The Case of the Burglarious Bibliophile, Part 2
A Sherlock - Highlander crossover by mackiedockie and adabsolutely divided into 4 parts.
Part 1
“An audacious man,” John commented. “He didn’t act like a thief.”
“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed then dashed to the curator’s desk and began sorting through the accumulated clutter of catalogs and museum memos, while the curator threw a minor conniption at the detective’s invasion of her personal office space. Within moments he was checking the inside of a book wrapped with a dust cover that claimed it was a text on Carbon-14 Dating. Sherlock removed the dust cover with a flourish to reveal the missing tome, Immortal Swords, perfuming the air with the scent of old paper. The consulting detective flashed a genuine smile at John then spared a bland glance at the curator as he headed toward the door with the book.
John nodded. “In plain sight.”
“How on earth did that get there!” The curator looked puzzled and outraged at the same time, intercepting them and laying a firm hand on the book before they could escape. “Be careful! This is over two hundred years old!”
“Don’t be silly, it was practically printed yesterday. It doesn’t belong amongst the Elgins,” Sherlock complained. It was left to John to patiently deal with Mycroft’s permissions.
The curator insisted on ID and a signature on the paperwork for the book, which John rapidly supplied, but he deflected her attempts to extract more information on the sudden flurry of interest and activity surrounding what on the surface appeared a mundane book. She frowned at his left handed smear and attempted a last protest (then sighed in resignation) as John went dashing off after Sherlock.
He tucked his cane close to his body, no longer feeling the need of its support. He had utilized the cane frequently since the pool debacle. Perhaps he was developing psychosomatic arthritis, which responded well to a good jolt of adrenaline. If he remained Sherlock’s companion for much longer, he’d have enough data on the effects of adrenaline for an article in the Lancet.
Before leaving the museum they detoured to the gift shop where they purchased two book bags plus a London guide book of the approximate size as Immortal Swords.
Upon emerging from the museum Sherlock charged north up Gower Street, while John walked a short distance south on Bloomsbury, both with a book bag slung over a shoulder. John recognized the distinctive features of the ‘Sorbonne student’ as the lean man ghosted by in the direction Sherlock had gone. He watched them disappear into the crowd of museum goers, wishing to follow when suddenly he sensed he was being watched. He turned to find a quite uncovert American guitar player standing directly behind him on the busy pavement. There was his shot of adrenaline. He felt better already.
“Dr. Watson! I thought I recognized you! Can I buy you a beer?”
“Mr. Dawson isn’t it? How about a cup of tea instead?”
“Call me Joe. That’d be fine as long as mine is coffee.”
“Somehow, you don’t strike me as a coffee snob?” John asked as he stepped toward a storefront out of the flow of the mass of international tourists making their way toward the museum.
“Hell no, plain black will do just fine.” Joe waited, apparently quite happy to let him take the lead. Still, John noticed how Joe’s eyes openly lingered on the book bag weighing against his hip before meeting his gaze.
John studied the American equally closely, maintaining eye contact while evaluating him, tuning out the hubbub around them on the pavement. The furtive nature of this meeting coupled with the worry he felt for Sherlock irritated John to the point of casting aside this cat and mouse game and asking plainly, “I don’t suppose we should go after them? Keep them from causing an injury?”
A moment of surprise showed on Dawson’s face, then he nodded at John. “Well you might keep up, doctor, but I’m afraid my running days are over. You worried about - ?” He let the question trail for John to supply the name.
“Sherlock Holmes. He’s a consulting detective. Not really worried. Dr. Adams seemed like a peaceful sort at the aid station in Afghanistan.” Though John couldn’t help wondering about the sword Sherlock claimed Adams was packing.
“Mostly peaceful,” Joe confirmed. “But of course, looks can be deceiving.”
John nodded. “Yes they can.”
“ ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ Familiar name...Holmes.” Joe looked thoughtful.
“Really? Oh, speaking of coffee, there’s a little place nearby on Russel Street.” So John led that direction, matching Joe’s pace as they walked a short distance west to a small cafe where they were greeted by a middle aged Portuguese couple and their daughter. The cafe had a wonderful aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and spicy brewed teas. They ordered their caffeine at the counter and settled into a booth. John laid his book bag and his cane on the seat close to hand.
After a polite pause to enjoy their respective stimulants, Joe put down his cup, glanced down at Watson’s cane, and locked gazes with his erstwhile host. “Looks like your tour got a little sportier after we left.”
John grimaced at Joe’s bluntness and thought, Americans!
Joe grinned, reading his expression, if not his thoughts. “I’ve learned over the years, being proper is overrated.” Joe rapped his knuckles against one of his prosthetic legs, sighed, then nodded toward John’s cane. “Bad?”
