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The day had started out so normally. Barok had gone to his office as usual, done some paperwork, and engaged in his daily spar with Asogi. Afterwards, they had gone about their separate duties until luncheon, at which point Sholmes had decided to accost Barok on the way to a quick meal. Or rather, Sholmes had nearly run him over in an attempt to escape two very large and very angry men carrying blackjacks. Barok had quickly defeated the would-be assailants, then turned to check on the so-called detective.
“Are you hurt?” Barok asked, giving the man a onceover to check for injuries.
“No, no, I’m fine, thanks to you,” Sholmes panted, resting his hands on his knees. For some reason, his typical ensemble had been replaced by a waistcoat and a sandwich board. On the board were the neatly-painted words: ‘S.O.Y.M.B.H.H.N.R. Doppler’s Deeper-‘n’-Ever Pies! Only 3d!’ He straightened up and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of a hand. Barok wordlessly handed him a handkerchief. “Your timing was impeccable, I must say. A minute more and I fear I may have had to employ less honourable tactics to get away.”
Less honourable than using a convenient passer-by as a human shield? “Who are these men? What quarrel did they have with you?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, dear fellow.” Sholmes tugged at his collar in an effort to cool himself down. “Phew, but they were quite persistent! I fear I may have run forever had I not encountered you.”
Barok knelt and quickly rifled through the downed men’s jackets, taking care to move the blackjacks out of reach. He found only a poorly made knife in one man’s pocket and a wallet containing a pittance of small coins on the other man’s belt. Nothing to indicate a grudge or some other reason to attack a civilian, even a civilian as obnoxious as Sholmes. “Are you telling me that these men chased you down while armed, in broad daylight, on a public street in the middle of the day, for no reason whatsoever? I do not credit most would-be criminals with much intelligence, but even the lowliest gutter rat knows better than to attract attention like that.”
The detective shrugged. “I fear I cannot guess at the inner machinations of the average ruffian, my good man—well, I could, but that would be a waste of precious brain power that could be spent on more worthy pursuits.” He sighed, pocketing the used handkerchief and straightening the sandwich board on his shoulders. “I was simply standing there, advertising, when these lummoxes arrived. I presume that they have some quarrel with my current employer, but I couldn’t say what the nature of said quarrel is.”
“Your ‘current employer’? Does your employer have aught to do with that sign you are wearing?” Could it be part of a disguise? Why else would Sholmes advertise for the maker of the worst street food known to humankind? Barok did not partake in street food as a rule, but even he had heard of S.O.Y.M.B.H.H.N.R. Doppler’s offerings. It could only in the loosest sense be called food.
“Why, yes, so it does! You see, I’m incognito!” Sholmes confided in a conspiratorial whisper. He struck a pose. “This is in no way related to the fact that I spent all of this month’s rent money on repairs to the stairs of my humble abode after an experiment went awry!”
“…” Barok just stared at Sholmes, arms folded.
The silence stretched. Sholmes began to laugh nervously. “I, ah ha, see that you are rendered speechless by my brilliance! No one would ever expect the great Herlock Sholmes to accept a menial job from the infamous S.O.Y.M.B.H.H.N.R. Doppler, after all!”
Barok continued to stare.
“A-anyways, I must be going. Thank you once again for your assistance, Prosecutor van Zieks! I’ll make sure to give Iris your regards—” It was at that moment the two thugs regained their consciousness and lunged clumsily at Sholmes. The detective screeched in surprise and darted off down the street. Before Barok could react, Sholmes’ pursuers took off after him.
Cursing, Barok followed suit. The resulting chase took them on a merry little tour of the area around the Old Bailey, only ending when an enraged grandmother beat the thugs unconscious with an umbrella. Annoyed by the waste of his precious time, Barok hailed a cab back to the Prosecutor’s Office, leaving Sholmes and his sandwich board behind.
&&&
The next time Barok encountered Sholmes was at a crime scene. The crime in question appeared to be a cut-and-dry, bog-standard case of premeditated murder: a jealous woman had allegedly knifed her sister in retaliation for inheriting some treasured family heirloom. He could honestly care less, except for the fact that something seemed…off, somehow. The family members were being far too cooperative. They had readily allowed the police into their home to investigate the scene of the murder and submitted to questioning with nary a complaint. That would normally be a good thing, but in Barok’s experience, nobody was ever that happy to see the coppers at their door unless there was some ulterior motive.
