Work Text:
Sholmes & Co. Detective Agency
221B Baker Street
London NW1 6XE
"The game is afoot!"
Combining keen insight with punctual service, the Sholmes & Co. Detective Agency has contributed to ensuring the safety of London's citizens for 15 years and counting. No matter how cold your case is, you'll find yourself in warm company as ... [read more]
User Reviews
1/5 *
Do NOT be fooled by his professional-looking website. This guy is a bozo and a clown. I think his kid writes his blog.
1/5 *
Answered the door reeking of alcohol. But not like booze, like...disinfectant?
1/5 *
Took one look at me and went on a long shpiel about how I'd recently returned from a trip to Afghanistan. I've never been to Afghanistan in my life.
Edit: okay I don't know how to change rankings but I was borrowing my coworker's scarf and apparently she bought it there? May have to give this guy a shot.
5/5 *****
Hired him to find something I'd lost and he immediately said "It's in your garage, third drawer". Fucking magician.
1/5 *
Was outlining the details of my embezzlement suspicions and he just...fell asleep? In the middle of it? When I woke him up he didn't even apologize, just said "do you have anything more interesting". Seriously???
When I was leaving his kid (who's his secretary or something? Seriously what the hell) said he hadn't slept for two days. As if that makes it better, lmao
3/5 ***
Okay he solved it eventually but he was really sporadic with updates throughout. I think he has, like, some Nokia brick phone from the stone age.
1/5 *
could be the best detective in the world for all i know. never got the chance to find out because as i was going up to the listed address the left wall exploded and i got the fuck out of there
he waved to me from a nearby tree though so i guess he's polite at least
5/5 *****
When my daughter went missing, the police didn't think there was enough to go on. Every agency I could find said the same thing until I came here. He was relentless. Two days later I got back home from work and he was standing in my lawn, helping her climb a tree.
Mr. Sholmes returned my life to me and I can't thank him enough.
In a flat that looked more like a warzone, fighting a losing battle against an overwhelming tide of clutter, a young girl sat at her custom-modified laptop. Her eyes skimmed across the screen, compiling stats at a glance and shifting them into an oft-updated spreadsheet. "So, across 184 reviews, that brings the average up to..." Her fingers blurred across the keyboard, a soft purple glow playing across her fingertips. "1.4 out of 5."
"Excellent!" Came the reply from the direction of the kitchen table, still strewn with this morning's dinner. Sholmes grinned, putting the finishing touches on a house of cards structured into the approximate shape of the Eiffel Tower. "We're up .2 from last time."
She pursed her lips, peering over at him. The place was its customary mess of eclectic organization; old souvenirs and forgotten side-projects, the remnants of impromptu bouts of gadgeteering. Bouts that had gotten a lot more common lately, and a lot more prone to abandonment. Tilting her head slightly to the side, she drew a deep breath. "You know, daddy..." Iris paused for a moment, wondering whether to let the moment slip by, but...it needed to be said, and most likely, she needed to be the one to say it. "...the agency was a lot better reviewed back when you were running it alongside Mickey."
His fingers jolted. The Eiffel Tower crumbled in his hands, sending half an hour of focused work with it. He grumbled, gathering the cards back into a pile and shuffling them haphazardly enough that several scattered across the floor. "What notions can enter a young girl's mind!" He got to his feet in a motion that was more an uncoiling than a standing, toppling forward with the casual slouch of a jack-in-the-box. "Mikotoba's a teacher, Iris, a teacher! Classrooms, textbooks, that sort of thing." He drew himself upwards, laying a triumphant coup de grace. "Whatever gave you the impression that he ever worked with me?"
...He did have a tendency to play dumb with subjects he didn't want to talk about, but he was, perhaps, playing a bit too hard. She sighed. "It was never a secret, daddy. And besides, you told me yesterday, remember?"
Late last night, one AM. She'd paced through the kitchen to grab a glass of water and discovered him passed out on the couch. After a moment to withdraw to his bedroom, she'd placed a blanket over him ― he'd mumbled absentminded thanks, opened his sharp eyes, and spoke the words she was currently reciting. "'The agency hasn't been the same since Mikotoba left'."
