Sherlock Holmes in New York (pt 4)

[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 pt 3

Irene and John had left just after Agent Lafferty had called. Sherlock had left at 7:30 for the 20^th precinct, to see if he could begin a cursory examination of the police reports. Lafferty had phoned on Irene's land line. John had texted Sherlock to expect company, as the agent had already left the office.

The trip to the market yielded nothing. They had talked to the managers of all the departments, Irene flashing Nero's photograph. They'd all had vague recollections of the boy from past encounters, but hadn't seen him. The produce manager made a face of distaste when he was first questioned about the boy, but quickly turned apologetic when he'd been told that they were looking for Irene's missing son. Apparently, Nero had a reputation for being a troublesome customer.

John grabbed for the dash again as Irene swerved around a double-parked car, never slowing down. She screamed something about the driver's dubious parentage and suggested he do something physiologically impossible, then ran a red light without flinching. He imagined that if Sherlock could be arsed to do anything for himself, like driving, this would be exactly how their trips around London would be. They'd been fighting traffic for ten minutes and had only gone eight blocks by his count.

“So I know you're dying to ask like a million questions. Fire away. I'm an open book.”

“Um...” John could think of many things he'd like to ask, but wasn't sure how to do it tactfully.

“Don't strain yourself,” she smirked. “Seriously. Ask me anything, I don't care how personal. I need a distraction, because if I start thinking I'm going to go to pieces and that won't find my kid.”

“Well, I suppose the most obvious one is how do you know Sherlock?”

“Besides biblically? My parents dragged me to London when I was sixteen. My dad was a copyright lawyer and got a job over there. I met Sherlock and he was a total dick. Then I met him again a few days later and I saved him from getting his ass kicked and we spent the night drinking vodka in a park. After that we got very close, very fast. We were like Sid and Nancy. Sex, drugs, rock n' roll, with a side of vandalism and petty larceny. We stole a car once too. Then my parents got divorced and I moved back here with my Mom. And I didn't know I was pregnant when I left. Didn't even suspect, since hangovers are a great cover for morning sickness.” Irene changed lanes, the driver behind her laying on his horn.

She continued speaking as if she hadn't almost caused an accident.“I can joke about it all now, but we were really fucked up kids. I was so worried when I was pregnant that Nero would have some kind of birth defect. He's normal though. Well, developmentally. I mean, he's been tested for autism, but he's not. He's kind of a weird kid. I mean, on the surface, he displays traits of an autistic neurology. He ignores a lot of social cues. It's not that he doesn't pick up on them, they're not important to him. He's a loner, but a lot of that is from not being around kids his age for most of his life. I went through it with his tutors and the guidance councelor, but y'know, I don't have an MD, so of course I can't read and apply information, right?” Her cheeks coloured and she quickly added, “I mean, nothing against doctors or anything. You probably get a lot of patients that think they know what they have just from reading a list of symptoms on WebMD, right?”

“A few, yes.”

“I bet it annoys the shit out of you too. I mean, it would me. But the first time they wanted me to have him tested, I read everything I could. Web forums, medical journals, a few books on neurology. There were just a lot of hallmark traits that didn't fit. He used to love to be tickled, loud noises don't bother him, no self-soothing or repetitive behaviours... Sorry, I'm ranting. It just pisses me off.” She blew out a loud breath.

“Actually, he sounds a lot like Sherlock. I've kind of wondered about it myself, but it's not really my speciality.”

“What is your specialty?”

“GP. Field surgeon before that.”

“Oh. Really glad I didn't say anything about the war then,” she tittered.

“I'm sure it wouldn't be anything I haven't heard before.”

Irene was quiet for a moment. “Well, yeah, awkward. How did you get hooked up with Sherlock?”

John relayed his chance meeting with Mike and how he'd come to live at Baker Street, glossing over the details of cabbie case.

“So you guys live together? He said 'colleague', so I just assumed it was a professional thing.”

“Funny, most people assume the opposite,” John mused.

Irene tilted her head to the side and pulled a frown. She nodded to herself. “Yeah, I can see it, now that you mention it.”

“What? How?”

“I dunno... just like how you handle him. And he actually listens to you. If it's any consolation, I'd imagine him as the bottom,” she giggled.