He cast his gaze around the room, his eyes lingering on the displaced rug on which the outline of the body had been placed. Apparently, the victim had died in this room. There were signs of a struggle everywhere; torn curtains, items scattered all over the ground, overturned furniture. The victim had had defensive wounds on her arms and upper body, but they weren’t severe enough to indicate this level of struggle. The autopsy report had yet to be completed, but preliminary findings showed only relatively shallow cuts on the victim’s arms. If there had been a fight of this magnitude, why would the victim not show signs of bruising or broken bones?
It was entirely possible that the victim had not, in fact, perished in this particular room. The fact that the body had been found atop a rug suggested that it had been moved after the murder had taken place. He glanced at the window—and the errant detective currently clambering through it.
“What are you doing?” Barok demanded, crossing the room in long strides to grab Sholmes by the coat collar. “This is a crime scene, detective. You are trespassing.”
“A fact that I am well aware of, my good man!” Sholmes wriggled in Barok’s grasp like an eel. “I came to offer my assistance—”
“Unnecessary,” Barok bit out, frog-marching the other man through the house to the puzzlement of the police officers they passed.
“Really? Are you quite sure?” Sholmes stumbled along, propelled by Barok’s vice grip. He waved at a few officers as they walked. “Because I sense that you are having some difficulties determining the site of the murder. My powers of deduction could help you find it with ease, my dear prosecutor.”
“I haven’t the time for your games, Sholmes.” They had arrived at the door. Barok pushed Sholmes toward it. “Get out. If I catch you here again, I will have an officer arrest you.”
Sholmes waved his arms to regain his balance. “My word, such animosity! Well, fine then! See if I tell you anything about the blood splatters under the settee over there!” He turned his nose up sharply, like a petulant child.
“What.” Barok stomped over to said settee and peered under it. Just visible under it was a rug, where tiny splatters of a dark substance could just barely be seen, just as Sholmes had said. He growled, motioning for a nearby police officer. How could he have missed this? “You, search the room. I want every inch of this place examined, now.”
“Y-yes, My Lord!” The officer saluted frantically before hopping to it.
Sholmes grinned smugly, eyebrows raised as if to say ‘See? I told you so!’ Barok glowered, crossing his arms.
“Changed your mind about my services, have you?” The irritating detective wiggled his eyebrows, leaning in. “Because I can see a multitude of other clues in this room alone. There are likely many more throughout the house.”
The prosecutor gritted his teeth. “Your assistance is appreciated but is not required.”
“Oh, come now. You really wish to waste the rest of your day dealing with this paltry case? I should think you would want to wrap this situation up as soon as may be.” Sholmes flicked the brim of his cap. “Since I am already here, why not make use of me?”
Barok wondered if Asogi would defend him if he were ever accused of Sholmes’ murder. Likely not—if anything, Asogi would be thrilled at the chance to prosecute him again. At the very least, he’d probably find the whole situation hilarious. “Not. Necessary.”
Sholmes ignored him. “I believe that it’s time once again for Herlock Sholmes’ (patent-pending) Dance of Deduction—!”
“No.” Before he could complete his sentence, Barok shoved him out the door and slammed it in his face. He ignored the indignant squawks outside and grabbed another officer by the shoulder. He pointed at the door. “Under no circumstances is Herlock Sholmes allowed anywhere near the crime scene. I do not care what he is doing, you and your men will arrest him on sight and I will deal with it. Is that understood?”
The startled officer gulped and nodded frantically. Barok released him. He felt a headache growing behind his eyes.
He sighed. It was going to be a long day.
&&&
Their next meeting lasted all of a minute. Sometimes, Barok liked to walk rather than use a carriage. He liked to stretch his legs every now and then, especially after a day of working at his desk. Did that not give criminals and ne’er-do-wells more chances to kill him? Perhaps. Would he let that stop him? No. If he let fear of being attacked and/or assassinated govern his actions, he’d never get anything done. They could pry this from his cold, dead hands. He had little enough to look forward to as it was.