"..." His lanky shoulders slumped, and he let out a deep sigh. "I raised you too observant, I suppose."
"Then...can't you patch things up?" She looked down as her fingers drummed against the back of her laptop, festooned with various kinds of stickers. Her eyes raised again, glinting and curious. "You do still love him, don't you?"
Sholmes convulsed like he'd been shot straight through with an electric current. Moments later he assembled his composure; back curved in a confident arch, voice booming with resonant peaks, he proclaimed the facts. "Unwaveringly, my girl! Unyieldingly! With every cell of my body and drop of my blood!"
The statement hung in the air for a few moments, imprinting itself on the silence, before he spoke up again in substantially more maudlin tones. "...that's why it's so important that I wait for him. And..." He leaned his foot on the back of his chair, shifting it back and forth with a precarious wobble. "Iris, do you remember the last time I waited for something?"
She nodded. "Of course, daddy. You microwaved a frozen pizza for half a minute. You chipped a tooth, remember?"
"Indeed! And I've been waiting for Mikotoba for six months! Which means he's as important to me as―" Silence descended for a moment, interrupted by a quick snap of his fingers. He paced towards her at a casual saunter, leaving the chair to thump back upright. "―Iris, run the math, would you?"
She'd already tapped it out. He leaned over her shoulder, squinting at her screen with an ingrained suspicion before straightening his back. "Which means he's as important to me as half a million and something-or-other frozen pizzas! Even more than that, I'd venture to say." He rearranged the playing cards in his hands, shuffling them with a restless, listless energy. His motions were practiced and efficient, but speedier than usual ― and in the few moments before he turned his back, Iris spotted a twitching edge to his fingers.
The swift-flickering flurry of shuffling cardboard filled the air. She tilted her head, and his shoulders drooped. "Six months...it's been that long, has it?"
"Daddy..." She started, furrowing her brow. He didn't have these episodes often, but when they came around...she clenched her fists, mustering up a sunny warmth. "Come on! You've got cases to focus on, haven't you? I'm sure Mickey's going to come around eventually!"
His back straightened, whirling around. Each hint of the bout of gloom had been banished from his face, replaced with its customary radiance. "A dazzling insight, my young lady!" He'd said, and they'd grinned, each with the steadfast aim of cheering up the other, each sensing the telltale tugs of melancholy at their heart.
In a substantially more well-organized flat halfway across town, another daughter and her father were well into the process of their morning routine, currently at the step designated as breakfast. Fiddling aimlessly with her hairclips Susato scrolled through her phone, checking one of several news sites organized by order of credibility in a handful of open tabs ― across the table Professor Mikotoba, who found some comfort in familiar habits, was sticking to the newspaper.
After a few moments of listlessly chewing fried eggs on toast, she cleared her throat. "It seems there's been a raid on a crime syndicate downtown..." Susato paused for a second. He sensed he could feel a tension waver in the air before she dipped back in to break it. "I wonder if Mr. Sholmes handled the case."
He shuffled the pages of his paper. As he spoke his voice wasn't quite cold, but exceedingly clinical. "Possibly. It seems like it'd fall under his sphere of interest."
She drew another breath, pausing for a moment, scrutinizing her father's face. When he remained neutral, she prompted him again. "Do you ever...regret it, father? Parting ways from the agency?"
His nod was immediate, but his full response took a moment of thought. "I do, yes. Those days were certainly eventful, but...continuing with my research was always the goal I had in mind, and I find my current line of work very satisfying." A warm smile. Diplomatic, perhaps obviously so.
"...I wasn't thinking about the cases as much as Mr. Sholmes, I'm afraid." Behind the paper, he furrowed his brow. He'd been 'Herlock' to her for a long while ― when they'd drifted, she'd changed her terms of address. Trying to avoid bringing back memories, perhaps. Not for the first time, she was having to compensate for his shortcomings.
"Yes, well..." He shifted slightly in his seat, letting a sip of tea delay his response. "I miss him as well, of course."
She drummed the side of her cheek. They'd talked about it here and there, but this time her mind seemed to be lingering longer than usual. "I'm sure he...well, not 'needs' you quite as such, but...I'm sure he misses you too, father."
