Chapter Text
While slicing strawberries, Sherlock glanced down the counter and saw Clyde approaching the food. No doubt the tortoise was tantalized by the aroma of his favorite fruit. “No,” Sherlock said, wiping his hands on his apron. “I know it’s tempting, but you’ll have to stay away.”
Clyde looked back at Sherlock blankly, then inched forward again, half a centimeter closer to the tray of strawberries and rare imported Swedish moose cheese.
“Watson!” Sherlock called. He waited ten seconds, but received no response.
“I’m afraid Joan is busy showering, brother.”
Sherlock gave an audible sniff of disgust. “Don’t you realize this is a surprise party? Or is that concept too dense for even your ridiculously thick brain to comprehend?”
“Snipe at me as much as you like,” Mycroft said in his deep, refined voice. “But whatever you need Joan for, I am sure I can do just as well as she can.”
Sherlock eyeballed Clyde again. “In that case, Mycroft, you could remove this chordate from my workspace before he contaminates the hors d’oeuvres.”
Mycroft looked at Clyde, who was himself looking between the two Holmes brothers and down at the floor. He almost could have been gauging the distance to jump, if the need should arise.
“And you can’t do it yourself because…?”
“I’m preparing appetizers,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the fruit and cheese.
“I could be doing that myself,” Mycroft said. “And you could be keeping track of your own pet.”
Sherlock shook his head. “The party is a surprise for you. To have you preparing your own surprise-party meal rather defeats the purpose, hmm?”
“It’s most amusing,” Mycroft said with a soft laugh, “the way you seem to have convinced yourself that I am capable of being well and truly surprised.”
“Need I remind you about Le Milieu?”
“You need not,” Mycroft grumbled. “But I see your point. Fine. I will take the tortoise off your hands for a short while.” He plucked Clyde off the counter and gently laid him on the floor.
Clyde continued to look longingly at the counter until the doorbell rang, making him turn his head as much as he could in the direction of the sound.
“Odd,” Sherlock said, checking the wall clock. “The guests shouldn’t be arriving for another two hours.”
“Then who could it be, I wonder?” asked Mycroft. He stepped carefully over Clyde’s shell and walked towards the front door.
“Let me answer that,” Sherlock said, cutting his brother off. “You’re not even supposed to be here anyway. Just leave as soon as I’ve taken care of this business, and when you return at seven o’clock sharp, at least try to look surprised, yes?”
He opened the front door. Sure enough, as he suspected, the caller was not a party guest, but a young brunette stranger dressed all in black. In her hands, the woman clutched an old-fashioned camera, the kind that still used film.
“Can I help you?” Sherlock asked. If his voice sounded snotty and supercilious, he wasn’t sorry. He certainly was not in the mood to be bothered by a journalist, which was what this girl appeared to be.
“I sure as hell hope so,” said the girl. “Sherlock Holmes, right?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Although I don’t remember ever having advertised my services.” He turned around to where Mycroft stood at the foot of the stairs, and glowered at him as if to say, “Did you call this girl here?”
The girl peered around Sherlock’s back. Upon seeing Mycroft, she gasped and nearly dropped the camera. “Oh! Is that you, Dr. Connors?”
Mycroft smiled politely. “Excuse me?” he asked, clasping his hands.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the girl, whose face began to flush in her beflusterment. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Happens all the time, my dear,” said Mycroft, ever the friendly host. “I’m Mycroft Holmes. And you are?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t his brother ever just keep his grubby paws to himself?
“Felicia Hardy, Oscorp,” said the girl.
So I was wrong about her, Sherlock thought as Felicia slid past him. Well, there’s a first time for everything. As Felicia shook Mycroft’s hand, the camera nestled in the crook of her arm, Sherlock frowned down at the now-empty doorstep. “No, by all means, do come in, Miss Hardy.” He closed the door, then rounded on Felicia. “All right. State your business, but make it brief. I have an expensive cheese spoiling in the kitchen.”
Mycroft took a look at the business card Felicia had just presented him. “Oscorp? Didn’t you people recently have that incident at the power plant?”
“That, and a few other fiascos,” Felicia said, laughing shyly. “And the board of directors thinks they have the perfect scapegoat so they can escape blame for their own wrongdoings.”
Sherlock blinked and raised his eyebrows. “A whistleblower. Always interesting. And who would your corporate scapegoat be?”
Felicia handed Sherlock the camera. “The answer is in here.”
Sherlock scanned the camera, every surface. Finally, a label on the back of the detachable flashbulb caught his eye. Another layer of mystery for the list. He turned to Felicia, his interest finally piqued to the point where he knew he would not want to pass this challenge up.
“Who is Peter Parker,” he asked, “and how did you come to be in possession of his property?”