The evening sunset painted the streets gold. It had rained earlier, filling the air with the scent of petrichor. His boots splashed in the puddles, the sound lost in the general hubbub of the crowd. He paused on the bridge to admire the sunset reflected on the river.
“Psst! Lord van Zieks!” A familiar voice hissed from nearby. “Over here!”
Shoulders tightening at the sound, Barok turned. There, gilded in golden paint and posed in a ridiculous way, stood Herlock Sholmes. An upturned hat lay in front of him, in which a few coins rested.
The prosecutor immediately pivoted on his heel and strode away.
“Ah, wait! My Lord!”
Barok walked faster. There was a bottle of wine calling his name and he did not want to miss it.
&&&
“Fancy seeing you here, my dear fellow! Your countenance looks especially fearsome this day!”
“Sholmes, this is the prosecutor’s antechamber. Get back to the public gallery before I have the bailiffs remove you.”
“Your apprentice asked that I stand with you as your assistant today, since he’s otherwise occupied.”
“A likely story. What have you done with my apprentice?”
“Me? Nothing! Whyever would I do anything to Mr. Asogi?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, I’ll have you know that I had nothing to do with Mr. Asogi’s present predicament. I merely passed by him on the way to change his clothes.”
“…”
“The pink was rather fetching on him, I feel. Brings out his eyes.”
“Bailiff! Kindly escort Mr. Sholmes from the room!”
“Now, now, there’s no need for any of that! I’ll see myself out, excuse me—”
&&&
Barok returned to his office to see an irritated apprentice and a trussed-up detective. He looked at Asogi, who was standing at parade rest over Sholmes, then at the detective, who was tied and gagged six ways to Sunday.
He sat at his desk, making himself comfortable and ignoring Sholmes’ muffled noises. “As you were, Asogi. I’m sure you have work to be getting on with.”
The younger man raised an eyebrow. “What about Sholmes?”
“What about him?”
Asogi glanced down. “He was attempting to break into the office. I nearly ran him through before I realized just who was trying to pick the lock.”
Barok hummed. “That is a serious crime. I believe that the good detective should have some time to think about his actions. Quietly. Lest I decide to pursue legal action against an intruder and presumed thief.” He leaned over the side of his desk, cutting off Sholmes’ protests with a glower. Wide, pleading eyes met his. He sat back in his chair, raising his own brow at his apprentice. “Well? Have you aught to add?”
“Mmph mmm mm,” came the sad reply.
He wished that the desk was not in the way so he could kick Sholmes. “Not you.”
“Mmm…”
Asogi huffed in amusement, before bowing. “No, I understand completely. I’ll get back to my work.”
“Ah, one last thing.” Asogi paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder at Barok. “Should the good detective disrupt your concentration, feel free to utilize what methods you see fit to silence him.”
Asogi smirked, bowing again. “It shall be as you wish, my Lord. By the by, may I borrow a bottle of wine and a few hallowed chalices?”
“By all means. In fact, take a crate.”
“My thanks.”
Sholmes whimpered from his spot on the floor.
&&&
“Wot the ‘ell is that?!”
“I’unno, but I ain’t stickin’ ‘round to find out!”
The horrifying blue abomination guffawed and capered like a mummer on a stage. Multiple children were crying while their frantic parents desperately tried to shepherd them away. The remaining onlookers gawked and stared; the smarter ones had already fled the scene.
“I’m the Blue Badger Bartholomew! Uhuhuhuh!”
Off to the side, Barok massaged the bridge of his nose as the newly-formed Publicity Office for the Scotland Yard muttered amongst themselves.
“I don’t think that this is working very well…”
“No, really? I never would have guessed from the screaming children!”
“Now, there’s no need for that kind of tone, Mr. Baker.”
“At this rate, Scotland Yard will be run out of London for crimes against the people!”
“Perhaps we should have made the costume less…frightening.”
“Ooohhh dearie me, I’m going to be seeing this in my nightmares for the next little while, aren’t I.”
A little girl scrambled into the crowd and latched onto Barok’s legs. The poor mite was sobbing her eyes out.
“Don’ let ‘im get me, please, I’m a good girl!” She cried.