"...It's not that simple, I'm afraid." She stifled an exhale, and he couldn't fault her ― that had been a very common refrain over the past half-year. He pressed on, though. "When you've known people for a long time, sometimes things happen. Things that are hard to get past, no matter how much you love them."
That particular word had been deployed far too concretely to be speaking in hypotheticals. Susato lunged at it, unabashed. "So you do still love him, father?"
'Yes' was hard to say, but 'no' was impossible. He sank into thought for a while before shaking his head. "...We should start getting ready for school." Susato gave a tense sigh but nodded, got to her feet and, mercifully, let the subject drop.
Minutes later they got in the car together, a welcome but non-guaranteed segment of everyday life. Sometimes she took the bus, sometimes she walked, sometimes he gave her a ride, dropping her off at the Law & Judicial department before heading off to his own. As they drove off the sight of the streets washed over him, now intimately familiar, sending him back in tides of reminiscence. Back to when they'd originally come here, fifteen years ago. His second time, and his daughter's first.
He'd been struck by it the moment he left the airport, dragging a suitcase with one hand and pressing a sleeping Susato to his chest with the other. The city had been so much like he remembered back on his original trip, back with Genshin and Jigoku, the years of exchange-student life packed to the brim with late-night reading, passionate debates, questionable decisions. All full of promise and ambition ― it was easy to dismiss now but they'd all been so young, so impossibly young. It felt like lifetimes ago. It was, of course.
The English branch of Yumei University had been thriving for some decades by that point, the product of an enterprising set of educators riding the tide of strengthened Anglo-Japanese relations. Originally designated mostly for expats and those with a specific interest in the language, it had developed into a generally-embraced bastion of institutional learning in its own right. Time and shifting circumstance had seen it through triumph and failure alike, but the program brought in a second wave of popularity ― offering Japanese hopefuls opportunities to take their studies to England, and vice-versa.
They'd signed up for it together. He remembered it as being Jigoku's idea, Jigoku insisted it was Genshin's, Genshin claimed it was his; the roots of the matter were tangled, but either way, they'd borne fruit.
They'd thrived and explored and acclimatized, all three of them. His friends had opted to stay after their study periods ended, entrenched in successful bouts of networking and establishing new careers. He'd returned to their homeland ― he had his love waiting for him, after all, exchanging long phone calls every night of their separation. His studies progressed, and as he budded into the framework of his future career their life developed into a gentle routine, interrupted only by the joyous arrival of their daughter. He was staying at home, studying remotely. She was en route to promotion, coming home stressed but satisfied. They'd lived happily, for a while.
Years down the line, with Susato growing, a phone call shook him out of an overlong bout of sifting through medical journals. When he picked it up, the universe buckled.
The grief was not overwhelming, not at first. When you gradually develop a plan together over the course of several years and intend for it to last for the rest of your life, a day is not enough to understand. With age you have time and with disease you have warning, but with accidents there's nothing, just a set of condolences and a severed thread and the slow onset of a new reality. He'd wake up and feel like he'd forgotten something, then turn to her side of her bed and remember. He hadn't crumbled entirely until the day he drove back from a shopping trip and wondered what he'd make Ayame when she got home from work. Awareness sank into him, or he sank into awareness; either way, he was drowning.
His research was on hold. Bodies were too much. Genshin and Jigoku had been there, cutting breaks from their own intricate lives to schedule flights and visit. Susato had stayed in her room for the most part, but Jigoku had managed to coax her out and impossibly, somehow, to make her laugh―Mikotoba had watched in awe as two of the sharpest minds he knew knelt on the floor and play-acted as dragons and demons, skewered by a princess' keen blade. After she was sound asleep they'd retreated to the living room, settling into solemnity. Drink and talk and comfort, remorse and reminiscence, two warm hands on shaking shoulders.
It had been during one of those nights ― he felt like it was their decision, but it may have been his, or from all of them, forged in unison ― that he'd resolved they would leave for England.
He'd torn through the mourning like he'd abandoned it in Japan, burying himself in work, doing his best for his daughter. Puzzled glances and confusion cut into his heart in those days. She understood that there were changes, and the permanence of them. He couldn't explain it to her better than he could to himself, but there was an important difference. He was the one who was supposed to have answers. The days passed by, and for what it was worth, he tried to be there for her.