John glanced away, then dragged his gaze back to Joe’s cane hanging on the back of his chair. It had seen considerably more wear than his own. “Not bad. Not by your standards,” he said honestly. “Phantom pain.”
Joe lost his grin. “Yeah. Bad. It sucks, doesn’t it?”
John felt his face warming. “It is...inconvenient.”
“Brits,” Joe said, needling him gently, before properly returning to his coffee.
‘Well,” John began, paused for a sip, contemplating his approach. “Why does Dr. Adams want the book?” This earned John a sharp, weighing gaze.
Apparently, he passed muster, because Joe sighed and leaned back, to respond with refreshing directness. “From what I understand, it’s not that he wants the book, particularly. It’s that he wants it to be safe, and he doesn’t want certain people to read it. He should have just destroyed it years ago when he had the chance. There could be...consequences...if it’s contents were revealed.”
John picked at a piece of the puzzle. “He knew that it was hidden in the British Museum?” He added with a smirk, “Years before he was born? Under that vile Yank tea?”
“Hey, I wouldn’t insult your Marmite. At least, not out loud,” Joe pointed out, delaying. “But that’s Ben for you. Some families keep some pretty strange secrets. And he has a thing about old books. Hates to see them destroyed. Even books that could be inconvenient.”
“What on earth could be in a book from 1801 that would be inconvenient to Dr. Adams today? Or anyone else, for that matter?”
“Don’t know. But I’ve read the provenance papers, and his claim looks good,” Joe replied, patting his breast pocket. “Maybe one of his ancestors was indiscreet. Why don’t we take a look at it and see?” His eyes gleamed with honest curiosity and more than a touch of mischief.
John smiled, rolling an idea around in his head. “Why not?” But his hand halted on the way to his bag. “But not here in the open. Somewhere secure. Back at my flat?” He could steal a march on Sherlock, bringing in both book and book thief’s accomplice.
Joe paused, apparently considering the suggestion. “That’s trusting of you. You’re not afraid that I might rob you?”
John gave him a dangerous sort of grin. “I’m really not as mild mannered or peace loving as I appear. Any more than I suspect you are. However, if you were to do anything untoward, I believe that Sherlock and Mycroft would express their objections. And I do own a service revolver.”
“Mycroft...Holmes?” Joe sat back, his coffee cup rattling in it’s saucer. He quickly scanned the other customers, and the nearest parked cars for curious eyes.
John was surprised to see the older veteran’s face blanch when he caught sight of a black Bentley. “Are you all right?”
“No. We need to get out of here. Now.”
“But I haven’t finished my tea,” John said, curious at Dawson’s extreme reaction.
Joe patted a familiar hard shape in the side pocket of his coat. “Unless you want to compare calibers, I suggest we pay the bill and depart.”
*****
Sherlock was confident that John could deal with the musician, even though he was armed. Had he warned John about the revolver? Surely John must have observed. The man was American, after all, it was practically de rigueur.
His plan to lead the other man, the ‘Sorbonne student,’ away from John seemed to have worked. He continued his dash toward Regent’s Park, while evaluating the risk of confronting his sword bearing pursuer. The likelihood of physical danger versus the quantity and quality of information to be obtained from allowing the man to intercept him, did not seem so great at this juncture of the chase despite the fact that Sherlock was weaponless.
Once inside the boundary of the park, his stalker increased the distance between them along Avenue Gardens, and by the time Sherlock passed St. John’s Lodge he seemed to have out distanced the man. This would not do. Despite the man’s outward appearance as a library dwelling scholar, Sherlock had observed that he moved like a long distance runner and should have had no problem following. Sherlock retraced his steps until he found the man sitting on a bench. Sherlock approached, frowning at his opponent’s failure to pursue. The man sprawled on the bench, as if without a care, not even breathing hard. Sherlock stopped at the opposite edge of the park bench, and tilted his head in study of the man.
They appeared to be about the same age and he was quite as slender as Sherlock, but with a sharper face the like of which might appear in profile on an old Roman coin. And then he smiled, his face a confusing mesh of innocence and danger. Sherlock frowned.
“You stopped chasing me.”
“I don’t do the park at dusk.”
“Phobia?”
His failed stalker replied with a certain unnecessary jolliness, “You might say that.”
“I didn’t state it as fact, I asked. It was a question.”
“You’re very precise.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, but without any expression of pleasure.
“Disappointed? That’s a question.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, I got tired. Can’t chase you all night.”
“A lie.”
“Very good.” The man smiled. “What you’d really like is for me to dash off so you could chase me. Adrenaline junkie.”
Sherlock suppressed a smile, and finally sat down at the opposite end of the bench. Both of them looking south instead of at each other. “And I had such high hopes for this case. I should have never trusted Mycroft.”