“No one will hurt you, I promise.” He bent down as best he could and gently patted her on the head. She clung on harder. The whispering picked up in the peanut gallery around him.
“Look at that! The lass just ran straight to Lord van Zieks!”
“Not even a moment of hesitation…”
“I think that we must admit defeat, gents. When a small child finds a terrifying giant of a man more comforting than the creature we specifically designed to cater to the public, well. There’s no coming back from that, really.”
“I concur. Let’s just pay Sholmes and head back.”
“No one is ever to speak of this again, understand?”
Barok felt another headache coming on. Why did he keep getting mixed up in these things?
&&&
“Oi, van Zieks! O’er ‘ere!”
Barok paused in the middle of berating a terrified young police officer for losing a piece of evidence. Gina Lestrade stomped over, a thunderous scowl upon her face. Toby galloped up as well, little tongue hanging out in a doggy smile. Barok would never admit it, even under pain of death, but he found Toby utterly adorable. Unfortunately, he was on the job so he couldn’t give Toby a pet. It wouldn’t do for the officers of Scotland Yard to see the dreaded Prosecutor van Zieks go all soft and melty over a puppy.
He folded his arms, looking down his nose at Lestrade. “That’s Prosecutor van Zieks to you, Lestrade.”
“An’ it’s Inspector Lestrade to you,” she retorted. Toby sniffed his shoes. He noticed the police officer skittering away out of the corner of his eye.
“I will address you as such when you have earned that title. What do you want.” Barok did not like Lestrade. To be fair, he didn’t much like anyone, but Lestrade held a special place of annoyance in his heart. He had not forgotten the fact that she was a former pickpocket and gutter rat, nor had he forgotten that her perjurious testimony in McGilded’s trial led to his exoneration. Her rough manner of speech and blatant lack of respect for anyone not named Gregson also rubbed him the wrong way.
“Gotta thing for ya from Sholmes. Dunno what it is, but ‘e said to give to ya righ’ away.” Reaching into her bag, she retrieved a grubby package. It was crumpled almost beyond recognition and was covered with grease stains. Noting his gaze, she grinned. “Sorry ‘bout the grease. Fish’n’chips’re messy.”
Taking the package delicately, Barok unwrapped it to find a statuette in the shape of The Thinker, the very piece of evidence he had been scolding the officer for losing. It had been wrapped in a pink handkerchief with a note, which read: ‘You dropped this.’ The note had not been signed; rather, someone had doodled a little pipe in place of a signature.
Crumpling the note in his fist, Barok tossed the stained wrapping paper into a nearby rubbish bin. “I suppose I owe you my thanks.”
Lestrade wrinkled her nose at him. “You don’ owe me nuffin’. I was just passin’ it along for Sholmes, tha’s all. He coulda left it wi’ me, but he was dead set on you getting’ it.”
Barok grunted in acknowledgement, examining the statuette. There, on the plinth—a rust-coloured stain. It was most likely blood, but he would have to have the statuette tested to make sure.
“I’unno what he sees in you. Ev’rytime I see ‘im nowadays, it’s always ‘Prosecutor van Zieks’ this, and ‘Prosecutor van Zieks’ that!” Lestrade crossed her arms, rolling her eyes extravagantly. “’f I didn’ know better, I’d say ‘e ‘ad a crush on ya or somethin’.”
Barok leveled an icy glare at the young woman. “What, pray tell, are you implying, Lestrade?”
She jerked her head to the side, chin jutting out stubbornly. “I ain’t implyin’ nuffin’! I jus’ don’ know why Sholmes wants ta be friends wi’ ya so bad. Yer a righ’ wet bastard, y’are.”
“What.”
“Oh shi—I mean, uh, um, none ‘o’ your beeswax!” The apprentice inspector clapped a hand over her mouth guiltily.
“Lestrade—”
She pulled out Gregson’s old pocket watch. “Oh, will ya look at the time! Gotta get goin’, see ya, van Zieks!” With that, she hurriedly grabbed Toby and hightailed it. Barok was left standing there, dog slobber on his boots and statuette in hand, wondering if his ears were working properly.
