene asked.

“Nothing of importance. Electrical fire, the alcohol in the club acted as an accelerant. Six deaths, four inside the club, one en route to hospital, one in A&E. Thirty-two hospitalized for smoke inhalation and injuries in the stampede to the doors, twenty-four discharged. Two in critical care. I've read the statements. They're all useless. The remains of the club yielded nothing of use either. There's a reason why arson is such a popular way of disguising a crime scene. Lafferty will text if he has any new information.”

Sherlock eyed the photos a little longer, then closed the laptop and held it out to be taken away. John huffed and reached for it. Irene was quicker. “Do you mind if I use this for a minute? I have a few things I want to look up. Thanks,” she smiled.

John noticed Sherlock crack an eye and study the back of her head. John wondered what the detective had gotten from the traffic-cam photo. Did he realize that it was taken out of context? John at least hoped it was out of context. He didn't think he was in the habit of making faces at people behind their backs. More importantly, what would Sherlock read? Would he infer that John disliked Irene? Truthfully, he didn't have much of an opinion of her one way or the other.

“Irene,” Sherlock began.

John felt apprehension creep up his spine.

“Hmm?”

“I'd like to take a shower. Would you mind terribly if John brought the evidence we've collected so far up here? I believe the whiteboard on the far wall would prove most useful.”

John exhaled. Sherlock wasn't making a scathing accusation or asking a tactless question. John would think himself paranoid, if not for precedent.

“Yeah, whatever,” she mumbled, engrossed in reading a web page dedicated to song lyrics. “Use my soap and shampoo though. Nero has a fit when anyone uses his stuff.”

John hoped he hadn't used the boy's things when he'd freshened up this morning. Then again, Irene hadn't seen fit to warn him.

Sherlock got up and left the room. John followed. They were silent as they descended the two flights of stairs. Sherlock went to the kitchen. John scowled when he lit a cigarette.

“Oh, don't make that face. I'll quit again when we're back in London.” He picked up John's tea from the breakfast bar and took a sip.

John swallowed his automatic 'that was mine, you know' and asked, “What about the tape then?”

“Just a collection of songs linked into a loose narrative. I highly doubt there's any kind of code embedded in the content. When she's finished cataloguing, I'll use her equipment to see if the tape has been recorded over.”

“Why not just save her the trouble and do it now?”

Sherlock levelled his gaze on John. “It will give her something to do. The alprazolam I slipped in her coffee this morning will be wearing off soon, and it's better if she has something to occupy her mind.”

“You drugged her?”

Sherlock waved him off. “She has a prescription. Irene is prone to highly volatile reactions, as you saw last night. I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with them. If she needs something later, there's oxycodone in the medicine cabinet upstairs. She's always had a bad reaction to prolonged use of benzos.”

John goggled. He shouldn't be shocked by Sherlock's casual use of prescription medication by now, but the physician in him bristled. Forgoing the lecture he knew would be ignored, he could only give feeble protest. “Body chemistry changes with age and childbirth.”

“She gave birth sixteen years ago. These are recent prescriptions. I do suspect the oxycodone to be recreational though, since she hasn't had any major surgery or serious injury since the fill date. It doesn't matter!” Sherlock turned and gestured wildly, speaking quickly. “Lafferty is getting us copies of the Fed's ongoing counterfeiting investigation. The pawnshops we've been to have already been red-flagged, along with a few corner shops that offer cheque-cashing services. They haven't found any connections to the leading New York crime families. The owners are predominantly Eastern European, an amount disproportionate to the ethnic distribution of owners of similar establishments.”

John stared at him, waiting for the rest of the reveal.

“Eastern European, John!”

“Like the stationery and Ms. Wenceslas. I thought that was a dead end?”

“I've been working on a theory. Since the end of the Cold War, organized crime has sky-rocketed in the former Soviet Bloc. It would be easy for someone like Moriarty to gain control of a vast network. Though stabilized, their economies are still insignificant compared to the rest of the developed world, so it was the perfect starting point. The majority of his resources still originate in Eastern Europe. He's since branched out, so he's got to have a right-hand man in every country. A regional manager, if you will. Someone who knows the lay of the land and can navigate the culture.”

“So we're not looking for Moriarty, but his man in America.”

“Yes. We know Moriarty is here in New York. If we can find his second-in-command, we may be able to knock a leg out from under him.”

“And what about the boy?”

“You're disappointed again. Why?”

“This is your son that's being held by a madman.”

“The child I didn't know existed until eighteen hours ago.”

John gaped.

Sherlock continued, “When we find Moriarty's henchman, we'll find Moriarty, then we'll find the boy.”

“That could take days, weeks even!”

Sherlock eyed John. “Glad to see you have so much confidence in my abilities, John. Are you quite done playing my conscience?”

John threw his hands in the air and turned away. It was the same old argument, only this time should be different. Sherlock was the boy's father, for Chrissakes. Even if he hadn't known before yesterday, it should mean something. John understood Sherlock's reasoning for staying emotionally removed from victims while working cases (even if he didn't agree with it), but this was just... John realized he was mad at himself for expecting anything different from the detective. To Sherlock, the boy was still a stranger. Their only link was Irene. It did say something about his regard for the woman that Sherlock made any concessions at all.