“Mycroft? Holmes? I should say not,” Adam said sharply. “You should have kept the book instead of giving it to your companion, I might have chased you a bit longer, or faster. Dr. Watson and my good buddy Joe will have the whole adventure wrapped up before you get a peek at the book.”
Sherlock huffed. “You are not a very satisfactory opponent.”
“Sorry, kid. Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew?”
“No need,” Sherlock replied with the wave of a hand. “You deduced that I ran toward the park to lead you away from my friend with the real copy ofImmortal Swords. Furthermore, you realized I was unlikely to risk taking the real book of interest into the park where you, or a confederate, could have found the privacy to steal it from me. Actually, my main goal in leading you on a chase was finding a chance to talk with you.”
“Then you’ve won. We’re talking.”
Sherlock turned to watch the man’s face searching for tells, eye dilation, sweating, tics, and met the same evaluating gaze from his opponent. Maybe not so unsatisfying after all.
He gave the man his broadest, most dependably disturbing smile and reached out with his hand, “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”
“Aw, Mycroft’s younger, prettier brother!” The man took his hand: palm dry, grip firm, smile genuine, “Adam Pierson, vagabond.”
Sherlock continued to hold the hand, counting his pulse. “Not Benjamin Adams?” The name John had remembered.
“Not today.” Sherlock finally dropped the hand realizing the man wasn’t pulling away, but was staring in apparent fascination.
Then suddenly Adam broke their shared evaluation, looking around into the dusk for something he seemed to have heard. “I need to go now.” Adam stood and looked north, deeper into the park. “Maybe I’ll catch you later.”
Sherlock watched in the direction where Adam was staring. Suddenly, before Adam could move forward, they were both blocked from retreat by a man with a gun rushing in from the west. “Another American?” Sherlock complained.
“The gun is often diagnostic,” Adam glanced at the gunman doubtfully. “Reminds me of the last time I was in New York.”
“But the trainers are definitive,” Sherlock sniffed as he peered into the dimming light and revised his conclusion. “Isle of Man, not Manhattan.”
“If you say so,” Adam shrugged, allowing the point, but concentrated on another man walking more slowly toward him. “Hunting with a mortal, now? Not very sporting, Albert,” Adam said to the tall red haired man who emerged from the park shadows.
He also wore an overcoat. Sherlock observed the shape of a hidden sword.
“My man will take care of your man. You’ve grown a reputation for running with mortals yourself,” Albert replied. “I just wanted to make sure you face me this time.”
“Sherlock, tell Albert how long we have known each other.”
“We exchanged names approximately two minutes and 14 seconds ago.”
“A new friend for the good Doctor Adams to protect, then.”
“Actually, I’m really not that good,” Adam said as he captured Sherlock’s attention with a steady gaze. “Skillful perhaps, but goodness has nothing to do with it.” Sherlock realised that the look directed at him was full of meaning, and if it had been John sending him facial data, Sherlock would have stood a chance to interpret the meaning, but this man’s visage remained an interesting mystery.
The thug waved his gun forcing them deeper into the park. “Hurry along before we lose all the light,” Albert ordered.
“We’re going to disturb the lions,” Adam said.
Sherlock frowned, the zoo was located at the northeast corner of the park. He wondered what level of disturbance Adam and Albert planned.
The four of them reached a copse of trees located midway between the zoo and the Winfield House, and entered the shielding wood. There was a cottage-sized opening within the grove where they all stopped and stared at each other in momentary silence. The accomplice still held a gun on Sherlock when Adam and Albert pulled out their swords and set on one another with obvious ill intent.
“You’re going to duel! Fascinating.” Sherlock attempted to take a step toward the fighters.
“Stay still or you’ll be a bloody corpse!” Albert’s man demanded. He kept his gun steady and pointed at Sherlock. “Don’t interfere, and maybe nobody will kill you.”
“Definitely not American after all. Just a common imitation,” Sherlock stated, confirming the underlying Manx accent. “But the death threat? Overkill. Boring.”
******
Joe hustled them into the second cab in the rank, despite the glare they received from the first cabbie. “It’s getting dark, maybe we’ll lose them in the traffic.”
“So you are a covert operative? I thought Sherlock was over-extending his logic. CIA?”
“Christ, no. I’m a...bookrunner. A book scout,” Joe lied - but only a little bit. He had been a scout for Shakespeare and Company, back in the day, among a great many other more nefarious things. “Getting a line on this book - it’s like getting an autographed first edition of Ulysses. Which, believe me, is a glorious thing to behold.”
Joe paused, looking thoughtful for a moment before he continued, “I’ve heard a bit about Mycroft Holmes. He’s one of those formidable players hidden in the ranks that you’re better off not crossing paths with. If he took the notion, he could freeze my passport all over Europe with a wave of his hand.” If the rumors from the Watcher hierarchy were correct, Mycroft could do far worse than that, and had, to some careless Watchers who had troubled his webs. Joe had no intention of following their example.