Lestrade must have heard incorrectly. Herlock Sholmes wanted to befriend him, Barok van Zieks, formerly known as the Reaper of the Old Bailey, currently known as the Executioner of the Prosecutor’s Office? Barok didn’t have friends. At best, he had moderately tolerable relationships with people that he didn’t hate, as he did with Asogi. People had feared and hated him for most of his life. That hadn’t changed in recent times, especially now that he had assumed responsibility for reforming the Prosecutor’s Office. There had been an increase in dismissals and demotions these past months, which hadn’t exactly earned him much good will.
Then again, there had been a suspicious spike in Sholmes sightings these past months as well. Before, Barok only ran into Sholmes once in a blue moon, typically when their paths crossed on a case. Now it seemed like he couldn’t even turn around without bumping into the detective.
Hm. This required further investigation, but first…
“Where is Officer Jenkins? I did not give him leave to return to his duties!”
&&&
Unfortunately, Barok was unable to immediately hunt Sholmes down and shake some answers out of the man. Soon after the case involving the Thinker statuette ended, Barok received word that classified information was being leaked from the Prosecutor’s Office. The new Lord Chief Justice tasked him with finding the source of the information leaks and putting a stop to it by any means possible. They did not want a repeat of the Graydon-McGilded debacle.
The next few weeks were dedicated to clamping down on the leaks and hunting down those responsible. Regrettably, the leaked information was such that it could have come from anyone working for the Prosecutor’s Office. Court clerks, judicial assistants, bailiffs, prosecutors—all were under suspicion. Even with the major restructuring of the Prosecutor’s Office in the past months, there were dozens of potential suspects and no one was talking.
Barok could admit to himself that he was perhaps not the best person for this job. He had a (well-deserved and rightfully earned) dreaded reputation amongst the people of the judiciary. People tended to skitter out of his way like mice from a cat and avoid him like the plague whenever they could. Nobody would be caught dead talking to him unless it couldn’t be helped. That made it very difficult to get answers of any sorts, let alone hints of a possible conspiracy.
Asogi wasn’t much help in that regard either. He had managed to cultivate a reputation almost as fearsome as Barok’s in a very short time by virtue of his fierce dedication to justice and refusal to be bribed. He was more amicable than Barok and had made some acquaintances amongst the prosecutors and assistants of the Office, but he was also notably a foreigner. Many were notably wary of a Japanese man working with the man formerly known as the Reaper after the situation with Jigoku and Stronghart. It was unlikely that anyone involved in the information leaks would approach Asogi.
Barok turned over what clues he had managed to gather while he rode back to his residence. The rattling of the carriage and the clop of the horses’ hooves provided background noise to the relentless grind of his mental gears. The conspiracy likely involved multiple people from different departments within the judiciary. It was very doubtful that information leaks of this scale could be perpetrated by a single individual, even a highly-ranked one. There were also indications that the leaked information was being shared through international channels to, surprise surprise, Japan. He suspected that this conspiracy was linked to Jigoku somehow, but he had no proof as yet. The former Japanese Minster of Foreign Affairs had been moldering away in a prison cell while the British and Japanese governments fought over who got to try and punish him. Jigoku was not allowed visitors and he was heavily guarded at all times. The man himself was unlikely to be involved, but that did not mean that his co-conspirators back in Japan were innocent.
Suddenly, the coach lurched to a halt, nearly throwing Barok into the neighbouring bench. He pushed himself up, adjusting his hat on his head. He rapped on the ceiling of the coach with his cane. “Driver! What is the meaning of this?”
A sharp voice barked a command from the front of the coach. There was a pause, then a deafening BANG and a dull thud. The horses whinnied, shying away from something that Barok could not see. He peered through the windows of the coach to see a group of men surrounding the coach, each pulling out a gun and training it at the body of the coach. Quickly, he ducked out of sight.
So, it appeared that another miscreant had decided to take a stab at killing the Reaper. Whoever was responsible had chosen their strategy well: a coach was not an ideal place for a fight. In the time it took him to exit the coach, the thugs would open fire from multiple angles. Seeing as there was nowhere to hide in the body of the carriage, Barok would almost certainly be shot. This was no omnibus: there was no convenient skylight to climb through (not that he could have opened it from inside the carriage anyways). If the police were going to come, assuming that anyone had notified an officer, it would likely be too late by the time they arrived.
