Chapter Text
See, the luck that I've had
can make a good man
turn bad
He knew the moment that he stepped in the front door that there was someone in the flat. A client would have had Mrs. Hudson buzzing around, either tsking at the detective’s tardiness in attending his business or busing herself with making tea to help the distraught that so often showed up at his door. So, not a business call.
It was not a new feeling for Sherlock Holmes to find that his home had been invaded. It was hardly the first time, and dare he say, it was likely that it wouldn’t be the last. He took the minute and a half traveling up the sixteen steps to try to figure out as much as he could from the person that was currently in his space: there wasn’t much.
This could be an interesting day afterall.
The creak on the third step made any idea of a stealth approach useless, so Sherlock let himself into 221B with all the normality in the world, noting that there wasn’t anyone behind the door waiting to jump on him, at least. All further thoughts of a sudden need for exertion stopped when his eyes landed on the gentleman sitting in his chair. Lounging, rather. Looking every inch like someone who belonged there. It made the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand on end, and he did not like the feeling in the slightest.
The man didn’t say anything upon Sherlock’s entrance, his eyes hidden in shadows as he was backlit with the light streaming in from the window behind him. However, there was still plenty to deduce. Octogenarian, a slight amount of arthritis in the knees and hands, a significant injury on his right side, hip most likely, perhaps the spine. Some sort of athletic background, runner perhaps, no, fencing; a bit of boxing in his much younger years (accounts for the arthritis). Lived well, though lines around the face and eyes spoke of decades of late nights and high stress job, and a lifelong smoking habit (off and on, most likely). Government official? Not pompous enough. Civil servant, then. Scotland Yard? Retired, obviously. Not familiar face, but might have not been in London. Regular legwork until more or less physically impossible..ah. Of course.
Sherlock sat himself across from the man, satisfied with his initial conclusions. He smiled politely. “So, what can I do for you Detective Inspector?”
The surprise that usually came with the delivery of a deduction wasn’t present, but neither was the usual annoyance. Instead, there was a slight smirk and the hint of an eyeroll.
“Consulting Detective,” the man finally spoke, correcting him in voice a bit raspy but deeply familiar and Sherlock felt all the air leave from his lungs as the man across from him leaned forward, his bright blue eyes catching the room’s light.
“The only one in the world.”
TBC...