From insurance they had enough savings to live passably on, taking a while to be just the two of them. A period of adjustment. Susato started school, equipped with the English he'd diligently practiced with her and supplemented from dog-eared children's books. She made friends, good friends, far quicker than he'd feared. Rei had been a godsend back in those days, hitting it off with the unabashed enthusiasm chilren can have; she expounded on nature facts and obscure bits of science trivia, Susato told ghost stories and mystery tales that may have been slightly too macabre for her age, making sure to do all the voices. His daughter began smiling again, and the grip around his heart loosened.
He turned back to his career, bit by bit. After a good word put in by Genshin he managed to strike an agreement with Scotland Yard, providing analysis and consultation while conducting research based on the samples they provided. Tracking unusual symptoms and inexplicable-seeming side effects back to their sources, cataloging the results with meticulous care.
Fate, or coincidence, had taken its course. It was on one of those bouts of late-night research that he'd met him.
It was impossible not to hear his voice bouncing off the walls, loud and cheery even in the frigid confines of the morgue, and curiosity had led him to follow its echoing trail. The consulting detective who'd insisted endlessly that the cause of death had to be a horde of feral raccoons, sent manic by the meat the victim was carrying; and who, when Mikotoba had calmly and methodically corrected him at every turn, had grinned at him like he'd just passed a test.
A lot happened, after that initial moment. He didn't feel particularly inclined towards going into the details now, even as they settled with a gentle warmth around his heart. It was incredible how quick you got used to something, as soon as you decided you needed it. A new career. A new partner. Mixed feelings. Guilt, some. Happiness, mostly.
Then seven years ago Iris, the child of happenstance, entered their lives, and the agency had taken a back seat. Sholmes scraped by with Mikotoba helping out financially, as the man, for all his talents, often let numbers run up without heed nor concern. He returned to his former career ― at the suggestion of an old friend, and the glowing recommendation of another, he made his way towards a professorial position at the alma mater, finding his place in the English branch of Yumei.
It had taken them longer than it perhaps should have for them to move in together, because it had taken Mikotoba longer than it perhaps should have to sort out his feelings; and Sholmes, the lightning-bolt man, the sparking cloud of instinct, the man whose patience alternated between week-long stints of intense hyperfocus and snapping half-minute bursts, had waited for him. That had always stuck with him, even as the years had gone by.
When he broached the news to Susato it was with some trepidation, expecting her to be understanding but ready for distress, apprehensive at another instance of uprooting the life she knew. She, on the other hand, had been nothing but ecstatic. She'd figured it out sooner than he had, he supposed. Sharpness that did her credit, understanding that made him proud, and independence that put him to shame.
The years had passed, much the same as they had before. And they'd lived happily, for a while.
It was a day at work like any other, another step down the familiar path of routine. Midway through his run-through of potential causes for abrasions in the esaphogeal tract his phone had gone off, prompting a ripple of suppressed laughter to echo through the hall. He sighed, picking it up and dropping to a hushed whisper. "Sholmes, I'm in the middle of a lecture."
The voice on the other end was hasty and breathless. "Well, I'll be quick about it! I've been shot."
Time froze. Around him, the universe buckled and curved, zeroing in on a relentless impossibility. "...What?"
"I'm afraid so. " A few moments of silence, a few low breaths, a word delivered almost as an afterthought: "Apologies."
"I―why―" He turned around, dropping his voice to a mumble. The pressure of a hundred eyes were on him, unnoticed through the chilling numbness of his skin. "C-call an ambulance, Sholmes, or the police―"
"No, no―the sirens, my good fellow. The ring I've been hunting? Their base is nearby. I've made too much progress to alert them now." His voice was intimately familiar yet strangely distorted, pressed down from its usual peaks of ebullience. It had only cropped up a handful of times in the many years they'd known each other, but it was unmistakable: Sholmes was serious. "It has to be you, Mikotoba."
A murmured address, and a sharp nod. "I-I see. Alright. Well, I―put pressure on it, and―and stay awake." He hung up, thoughts slow and sluggish, oozing like tar. He stared up blankly, looking out at the vast hall of perplexed, staring students. "I..." No cover story sprung to mind. No explanation was good enough.