Well, if this was to be his final stand, then Barok was going to go out swinging. He crouched, ready to spring into action—when shouts suddenly rang out into the air. From the little he could see out the window, there appeared to be a sudden green fog obscuring the area around the coach.
Barok quickly opened the carriage door and cut down the first man he saw. The thug went down with a gurgle, drawing the attention of other two thugs nearby. It was nearly impossible to see past his own nose, but he was able to quickly dispatch the would-be attackers nonetheless.
A groan from behind him drew his attention. He spun around, sword ready, just in time to see a heavyset man slump to the ground. Sholmes shook out his hand with a grimace before he noticed Barok staring. He waved cheerily.
“Lovely day isn’t it, my dear fellow? It seems that spring has finally graced us with her presence.” Without looking, Sholmes plunged an arm into the green murk to retrieve another thug. He gave the man a series of quick, brutal punches—one, two, three!—then let the now unconscious thug drop. “It seems that you have quite the infestation of ruffians menacing you though. What say we take care of this quickly before they remember that they have guns?”
Barok snorted. “By all means. Let us dispose of this trash.” So saying, he prowled into the green smoke, bloodstained sword at the ready. The last he saw of Sholmes before he disappeared from view was a wide, wide grin.
Afterwards, after the green smoke had dissipated and they had bound the groaning assailants to one another, Barok approached Sholmes. The detective had seated himself on the side of the street, idly smoking his pipe and looking into the middle distance. He glanced up as Barok walked up to him.
“That was a rather diverting little distraction, wouldn’t you say? I haven’t had a scrap like this in much too long.” Sholmes produced a roll of bandages from his satchel and began winding it around the torn knuckles of one hand. “Who were those men, pray? Some would-be assassins here to take out the former Reaper?”
“Most likely. I cannot say for certain until Scotland Yard interrogates them, however.” Hesitating for a moment, Barok carefully lowered himself next to Sholmes. He braced his elbows on his knees and exhaled.
“You, good sir, look a right mess, as Gina would say.” Sholmes offered him his own handkerchief, laundered and freed of sweat. Barok accepted it, dabbing at his split lip. His shoulder twinged, as did his left side.
They sat in quiet for a while, each tending to his own wounds. Passers-by gave them a wide berth, eyeing them and their tied-up charges with trepidation. Barok simply watched them pass, tired and wishing for a cool bottle from his cellar to hold to his throbbing cheekbone.
Eventually, shouts and clattering footsteps signalled the arrival of Scotland Yard. With a glance at the approaching officers, Sholmes stood up, stretching his arms overhead with a groan. “It was good to see you, Lord van Zieks. The circumstances of our meeting could have been better, but all’s well that ends well, eh?” He replaced his hat on his head, flicking the brim with a finger. “One could say that you have the devil’s own luck, my good fellow.”
“Why are you here, Sholmes.” Barok stood as well, dusting himself off. He fixed the detective with an exhausted glare.
The detective pulled out a pink card from his satchel and handed it to him with a flourish. “I was on my way to deliver an invitation for tea, from one Miss Iris. She was quite insistent that I see it delivered to your hands personally.”
Barok’s breath caught. Iris. His niece…wanted to have tea with him? He accepted the card, studying the round, neat writing on it.
“I hope to see you there. Iris has been most eager to meet you.” An officer hovered just out of his field of vision, clearly wanting to approach but unwilling to do so. Barok internally sighed. He hated assassination attempts. The aftermath always took much longer to sort out than the incident itself.
“I will be there.” Barok tucked the card away, close to his heart. It wouldn’t do to lose it by accident.
“Excellent! I will inform Iris that you have accepted her invitation. For now, however, I must bid you adieu.” Sholmes dramatically bowed. “’Til next we meet, Lord van Zieks.” He then proceeded to skip off down the street, humming. Various police officers made attempts to stop him, only to be met with nothing but air as Sholmes deftly avoided them.
“Sholmes!”
“Ye-es?” The detective drew out the word, bouncing in place.
Barok paused, before saying simply, “Thank you. For everything.”
Sholmes blinked in surprise for a moment before a sunny smile lit up his face. He said, “Think nothing of it. After all, what are friends for?”, before trotting off into the sunset.