Of course, all this brooding was getting him nowhere. Sherlock was just being himself, and now wasn't the time to pick apart his motivations. Not when there was a teenage boy to find and an evil empire to bring down. John heaved a sigh and trundled the suitcase bearing all the gathered evidence up to the third floor.

Panting, he opened the door of the studio. Irene looked up from the floor. “Only about ten minutes left on the tape. Did you guys eat anything?”

John's cheeks coloured. “I, uh, wasn't sure what anything was.”

“Oh, sorry. Kid's got a system when it comes to labelling his creations. I could use some coffee anyway, so as soon as the tape's done, I'll warm something up for you.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Um... I had half a pack of Lifesavers while I was at the police station, does that count?”

“Not really, no. Have you slept at all?”

“Nope. And I know you're a doctor, but I'm used to it. Part of the lifestyle, right?”

“Have you taken anything?”

“Besides the Xanax Sherlock slipped me this morning? No. Caffeine and nicotine, but that's background noise.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. Speed makes me crazy. I prefer downers if I'm going to take anything. Yes, it's clichéd, but it enhances the creative process. Is it your duty to lecture me now on the dangers of recreational drug use?”

“If you were one of my patients, yes. I'd just rather know what you have in your system so I can treat you in case of complications.” John busied himself unpacking the suitcase.

“Old argument?”

“Very.” John used the magnets on the whiteboard to stick up various scraps of paper, knowing Sherlock would arrange them however he saw fit when he returned from the bathroom. Irene hummed and tapped her foot along to the music.

The last song finished. Irene noted the time as the tape hissed to the end and clicked off. She got up with a soft 'ooof' and stretched. “How about some lunch?”

In the kitchen, Irene grilled him on his food preferences and any allergies, explaining, “Nero had a lot of allergies as a kid. He still carries an EpiPen, but it's only for bee stings. He can eat almost anything now. He's still really sensitive to Red #40, which goes back to the autism thing. The doctor that the guidance councelor sent us to was all over that. Nero called the guy 'The Colonel' because he has this huge honkin' moustache and goatee and wore a dicky little bolo tie.” She paused for a moment, staring into space. “Hey, remember that picture? The pawn shop? I think I went there to kill some time while Nero was in his appointment. Those things take for-fucking-ever. Dr. Moran's office was just down the block. I thought it was kind of a skeevy place for a specialist's office, but it's a new practice, so I guess you take what you can get. I knew I remembered that place.” She shrugged. “How do you feel about chicken with allspice and mushrooms?”

John fought to hide his grimace. The doctor might be a link or could be coincidence. He'd tell Sherlock once he was out of the shower. In the meantime, he would eat while he got the chance.

Irene warmed a container of soba in some kind of cream sauce (“Think Japanese Alfredo.”) and dished some onto a plate for John. She fixed herself a cup of coffee and puttered around the kitchen. The noodles were surprisingly good, if somewhat strange. There were chewy bits that might or might not be some kind of mollusc. He'd eaten worse. Irene finished her coffee and went back upstairs to listen to the second side of the tape. She must have passed Sherlock on the stairs, as he appeared by John's elbow seconds later.

“That looks absolutely revolting.”

“It's not bad. You could do with eating something before your brain shuts down.”

“I get enough carbohydrates from the sugar in my coffee.” As if to illustrate, he measured out six teaspoons into the mug he'd taken from the draining-board.

“Irene recognized one of the places in the photos,” John started conversationally.

Sherlock turned and eyed him, waiting.

“She'd taken her son to a doctor nearby. Autism specialist. She went into the pawn shop while he was in with the doctor.”

Sherlock turned the information over in his head. “I'll need to see the picture.” He downed his coffee like one would a pint at last orders and set his mug on the worktop. He left the kitchen. John abandoned his half-finished plate and followed. As they started up the stairs, he heard Irene shout from the third floor.

“Sherlock! You guys need to hear this!”

----------------------

Irene stood on the top landing, looking pale. They followed her into the studio. “I stopped it as soon as the guy started talking.” She pressed the button to start the tape again.

The sound of white noise, then Moriarty's voice, pitched high with an inflection reminiscent of a teenage girl. “Hey sexy! I hope you enjoyed my mix tape! All the songs made me think of you! They fit us so well, don't you think?” He switched back to his soft Irish lilt. “It's not very nice to keep secrets between friends, now is it, Sherlock? Oh, but that's right, you didn't know you're a daddy,” he tsked. “Why do you suppose that was? I hope I'm not hitting a sore spot.” John darted a glance between Sherlock and Irene, but they were both listening intently. “Oh, I think junior wants to tell you something.” A faint ratcheting noise in the background. John recognized it as the hammer of a revolver being drawn back.

“H-hi, Dad. You have to come and pick me up before,” a hitch of breath, “Uncle Jim gives me my medicine,” a clear sob, “and puts me to bed.” More choked sobs followed.