"...I have to go." He'd said and darted through the door at double-time, leaving nothing behind but puzzled glances and muttered confusion.
He'd cut across town as fast as he could manage, counting seconds at the back of his head, cursing the tides of traffic. Without the time nor patience for stealthier means of entry his shoulder rammed hard through the doors of his destination, leading him to stumble into the vast confines of an abandoned warehouse. Dusty grey on all sides, and a short, sporadic trail of blood.
He absorbed the sight as if it was split in two, one vision for each of his eyes, one reality for each half of his brain. A bleeding man. Sholmes. A man that could die if he did nothing. Sholmes. It refused to reconcile the disparate parts of the scene, and as he stepped closer, the world tore into jagged scraps of paper.
His mind left him entirely, and training set in. Analyzing the situation, counting small blessings; no major arteries severed, entrance wound small, surgery nevertheless direly required. His face was blank, his voice was level, a cold constant bridging sundered sensations. "You're―you're going to be alright, Sholmes. Just...let me help you."
From years of watching Sholmes from the side-seat Mikotoba had gotten a crash course in reckless driving, and though a frenzy at the back of his head urged him to deploy it, focus overtook him. He wasn't in his right mind. He had a duty to both of them. His fingers pressed tight over the wheel.
They reached the hospital, where calmer, steadier hands than his own took over and left him waiting. Words had flowed on either side of him, dull rumblings and that barely pierced his ears. From familiarity, he inferred that they'd told him there'd likely be no news until morning. That it was best if he went home. He stayed.
He'd never truly appreciated the impact of waiting before, the freezing grip that kept your lungs from breathing too deep. The setting was familiar, but his role had shifted. The closest he'd gotten was Susato's birth, and he'd been there by Ayame's side back then, getting to hold her hand, getting to see her eyes. His knowledge of the field didn't make it easier, far from it; his mind was flooded with the endless surplus of mistakes he knew they'd made, unfavorable circumstances and exacerbating conditions. Comparing the risk of complication, the rate of survival, against an exhausting range of research and experience.
The distance between the operating room and the waiting room was only a few floors, but too vast. There was something abyssal and threatening about letting him out of his sight. The phrase 'the last time I saw him' kept rebounding through his mind. He felt torn and hollow, not present in this moment, not walking through this room at all; displaced through time, like he was already rehearsing for a potential future. What he would say at the funeral. What he would say to Iris.
In the feverish breakage of time he couldn't tell he'd fallen asleep until he was woken up, a woman pushing a gentle hand against his shoulder. As he straightened himself out in the chair, his bleary eyes looking into hers, the terror hadn't yet had time to catch up, leaving him to hear her words clearly: He was out of surgery, and he was awake, and would he like to see him.
An instant shifted and his arms were wrapped around his comrade-in-arms, wanting, desperately, to hug him tighter than he could.
Sholmes chuckled and winced and shifted, voice groggy and stumbling over the influence of morphine. "Careful, Yujin―stitches, stitches..."
"I-I know. I know." The tears were fresh in his throat, boiling in bursts he couldn't choke down. He reeled back and saw him, weary and pale, the stark energy of the man boiled down to one fragile object. His gaze darted around his body, absorbing details in swift flicking glances, pushing him to only one possible conclusion. He closed his eyes. "Herlock, we can't―we can't keep doing this."
"I quite agree, my good man." His words came out tired, but confident―the grip around Mikotoba's lungs shifted to coil and writhe in his ribs, and though he could breathe easier, the portentous chill remained. "I promise I shan't find myself in a hospital again."
Mikotoba shook his head in adamant, rapid rustling. "No, I mean―I mean the agency."
Sholmes tilted his neck to one side, then the other. That enigma-tackling mind of his was clearly trying to assemble the pieces, brow furrowing as he came up short. "...Could you explain?"
He drew a deep breath, focusing his gaze. "We can't keep doing this. You can't keep doing this. We've both got daughters. We can't leave them behind." He leaned over, trying to force his voice down into the calm he knew he needed to muster. "Do you understand? Look me in the eye, and tell me you understand."