John frowned. “Mycroft Holmes isn’t a name I’d expect to be bandied about in book groups. Sherlock said you were a bartender and a musician.”
“Hell, as old as I am, I’ve had a dozen jobs.” Joe relaxed a bit as the traffic closed around them. “Been fired from a dozen more,” he added, either lying or boasting, he wasn’t quite sure himself. “I guarantee that when I left the Marines, government work was the furthest thing from my mind. But you work for Mycroft? Talk about covert...SAS?”
John’s laugh was brief and mirthless. He shook his head. “No. Sherlock takes care of occasional commissions for him.”
“And you take care of occasional commissions for Sherlock?” Joe asked dryly, glancing at the bag containing the book, carefully ignoring the touch of red rising in the Doctor’s cheeks.
“He’s - my friend.”
Joe nodded. “I hear you.” He checked their backtrail again, squinting against the falling darkness and the bright headlights, but saw nothing but commuters and traffic cameras. “How far to your flat? It would be nice to settle this peaceably.”
John nodded, his jaw tight. “Not far to Baker Street. You can call your friend, and I’ll call mine,” he said, making no promises.
“You can show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,” Joe agreed, a merry glint in his eye.
*****
Sherlock, having taken advantage of the distraction provided by the two swordsmen, disabled the unfortunate thug, swinging the solid weight of the guidebook in it’s bag as a satisfactory flail and significantly heightening his vocal range. Plucking the gun, a dull but serviceable Glock, from the miscreant’s now slack fingers, he traded the book bag for his new toy. Engrossed by the violent blade work, he allowed Albert’s man to creep away into the growing darkness. He concentrated on the fight, acutely enthralled.
Belatedly, Sherlock berated himself for not having the foresight to bring a torch. It
seemed that the combatants would soon need to call a halt to their struggle of thrust, parry and riposte in which they so vigorously attempted to destroy each other, as the light surrendered to the evening. Vicious wounds were inflicted on both sides, yet as blood crazed men they continued to punish each other.
Finally, Adam stumbled, oddly and awkwardly, it seemed to Sherlock, and Albert raised his sword for a great blow. It appeared his new acquaintance would perish in this battle, and Sherlock seriously considered interceding with the weapon now in his possession. He calculated the likelihood of his inconsistent marksmanship having the desired effect. His findings were that a wall was a far more cooperative target than two struggling combatants, and judged that there were too many variables - including the second short sword that Adam suddenly pulled from behind his back and used to disable and disarm Albert. Adam stood tall and with a merciless backhand sundered the head from the body and so the life from Albert.
Swords! Sherlock saw Adam fall exhausted to his knees. He pointed at Sherlock, "Run! Get back!" He shouted. An electric tendril reached from the body toward Adam. Book! Sherlock quickly stepped back from the clearing where the swordsmen had been fighting. In his peripheral vision he caught actinic light and movement. Under the trees, Sherlock turned back to watch as lightning enveloped Adam, seeming to electrocute the man. A stream of electricity continued to flow from the corpse to Adam’s body in an eldritch reversal of the animation of the Frankenstein monster. Energy? From the dead? The book! Immortal Swords!
Adam jerked like a ragdoll, each bolt of light shaking him down. As the strikes diminished, Sherlock walked back into the circle of violence, needing to understand. This man, Adam, he should be dead. Electrocuted. He was not. Swaying on his hands and knees, producing sounds of despair, muttering, "Too old for this!" But very much alive. Blood on clothes. No welling wound.
"Keep your distance, Sherlock.”
"Why? Will you cut off my head too?" Sherlock began pacing, waving the gun recklessly.
"No, not that, but I might hurt you." Adam climbed to his feet, looking demolished, hardly threatening. "Stop that, Sherlock! That's no way to handle a gun."
Sherlock pointed the gun at Adam. "Is this better?"
"Much." Adam tucked his bloodied sword back in his coat and stumbled off along the path. "Let's get the hell out of here, before the American ambassador starts complaining about the light show in the park to your brother."
Sherlock nodded his agreement, quite in favor of leaving before the authorities arrived. He knew that the telling of this sort of tale, no matter how true, would likely result in his being held for psych evaluation. Again. That was a nuisance he would rather avoid tonight.
They stole away back the direction they'd come.
"Why did you say you would hurt me? Are you electrified now?"
"No. Sometimes after the - aftermath - there's a tendency to take a shiny thing, if it's there handy."
"Take a shiny thing?" Sherlock required the whole of eleven seconds to realize he was the shiny thing. "Oh. You’re aroused. By the combat. Physiological response. Oh. No. It’s not - I don't do that." His own raw physiologic reaction to the spectacle was slowing his reasoning time.
