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"Sherlock, your phone's ringing," John called from the kitchen.
"Ignore it." Sherlock made no move to rise from the couch, where he'd been lying for the last three or so hours. Whatever Lestrade wanted could wait, the Sewlis case had presented some (unexpected) difficulties, and although he was positive that it was the cousin, Thomas, he just needed to go over the case one more tim-
"Who's Neal?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "What?"
"Neal Caffrey. He keeps calling you. Is he a client?" Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh, stretching out a hand.
"Pass me the phone," he muttered resignedly. How was it that Neal always managed to find the most inconvenient time to call? John handed him the phone with more than a little trepidation. Who was this guy? Sherlock launched himself off the couch and headed for his room.
"I'll be out in a bit," he announced, slamming the door behind him. Flopping down on the bed, he put the device to his ear.
"What, Caffrey?"
"I saw you in the newspaper yesterday morning." The American drawl on the other end of the line sounded as self-assured as ever. Neal had always been too confident in himself, really. Although, if Sherlock was being fair (and he usually wasn't), that was probably what had drawn him to Neal in the first place.
"Congratulations," he said drily. "Would you like a trophy?" Undoubtedly, there would be some ulterior motive for Neal's call. There always was. From the time he'd 'accidentally' broken Sherlock's pen to his timely appearance to 'rescue' Sherlock from Christmas dinner (which had ended with the two of them on the run from twelve armed security guards), Neal never did anything without a purpose. He always seemed to have a plan, always seemed ahead of everyone else by five steps. Sherlock could deny him many of his supposed positive attributes, but he certainly couldn't begrudge Neal his intelligence. "What's this really about?"
Neal laughed. "What, we can't just have a friendly chat? One consultant to another?" His voice sounded distant through the receiver, but Sherlock could picture him reclining in a couch in his flat, almost certainly with a glass of wine held loosely in his left hand.
"Friendly." Sherlock rose an eyebrow. Neal couldn't see that, obviously, but Sherlock was fairly certain he'd gotten the message across.
"What, we're not friends?" It really depended how you classified 'friends', Sherlock supposed. Partners-in-crime would probably be a more accurate description. Quite literally, as well. He sighed again.
"Get to the point, Neal." He really didn't have time for this, not when he was so close to solving the Sewlis case. He knew it was the cousin, the nervous way he'd looked around the crime scene, Sherlock was sure, if he could just get another look at the scene...
"Alright, you got me. I have a problem." Neal actually sounded serious (for once). Sherlock leaned forward.
"What have you gotten yourself into now?" He allowed a hint of genuine concern to sneak into his tone, because despite all his indifference, he actually did like Neal. Their pasts were too interconnected, their histories too entwined for him to be completely aloof.
"I got Peter in trouble," Neal said quietly. Sherlock (surprisingly) had never bothered to delete the middle-aged, well-built man who called himself Neal's handler. They'd met once, briefly when Sherlock had flown to New York for a case (John had been in New Zealand, at the time). "I took the U-boat treasure, Sherlock."
"And you never bothered to tell me this before?" Should he feel betrayed? Probably not. It's not like he didn't already know, anyway.
"I figured you would already know."
"I do," Sherlock confirmed. "I also know that you're lying, and it was your friend who took it." He didn't reference 'Mr. Haversham' by name, they both knew who he was referring to. "Oh, and you're an idiot."
Neal laughed, sounding shaky in comparison to his previous confidence. "I really screwed up, Sherlock." In hindsight, Sherlock wondered how he hadn't noticed the uncharacteristic behaviour, the forced jubilance. He must have been really absorbed in the Sewlis case to have missed the signs of Neal's distress.
"Neal," Sherlock said slowly. "Get a hold of yourself." He gripped the phone a little more tightly. "What happened?"
There was a rustle as Neal composed himself, adjusted his position. Sherlock heard the scrape of a wooden chair on the floor. He rearranged his mental image of Neal: slumped over his kitchen table, clutching a bottle of beer (reserved only for emergencies), papers littering the surface of the table.