John felt himself flush. It actually was a bit of a consolation, if he was honest with himself. He'd always gotten the feeling that people expected him to be the sub in the relationship. “Thanks for that. Really,” he deadpanned.

Irene laughed softly. “Anytime.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“My God, you guys can trash a room like Axl Rose.” Irene stood in the doorway of John and Sherlock's hotel room, taking in the carnage. The room was just as they'd left it last night. John supposed it looked worse to someone who wasn't used to Sherlock's system of organization.

“You should see the flat. This is clean.”

“Lovely. I'll just start with the stuff on the bed then?” She pushed aside enough newspapers and computer printouts to make room for Sherlock's empty suitcase and swung it up onto the bed. John busied himself with repacking what little he'd already unpacked and gathering their toiletries. When he re-emerged from the bathroom, Irene was staring at a photograph.

“I've seen this place before. I've been in that pawn shop, but I can't remember why or what context. Then again, I've been to almost all the pawnshops in the city at one time or another... Still...” She hummed and set the photo aside. “It'll come to me.” She dismissed the thought and continued piling documents into the suitcase.

John finished packing his suitcase. He was hesitant to broach the subject of acquiring a gun, but it was the only thing they hadn't checked off the to-do list Sherlock had given them. “So, ehm, you said you had a friend who might be able to help us with getting a gun?”

“Oh, yeah. I know this chick, Penny Dreadful. Well, Penelope Huxley. She's done some stagework for us before. Burlesque, fire eating, sword swallowing. Lives in the Bowery. She has a fucking arsenal. Like, have you seen Boondock Saints?” John shook his head. “It's great, you should. Anyway, these guys need to get guns, so they get the name of this dude and they walk into this room that's floor-to-ceiling weaponry. Penny's place is kind of like that. Mostly swords and knives and shit, but I know she's got guns too. I called her when you were zonked on the couch. She was headed back from a show down the shore, but she should be home now. Just, don't mention the FBI guy. She's kind of paranoid to begin with.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

While waiting for Penny to return from her bedroom with a gun, John's phone chirped with a text message.

M left audiotape. Returning to I's. Ask if I has cassette player. -SH

Irene looked at him expectantly. “Sherlock. He's on his way back to your house. Do you have a cassette player?”

Irene pulled out her own phone and dialled. She waited until it went to voice-mail. “Do not break into my house. I'm calling the next door neighbor. She'll let you in. I mean it, Sherlock.” She thumbed the call button. She dialled another number. Her voice shifted to friendly and warm. “Eva? Hi, it's Irene from next door. I'm fine, thanks. No, Nero hasn't turned up yet.” Her jaw clenched. “I don't mean to be rude, but I'm in a bit of a hurry. One of my friends is coming over, and I won't make it back on time, can you let him in? He's about six feet tall, skinny, should be wearing a long black coat. Kind of looks like a vampire. You will? You're a peach. We'll have coffee soon. Bye.” She rolled her eyes and turned to John. “I almost feel sorry for Sherlock. She talks and talks and she's like this doddering old aunt, so you can't even tell her to fuck off.”

John sent a quick text to Sherlock.

Be nice to old lady. -J

He knew it wouldn't make much of a difference, but a friendly reminder couldn't hurt. John's phone chirped again.

Always nice to old ladies. Good source of local information. And biscuits. -SH

John snorted. Penny came out of her bedroom with three guns. He chose the Sig 1911 over the Glock and the Smith & Wesson .41 Magnum. Irene hovered nervously in the background until the gun was safely tucked away in the waistband of John's jeans. She handed Penny a wad of bills with the promise that nothing would ever be traced back to her.

Continued in pt 5

 

Comments

[emmessann.livejournal.com]

Oh, man, the Nero-to-Sherlock connection is brilliant. You can even see where Nero might get his weight issues from Uncle Mycroft. Delightful stuff.

[sunken-standard.livejournal.com]

Thanks! In my head cannon for this story, Mycroft and Nero start an email correspondence exchanging recipes. Then Mycroft visits the UN (unofficially, of course), and Nero cooks him some crazy elaborate meal. Then Mycroft sets up a trust fund for Nero.