"No?" They were now a good hundred meters from the trees. “You don’t?” Adam stopped, catching his breath, head bent with hands on his thighs for a moment, then straightened and sighed. “Never?”
Sherlock studied him closely as if he were watching a magical creature dropped into modern London. Adam grinned, shook his head then grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat, pulling him close. "Then a chaste kiss." And Adam kissed him. It was not chaste, but it was not long either. Short, demanding, sensual. Then over. Adam released him and sighed deeply as if the kiss had taken all his energy, then he resumed walking out of the park. As if he’d been out for a mere...walk in the park.
In three, slightly accelerated heart beats Sherlock resumed walking too, following silently, brain sorting data.
When they reached the Outer Circle of the park, Adam said, "You haven't asked me a question in almost 30 seconds." His voice sounded tired.
"Processing."
"Smart man. You should do something about that adrenaline addiction though."
"You think you are immortal. You aren’t afraid of a gun. 'Too old' you said. You are old enough that you can slip from one job to another to another, having mastered many skills over an extended period of time, despite your young appearance. And you involuntarily lock in ritualized mortal combat with others that share your beliefs. That would explain several old myths. Not to mention a number of unsolved homicides involving headless cadavers through the centuries."
"Very good, Sherlock, very smart. Except that there is really no such thing as immortal. I’m just very hard to kill."
"Yes, obviously. What was that - ah - light show?”
“Some would say nirvana, I say hell on Earth.”
Sherlock nodded, perceiving that the man’s life could be hellishly long, lonely, boring, and punctuated with sudden unprovoked violence. “I am glad I’m not like you."
"More than smart, youngster, you’re a genius."
“Are you a genius too?”
“Nope. Just a very tired guy.”
*****
Joe hesitated when they came to the steps leading to John and Sherlock’s flat, eyeing the stairs like an old enemy. “Why don’t you go up and find us something stronger than tea, and I’ll be up in a flash,” he said with an encouraging grin.
“Sorry,” John said contritely.
“Hey, you didn’t build ‘em,” Joe shrugged.
“I do have beer, if that helps,” Allowing Joe his space, John climbed the steps a bit less briskly than he started.
“It never hurts, in my experience,” Joe allowed. “Guinness?”
“Continental. My flat mate has esoteric tastes.”
“I think I can manage to choke it down, just to be sociable,“ Joe said with teasing martyrdom.
“And I’ll see if Mrs. Hudson has any of that Marmite left,” John threatened good-naturedly in return.
As John disappeared up the stairs, Joe shamelessly exploited the opportunity, and quickly pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Methos. He quietly cursed like the Marine he’d once been when it went to voicemail. “221B Baker Street, one flight up, negotiating for the book.” He snapped the phone shut, and did his damnedest to double-time up the seventeen steps.
As he entered the flat, he caught John deactivating his own phone even while surveying the disordered flat with dismay. “Apparently your buddy is having as much fun as mine. No answer either?”
“Sherlock rarely answers when he’s on a case,” John admitted. “And your...buddy?”
“He’s more of a ‘don’t call me, and I won’t call you’ kind of correspondent. But he’ll hear the sound of a beer cracked open from three counties away.”
“Shall we experiment?” John offered. He carefully opened the refrigerator as if he were expecting something to jump out at him, then appeared relieved that it had not. He offered his guest a choice of either a dark Belgian or a light French lager, and seemed surprised when Joe took the dark.
“Adam says there are more vitamins,” Joe said with a smile.
“He’s a very strange doctor,” John remarked, as he moved around the room randomly moving objects in an apparent attempt to straighten up. “How is your shoulder?”
“Good as new,” Joe shrugged. “It was just a little bitty hole, nothing to write home about.” Passing by the couch, Joe settled at the kitchen table. Unbuttoning his coat, he reached into an inside pocket and drew out a fat envelope. “Provenance,” he said shortly. “Adam Pierson inherited the book legitimately from his paternal grandfather.”
John picked up his bag and settled across the table. “Adam Pierson? Not Benjamin Adams. A different name for each country? Papers can be forged. If they are legitimate, why steal the book in the first place?”
Joe leaned back, a pained expression on his face. “Good question. I think Adam wanted to avoid the fuss of a custody dispute. Though I’d like to point out, he didn’t actually steal anything.”
“And you? You’re carrying the papers. That argues a vested interest.”
Joe nodded slowly, not denying it. “He’s my friend,” he countered quietly. “Which reminds me... ,” he reached into his pocket and drew out his gun, slowing his movements when John tensed. Carefully, he popped the ammunition clip out, and slid it across the table. “You keep this until we’re done.” Pushing the empty gun well to the side, he added, “Friends don’t need extra persuasion to get together and talk. I never thanked you properly for the cover you laid down for our aid convoy. You saved a lot of people that day, not just my sorry hide.”