He glanced away. Mikotoba felt his fist reflexively tighten. "Yujin, I understand―"
"No, Herlock, in the eye. Promise me." His eyes were wide and desperate, and Sholmes turned back, meeting his gaze. Any customary trace of glibness vanished from his face, and as he spoke, his tones exuded a quiet warmth.
"I understand. A great deal could have happened. Thanks to your swift interference it didn't, as, of course, I knew it wouldn't ― I had utmost faith in your abilities, just as I had utmost faith in mine to not perish to a miserable metal slug." His gentle smile played at him, and his voice pitched low into a gentle murmur. "I'm sorry it took me some time, but...I'm here now, Yujin. It'll be alright."
One frozen second, teetering on the cusp of a vital decision. The quiet fury that writhed through him was being smothered by paralytic fear, seizing at every inch of his muscles, rendering them stiff and lifeless ― which were, in turn, liberated by the overwhelming surge of relief, warm balm over his aching chest. He was right. As close as they'd come, Sholmes had pulled through. Like he always had. Like he always would, surely.
So he nodded and smiled, letting his faith in the great detective paint over the gash in his heart. The smile Sholmes shot back at him was grateful before his eyes slid softly shut, lapsing into the steady rhythms of quiet breathing.
An instant shifted and Mikotoba found himself in the lobby, pacing in circles with long, distracted steps. He checked his phone off-handedly, seeing the time, extremely overdue in noticing the notifications.
[Are you working late?]
[?]
[Me and Iris ordered Thai food ― assuming you're working a case, but make sure not to overdo it, and please let us know sooner next time!]
Of course. As before, once again. He had the firm certainty he'd failed her, but there wasn't time for wallowing now. He raised his shaking fingers.
[I'm sorry. Herlock's in the hospital. I only just got to see him. His condition is stable, though.]
[It's alright]
[Everything's going to be alright.]
At the time, he'd believed it.
It became increasingly clear as everything returned to normalcy that he had underestimated his own wounds. Sholmes was managing just fine, sent home with a set of care instructions after a rough week spent persistently getting on the nerves of doctors and nurses alike, but Mikotoba's scars ripped and bled, torn open anew by a host of circumstances.
Panicking in the mornings when he woke up and Sholmes wasn't in bed, passed out somewhere on the sofa or sprawled in a chair. Taking the underground rather than driving, unable to get into his car without feeling his nerves tense. Day and night, in welcome-home hugs and quick, glancing touches, his fingers would run over the patch of scar tissue at his side. The man of fire and lightning had become flesh and blood, all too suddenly.
It had all happened again, and despite thinking the distance of years had strengthened him, he crumbled in much the same way as before. Retreating into his study and the office he buried himself anew in research and work. Sholmes, at the fervent and furious insistence of Iris and Susato both, was keeping his investigative career to the realm of consulting for the moment. It should've been a relief, but seeing him around constantly, the man had just become a living, breathing reminder. For the second time in his life Mikotoba felt a sense of all too much, all at once.
He hadn't intended to move out, strange as that may sound. He just needed space. Space away, for a while.
He visited, every so often. When it became clear he wasn't returning any time soon, Susato had gone with him. There was the vaguely upheld pretense between them that he was keeping an eye on her, but he knew as well as she did that it was the other way around.
Over time, his visits to Baker Street had slowed, then stopped ― Susato still returned, both on her own behalf and to act as a scouting party for her father. She sprinkled in details in gentle prompting, and he responded with soft, ever-noncommittal interest.
It was incredible how quick you got used to something, as long as you decided you needed it. Adjusting to his companionship. Adjusting to his presence. Adjusting to his absence.
The days had shifted in a steady stream of gentle routine and now here they were, six months later.
Susato got out of the car with a wave and he nodded, throwing her a warm smile. Reversing out again, he made his way towards the Medical Science department. Judging by her gentle interrogation of this morning it was weighing on her as well, but...he couldn't say if he was ready to confront the subject. The thought of Sholmes undoubtedly made the world feel warmer, but the prospect of his abrupt absence tore through it like a thunderspike.
He entered the building, making his way towards his lecture hall. Memories lay heavy on his shoulders, faith for his old partner lay dormant in his chest. The wounds were stitched, his nerves were healing, but nothing was going to change just yet.
But...soon, perhaps. With the passage of time.