"Keller kidnapped Elizabeth."
"Burke's wife?" Sherlock remembered her as well. She'd insisted on him staying for dinner, but he'd had a plane to catch. She'd surprised him with her tenacity, her legitimate interest in meeting a friend of Neal's. And Neal had been exceptionally fond of her.
"Yeah." Neal swallowed.
"He wants the treasure."
"Yeah."
"Are you going to give it to him?"
"What other choice to I have?" Nick was beginning to sound a bit manic. "But Mozzie took it and ran, and I've been trying to get a hold of him all night but I can't reach him and I've tried every single possible avenue of communication we've got but he's not answering any of his phones and no one in New York knows where he is and I just-" He cut off himself abruptly. "I just needed to talk to someone. But I understand that you've probably got a pressing case or something and I should get back to-"
"Neal." This time, it was Sherlock who cut him off. "Shut up." He had to admit, he was more than a little worried. Neal was never this panicked, not when they were inches from being arrested, not when Adler took all the money and vanished, not even when Kate had disappeared and the FBI was closing in. "Crying won't do her any good, and you need to be thinking with a clear head."
Neal sounded a little indignant. "I wasn't crying."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course you weren't. Now, tell me again. What do you have to do?" This was a case. He could deal with a case. He didn't know how comfort people, but solving cases was in his area of expertise.
Neal took a breath (and a sip of beer, but who was counting?). "I need to track down Mozzie. He left yesterday afternoon. He's got the treasure in its entirety, and he's planning to take it and retire to a remote island. I've tried his phones, but he either isn't answering them, or he's disposed of them all."
"All 17 of them?" Sherlock rose an eyebrow. "I doubt it."
"Nearer 30 now," Neal corrected. "But I agree. He's probably out of range. He could already be on the island."
"Unlikely," Sherlock dismissed. "I don't think he's going to leave that quickly. Especially without you." He inclined his head. "He cares about you more than you think."
"I don't know that else to do, though." Neal said in frustration. "I've asked around. No one's seen neither hide nor hair of him since he left."
"What about that pigeon of his?" Sherlock asked. "Estelle or something or other? You said that he was really attached to her."
Neal went silent for a moment. "Sherlock, you're a genius." Sherlock could practically feel him grinning. "That could actually work." Sherlock heard another scrape as his chair was pushed back. "I have to go." There was a pause. "I'll talk to you later. Hey, we should have a Skype dinner! I'll even invite Mozzie! And the Burkes, once we get Elizabeth back. And you could get John! I still haven't met John. Can I meet John?"
"Go find your carrier pigeon, Nea-" He froze. The birdhouse. Could it be?
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing," Sherlock said distractedly, running through possible scenarios. Of course! How had he missed it? "Bye Neal."
"You've had a breakthrough, haven't you?" Neal sounded amused. "Alright, see you Sherlock." There was a 'click' as Neal hung up. Sherlock put his phone down, mind racing. He hurried out of his room, grabbing his coat as he went. John gave him an odd look.
"Sherlock, what's going o-" Sherlock interrupted him.
"Get your coat. I've had a breakthrough." He broke out in a grin. "We need to pay the Sewlis' a visit. I need to see their birdhouse." He strides out of the room, John calling out from behind him.
"Wait, Sherlock, what's going on? Who was that on the phone? What birdhouse? I think there's a..."
Later, after Lestrade had dragged a sullen Thomas Sewlis from his home in cuffs, and Sherlock and John had gone to Scotland Yard to make their statements, and the two of them had had dinner (Angelo's again, but the owner had long since learned that the two of them were definitely not a couple, courtesy of John), Sherlock received a text.
Elizabeth safe and at home with Peter. Keller arrested. Much to tell you. Call me tomorrow? ;)
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked slightly.
1pm, London time, he replies.