“I suspect you’d have done the same for me,” John said diffidently.
“I’d have been honored,” Joe said without embroidery.
John pulled out the the two-century-old tome from the book bag and placed it on the table where they could examine it together. “Careful. The curator mentioned it might be fragile.”
“It’s well sewn, and the spine is solid. Good craftsmanship,” Joe observed, as he ran his fingers over the cover, dry and pebbled, but the gilt lettering still shone. It had that ancient leatherbound book aroma that Joe loved. He turned the pages gently, and they both admired the clean, sharp illustrations.
“Nice drawings. Men and their swords, seems quaint. What is the mystery?” John mused. “And is that a woman? With that glorified hay scythe?”
‘A precursor to the battle bardiche - probably reforged from a scythe, yes,” Joe answered distractedly.
“Nasty.”
“You’ve no idea. You wouldn’t want to meet that lass in a dark alley.”
“You sound like you’ve had some personal experience in that vein.”
“I’ve been in a lot of dark alleys,” Joe confessed with a half smile.
“Or you’re older than you look.”
“Bite your tongue, whippersnapper.”
Joe grew silent when he recognized more of the Immortals from Watcher chronicles. The majority had lost their head since the book had been published. He shook his head sadly when he caught a glimpse of Fitz’s merry profile in one of the woodcuts. And there was a quite dashing depiction of Ramirez, based on the portrait in a very private museum in Toledo. He did place a few swordsmen that were still around, though most of those had changed their name and appearance enough that the book would not be harmful to them. Thankfully there seemed to be no illustrations of Methos.
Even better, there was no obvious place where the author explained what he meant by Immortal or had announced to the world, “Hey, these guys live forever, unless you remove their heads!”
And then he came to the illustration of one Duncan MacLeod. Artfully flanking his full figured portrait were a detailed depiction of one of his early Scottish blades, and his current signature katana. Joe sucked in a breath and swiftly turned the page. Damn. Four centuries old and their buddy had yet to change his name. Maybe this was what Methos was so tetchy about.
The likeness had been eery, and eerily familiar - it strongly reminded Joe of one of the woodcuts in Duncan’s own chronicle from around the time of the French Revolution. Joe paged back, and stared for a few seconds at the tumbling curling hair, the intricacy of the lace cuffs, the curve of his devil-may-care smile. It was, in fact, nearly line for line the same. The author had copied Watcher Chronicles for source material. This was a problem.
“Hey, don’t bogart that book,” John reminded him in an affected American accent, edging around the table to look over his shoulder, clearly curious.
“Just a little longer, bloke,” Joe grinned, or tried to, hoping his host had only glimpsed Duncan’s profile.
He paged further, and frowned at a gathering of monks, clustering around Darius. One hooded figure, face hid in shadow, rested his hand on the pommel of a very familiar broadsword. In the margin, neat calligraphy listed dates and heads taken going back to...”Shit.” Methos’ sword was worse than a fingerprint, in this context. He paged on, quickly. More swords. There was a Ramirez forged blade. And another. Connor’s dragon-headed katana as well, for Watcher’s sake. And dates, and opponents, and glowing reviews. Joe flipped to the back page, and ran his fingers over a blackened Watcher symbol deeply embossed on the inside leather binding.
Joe sighed. The author had penned an Immortal compendium, as controversial then as the Watcher’s computerized database was in the 1990’s. And he’d certainly done it without sanction from the Watcher bigwigs. This is what got him eliminated and the book destroyed. Even today its existence embodied the constant potential for exposure faced by Immortals.
Transfixed by the Watcher symbol he started, but didn’t draw away when John gently grasped his right wrist and turned it over, revealing a matching tattoo graved into the sensitive skin of his wrist. “That must have been painful.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
*****
When he arrived at 221B Baker Street, in his other Bentley, Mycroft used the key Mrs. Hudson had given him (in the event of an emergency) then quietly climbed the steps and entered the flat with the skill of which a ghost could be proud. John and his new acquaintance had their heads bowed over a much-travelled volume, and were arguing over an illustration.
“It’s a coincidence.” The man with the well-trimmed beard twisted his face when he spoke, as if the obvious lie caused him actual discomfort.
“It’s got to be a forgery! It’s the same man I saw in Afghanistan, bringing in supplies! The hair is longer, and he was wearing khaki, not plaid, but it’s the same man! Someone is pulling one over on both of us,” John was insisting.
“It’s worse than a forgery, John,” Mycroft interjected. “It’s an impossibility. An intolerable impossibility.”