Irene stood stock still, her breath coming in shallow pants. Her eyes were impossibly wide in her bloodless face. She was beginning to hyperventilate. John took her elbow and guided her to the sofa. “Head between your knees, there's a girl” he said softly, rubbing her back. He looked to Sherlock, whose gaze was focused in the middle distance.

Moriarty's voice came back on. “Oh, and Johnny, dear, you should check your email. I didn't want you to feel left out while the grown-ups were talking. Who's a good boy? Who's a good puppy?” His voice dipped again to a menacing hiss. “Twelve hours. Or you could just walk away....” The sound quality changed back to white noise.

Sherlock hit the stop button on the cassette deck. His lips were pressed into a grim line. He turned to the whiteboard and sent a text message one-handed, hastily rearranging the papers with the other. John focused on Irene's breathing. He checked her pulse and waited for it to even out before he spoke.

Sherlock cut him off before John had the chance to vocalize. “Irene, can you isolate any background noises from the recorded part?”

“I can't. I can't listen to it again. I just can't.” She shook her head, hands still fisted in her hair.

Sherlock's spine was tight. He huffed out a breath and came to crouch in front of the woman. His voice wasn't gentle, but had a softer quality than John was expecting. “You can. Any ambient noise could be a clue. Time is of the essence.”

She began to tremble. “Don't make me, please don't make me, I can't, I can't,” she sobbed.

Sherlock grabbed her wrists, tugging them from her hair. “Listen to me. I'm only going to tell you this once. Are you listening?” She struggled against him, but he only tightened his hold, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Sherlock's voice turned sharp, precise. “Irene!” He pushed her arms down, pinning her wrists to the cushion. Her eyes snapped to his, wild and fearful. “Your son will die in less than eight hours. Moriarty has no mercy. It will be painful, and it won't be quick.” Irene's breath hitched again, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. “We don't have time for your theatrics. Your tantrum is wasting time we don't have. Stop acting like a child and make yourself useful, unless you want to plan a funeral.”

John knew Sherlock to be cruel in his callousness, but even that seemed a bit far. “Sherlock-”

Irene screamed; a wordless, angry roar. Sherlock sprung back as Irene wrenched her hands from his grasp. She was on her feet in an instant. Sherlock stood his ground, eyeing her coolly. She shoved him, pushing hard into his chest. “I hate you!” Sherlock took a step backward to balance, but didn't retreat. “You brought this here!” She shoved again. “This all your fault! All of it!” She reared back, ready to lunge for him, and John took advantage of the opening. He grabbed her from behind, trapping her elbows to her sides, arms tight around her waist. She tossed her head back wildly, kicking to try to throw him off balance.

“Let her go, John.”

John eyed him dubiously for a moment, but released her. She ripped herself away from him and pushed past Sherlock, fleeing down the stairs. A door slammed and then silence.

Sherlock turned back to the whiteboard. “Do you remember which picture she had recognized?”

“What? No. Sherlock? What was that for? You don't say things like that to people!”

Sherlock's voice cut into the pause before John's next sentence. “She needed to get it out of her system. She's in the bathroom right now, crying and medicating herself. She'll be back in five minutes.” Sherlock spared John a glance. “Don't worry, she won't overdose. I do need her to run the tape, I don't have the time for it myself. We're going to pay a call to the doctor.”

John deflated. Sherlock's methods of manipulating people were still draconian, but they did yield the desired results. Later, he would bring it up later. John stepped up to the board, just brushing Sherlock's shoulder. He scanned for the photo, tapping one with his finger. “This one.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone, pacing as he pulled up search results. “John, go downstairs and let Agent Lafferty in.”

John didn't bother with asking how Sherlock knew he was there. He heard the tap running when he passed the bathroom. The doorbell sounded on his way down the stairs. John double checked that the gun tucked into the small of his back was concealed by his jumper and opened the door. The man was tall, much taller than Sherlock. Dark skin, shaved head. He was deceptively lean, but no doubt very well built under his tailored suit. Judging by his demeanour, John would assume ex-military, special forces most likely. John had treated a 7^th SFG Sergeant after Wanat. Lafferty had the same kind of intensity. John held out his hand. “Agent Lafferty? Dr. John Watson.”

The man gave a polite smile and shook his hand. Firm, no nonsense. John ushered him inside. “Sherlock and Ms. Adler are upstairs. They'll just be a minute.” John cast his eyes about the foyer, wondering if it would be improper to offer the man a seat in the lounge, when he was only a guest in the house himself.

Sherlock must have been waiting upstairs for his cue, dramatic bugger, as he came tramping down not ten seconds later. “Ah, Lafferty. Come to bring me good news, I should hope.” He breezed past them and into the kitchen.

The agent retrieved a memory stick from his pocket. “Everything is on here. I don't know how you've managed it, but you've got TS clearance with the Bureau.”

“Friends in high places,” John offered.

Sherlock snorted. He returned from the kitchen a moment later wearing his suit jacket, breezing past the other men. “Irene will be down shortly. John and I need to run a quick errand. If you'd be so kind as to keep an eye on her, she's been sedated. Won't be a mo'.” And he was out the door. John flashed an apologetic smile and jogged after him.

Continued in pt 7