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The glistering roof membrane enclosed in gold mosaic, coven at the sides and decorated all over with curios and outlines in navy and ivory tesserae. The wall beautification harmonies well with the real buttery gold foliage ceiling, being creased with earnest marble and fashioned into blind colonnades with semi-elliptical curves latent on willowy octagonal pilasters, their unmolded resources and the impost being enveloped thru gold-plated pulverized mosaic. This is what I miss from London. Instead, I get this blasé excuse for a rub dub.
Mycroft drowns his homesickness in another glass of brandy on the rocks. Out of the corner of his eye, as he leaves to his seat, he notices a few cops he recognizes having worked with Sherlock and Joan. He makes a move to join them but stops short when he catches a bit of their conversation.
“Both of ‘em are out of the city?”
“Oh, yeah. We got them on a bogus case while we set things up here.”
“Holmes is going down in this one.”
Mycroft sets his glass onto a nearby table and races out the door to warn his brother. Unfortunately, Sherlock and Joan are not within cell phone range. As it is, Mycroft decides this will be an excellent time to show his brother he’s on the good side.
But how to dae so? I could listen in on conversations at the precinct to uncover where they are. Or I could go to their residence and find where they are. If this smarts, I could always stop the policemen directly. I should hae just listened to my da. Aside from assuming they’re all overweight, he is correct in assessing they’re conniving and all the so-called codswallop of driving us out of our minds.
Mycroft heads to Sherlock and Joan’s apartment, picking the lock with ease. The internal alarm is connected to what appears to be a makeshift pipe bomb counting down from three minutes. Thinking to himself, Mycroft types in ‘4-7-3-6-3-6’ but it is incorrect, and a minute is knocked off the bomb. He looks at the cords and realizes how much smarter his brother is at things like this. With a little over a minute left, he types in ‘9-2-8-7-6-6’. Luckily, these are in the correct numerical order, as the alarm subsides. He closes the door and instantly gets to work on Joan’s more organized desk area. After two hours of searching, Mycroft learns that Joan’s biological dad is a schizophrenic homeless man, and Zade Smith is one of her favorite authors. From what he can tell, Sherlock and Joan are investigating Chautauqua County, an Amish province in Western New York.
No chance of getting ahold of ‘em in time. I might as well go straight to the source. Perhaps if I visit the precinct to hae a chat with that Detective Bell, I can snoop and find out just who has it out for my brub. Of course, I want no harm to come to Joan, either.
Mycroft jumps to his feet and resets the alarm as he leaves the Brownstone. Though he rushes down to the specific police station, he slows as he approaches the front steps. He walks in like he belongs there, as he has previously been a member of MI6. He maneuvers past people he deems unimportant, expertly dodging the mail cart and a few officers on various coffee runs. In a narrowly empty conference room, Mycroft finally comes across the detective he had been searching for.
“Detective Bell. There ye are.”
Marcus cautiously takes Mycroft’s hand to shake before gesturing to an empty chair for him to sit. Just as warily, Mycroft does so. Both men seem to be silently evaluating one another. Mycroft eventually opens his mouth to speak his analytics, but he closes it upon seeing an officer decrepitly hand Bell and unmarked envelope. Marcus flips it open, and Mycroft reads the contents quickly before Marcus shuts it and nods to the messenger.
Brownstone at seven? That can’t mean my blud ’s brownstone, could it? Are these squinty cops going to make it butcher's hook fancy an accident? Is Joan in on it? If she has any notion of getting my blud whacked, she’s going to… well, I truly hope she’s not after Sherlock. Bollocks! It’s already a quarter past six. Maybe I can pass ‘em by.
Mycroft shifts his dress jacket and nods to Marcus before heading off. He notices Bell and a few other officers staring at him slightly as he briskly walks down the level and steps into the elevator. He rapidly presses the ‘door close’ button, but two detectives he doesn’t recognize file in with the Captain. A bout of claustrophobia kicks in as the Brit sweats under his collar. Down one floor. One investigator gets out while two others take her place. Down two more, and one of the officers from the bar files in.
I can imagine it now. They won’t let me orf at the ground floor. We’ll go down to the parking garage. Silencers on, and out goes brub. They must suspect me, how I’m wandering around, not saying a dickey bird, sans Sherlock or Joan. The ground floor is next. They’ll block my escape. I won’t be able to run.
The elevator dings at ground floor, and several detectives, plus Tommy Gregson, exit. Mycroft quickly escapes the lift and keeps his back to the former inhabitants he’s shared through a few floors. He crab-walks to the entrance, checking out with a scribble and making a mad dash from the junction. He hails a cab and remains anxious throughout the ride. His palms are sweaty, and he wishes he could swing by his dwellings to peruse his arsenal of weaponry. Instead, he bites his bottom lip and blinks out the windows in case any officer may be following in unmarked cars. Ultimately, he arrives at his brother’s studio building. He thrusts an utmost amount of money toward his driver, asking to keep the change before darting out the door. He skirts across the street but stops short at the figure standing on the doorstep, holding a key.
“Joan.” He speaks breathlessly.
“Mycroft.” She tilts her head. “Did you run here?”
He blinks. “Uh, took a growler. Hae, have yeh gobbed with the bobbies today?”
She pockets her key and turns to face him with a small smile. “Yes. Everything is all set up inside, and Sherlock will be here in about ten minutes.”
“You’re in on it?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her face falls. “Is something wrong?”
“Something wrong?” He chokes out. “Yeh ’re after my brub, and yeh ’re asking if something is wrong? Heavens, bint! What if I had gone and destroyed sleeping rough shelters along the East End? Would sumfink be wrong?”
Joan blinks. “Sleeping shelters?”
“Ah, Joan. It appears we’ve been sent on a wild goose chase.” Sherlock walks up to join the others on his stoop. “Mycroft, what brings you here?”
“Ye need to come with me, Sherlock. Ye aren’t safe here.”
“What are you talking about?” Sherlock questions, adjusting his jacket.
“They're going to kill ye in there. All the razzers. They've laid out a trap inside. The lot of them want to get rid of ye.”
Joan shakes her head. “I think you’ve got some wires crossed along the line. Sherlock, come in and I’ll explain everything.” Mycroft opens his mouth again, but Joan beats him to it. “You too, Mycroft. Seriously. Just come inside.”
Joan unlocks the door and ushers them inside as Marcus and the Captain come in from behind. The alarm doesn’t sound, and the lights flick on. Various cops, nurse, and associates spring from their hiding places to express surprise. The door closes, and Gregson claps a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“You’ve closed five hundred cases during your time with us. Here’s our way of saying ‘thank you.’”
Sherlock smiles in gratitude and the visitors mingle. He thanks Joan as well and turns toward his brother.
“Out to get me, eh?”
Mycroft’s skin blushes. “Brother’s intuition must be on the fritz.”
Sherlock claps his hands. “Eh, no harm done. What do you say we go find the desserts and nab them before the others?”