Both men started, then John sighed and glanced at his guest. “Sorry, Joe. I had locked the door, but he rarely knocks. Rudeness runs in Sherlock’s family. It practically gallops, as they say.”
Dawson slowly closed the book, keeping his hand down on the cover. “Mycroft Holmes, I presume?”
“Presumption is dangerous, Mr. Dawson.” Mycroft cocked his head. “Very dangerous. You should watch your words.”
“I should watch my backtrail,” Dawson growled, gripping his cane.
Mycroft took in the tableau. Dr. John Watson and Watcher Joseph Dawson meeting at the kitchen table, scattered beer bottles, disassembled pistol, provenance papers and the found copy of Immortal Swords lying between them.
“Well John, I see negotiations are well underway.” He made a show of looking around, a three-sixty turn with his umbrella as axis. “Missing the more excitable members of this party, I see.”
“I’ve been authorized to act alone,” Dawson said evenly, revealing a telling bent for self-sacrifice that might prove useful. “As an agent for the owner. Everything is aboveboard.”
“Including your handgun, I see,” Mycroft nodded at the table. “Your highly illegal handgun, I’m afraid.”
Dawson kept his eyes on Mycroft, and straightened. “In point of fact, I have papers for the weapon, too, if requested.”
“Indeed? Remarkable. I must look into that.”
Outside the sitting room window the dimming sky suddenly lightened as if by fireworks, briefly brightening the apartment.
“I’ve got to go,” Dawson said, jamming his cane down for extra leverage to stand up quickly. “We’ll chat soon.”
“I’m afraid I must insist you share our hospitality for a good deal longer,” Mycroft purred like a cat with no sense of humour. His hand shot out and anchored the book to the table before Dawson’s hovering hand could gather it in. Mycroft sat down at the table and Dawson re-seated himself with a heavy sigh.
“Joe is my guest,” John warned.
“Your choice of friends is perilously flawed.”
“Including Sherlock?”
“Quod erat demonstrandum.” Mycroft smirked. “QED.”
Mycroft opened the book with the point of his finger, unerringly locating the illustration of MacLeod. “How very interesting.” Then he pulled out his smart phone and spent a few moments locating a black and white photograph, which he then shared with them. “This is from a personal top-secret file of Sir Winston Churchill. ‘Duncan MacLeod, 1943. Excellent operative,’ is the note. Quite a likeness, wouldn’t you say?”
*****
Part 3
Part 1
“An audacious man,” John commented. “He didn’t act like a thief.”
“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed then dashed to the curator’s desk and began sorting through the accumulated clutter of catalogs and museum memos, while the curator threw a minor conniption at the detective’s invasion of her personal office space. Within moments he was checking the inside of a book wrapped with a dust cover that claimed it was a text on Carbon-14 Dating. Sherlock removed the dust cover with a flourish to reveal the missing tome, Immortal Swords, perfuming the air with the scent of old paper. The consulting detective flashed a genuine smile at John then spared a bland glance at the curator as he headed toward the door with the book.
John nodded. “In plain sight.”
“How on earth did that get there!” The curator looked puzzled and outraged at the same time, intercepting them and laying a firm hand on the book before they could escape. “Be careful! This is over two hundred years old!”
“Don’t be silly, it was practically printed yesterday. It doesn’t belong amongst the Elgins,” Sherlock complained. It was left to John to patiently deal with Mycroft’s permissions.
The curator insisted on ID and a signature on the paperwork for the book, which John rapidly supplied, but he deflected her attempts to extract more information on the sudden flurry of interest and activity surrounding what on the surface appeared a mundane book. She frowned at his left handed smear and attempted a last protest (then sighed in resignation) as John went dashing off after Sherlock.
He tucked his cane close to his body, no longer feeling the need of its support. He had utilized the cane frequently since the pool debacle. Perhaps he was developing psychosomatic arthritis, which responded well to a good jolt of adrenaline. If he remained Sherlock’s companion for much longer, he’d have enough data on the effects of adrenaline for an article in the Lancet.
Before leaving the museum they detoured to the gift shop where they purchased two book bags plus a London guide book of the approximate size as Immortal Swords.
Upon emerging from the museum Sherlock charged north up Gower Street, while John walked a short distance south on Bloomsbury, both with a book bag slung over a shoulder. John recognized the distinctive features of the ‘Sorbonne student’ as the lean man ghosted by in the direction Sherlock had gone. He watched them disappear into the crowd of museum goers, wishing to follow when suddenly he sensed he was being watched. He turned to find a quite uncovert American guitar player standing directly behind him on the busy pavement. There was his shot of adrenaline. He felt better already.
“Dr. Watson! I thought I recognized you! Can I buy you a beer?”
“Mr. Dawson isn’t it? How about a cup of tea instead?”
“Call me Joe. That’d be fine as long as mine is coffee.”
“Somehow, you don’t strike me as a coffee snob?” John asked as he stepped toward a storefront out of the flow of the mass of international tourists making their way toward the museum.
“Hell no, plain black will do just fine.” Joe waited, apparently quite happy to let him take the lead. Still, John noticed how Joe’s eyes openly lingered on the book bag weighing against his hip before meeting his gaze.
John studied the American equally closely, maintaining eye contact while evaluating him, tuning out the hubbub around them on the pavement. The furtive nature of this meeting coupled with the worry he felt for Sherlock irritated John to the point of casting aside this cat and mouse game and asking plainly, “I don’t suppose we should go after them? Keep them from causing an injury?”
A moment of surprise showed on Dawson’s face, then he nodded at John. “Well you might keep up, doctor, but I’m afraid my running days are over. You worried about - ?” He let the question trail for John to supply the name.
“Sherlock Holmes. He’s a consulting detective. Not really worried. Dr. Adams seemed like a peaceful sort at the aid station in Afghanistan.” Though John couldn’t help wondering about the sword Sherlock claimed Adams was packing.
“Mostly peaceful,” Joe confirmed. “But of course, looks can be deceiving.”
John nodded. “Yes they can.”
“ ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ Familiar name...Holmes.” Joe looked thoughtful.
“Really? Oh, speaking of coffee, there’s a little place nearby on Russel Street.” So John led that direction, matching Joe’s pace as they walked a short distance west to a small cafe where they were greeted by a middle aged Portuguese couple and their daughter. The cafe had a wonderful aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and spicy brewed teas. They ordered their caffeine at the counter and settled into a booth. John laid his book bag and his cane on the seat close to hand.
After a polite pause to enjoy their respective stimulants, Joe put down his cup, glanced down at Watson’s cane, and locked gazes with his erstwhile host. “Looks like your tour got a little sportier after we left.”
John grimaced at Joe’s bluntness and thought, Americans!
Joe grinned, reading his expression, if not his thoughts. “I’ve learned over the years, being proper is overrated.” Joe rapped his knuckles against one of his prosthetic legs, sighed, then nodded toward John’s cane. “Bad?”
John glanced away, then dragged his gaze back to Joe’s cane hanging on the back of his chair. It had seen considerably more wear than his own. “Not bad. Not by your standards,” he said honestly. “Phantom pain.”
Joe lost his grin. “Yeah. Bad. It sucks, doesn’t it?”
John felt his face warming. “It is...inconvenient.”
“Brits,” Joe said, needling him gently, before properly returning to his coffee.
‘Well,” John began, paused for a sip, contemplating his approach. “Why does Dr. Adams want the book?” This earned John a sharp, weighing gaze.
Apparently, he passed muster, because Joe sighed and leaned back, to respond with refreshing directness. “From what I understand, it’s not that he wants the book, particularly. It’s that he wants it to be safe, and he doesn’t want certain people to read it. He should have just destroyed it years ago when he had the chance. There could be...consequences...if it’s contents were revealed.”
John picked at a piece of the puzzle. “He knew that it was hidden in the British Museum?” He added with a smirk, “Years before he was born? Under that vile Yank tea?”
“Hey, I wouldn’t insult your Marmite. At least, not out loud,” Joe pointed out, delaying. “But that’s Ben for you. Some families keep some pretty strange secrets. And he has a thing about old books. Hates to see them destroyed. Even books that could be inconvenient.”
“What on earth could be in a book from 1801 that would be inconvenient to Dr. Adams today? Or anyone else, for that matter?”
“Don’t know. But I’ve read the provenance papers, and his claim looks good,” Joe replied, patting his breast pocket. “Maybe one of his ancestors was indiscreet. Why don’t we take a look at it and see?” His eyes gleamed with honest curiosity and more than a touch of mischief.
John smiled, rolling an idea around in his head. “Why not?” But his hand halted on the way to his bag. “But not here in the open. Somewhere secure. Back at my flat?” He could steal a march on Sherlock, bringing in both book and book thief’s accomplice.
Joe paused, apparently considering the suggestion. “That’s trusting of you. You’re not afraid that I might rob you?”
John gave him a dangerous sort of grin. “I’m really not as mild mannered or peace loving as I appear. Any more than I suspect you are. However, if you were to do anything untoward, I believe that Sherlock and Mycroft would express their objections. And I do own a service revolver.”
“Mycroft...Holmes?” Joe sat back, his coffee cup rattling in it’s saucer. He quickly scanned the other customers, and the nearest parked cars for curious eyes.
John was surprised to see the older veteran’s face blanch when he caught sight of a black Bentley. “Are you all right?”
“No. We need to get out of here. Now.”
“But I haven’t finished my tea,” John said, curious at Dawson’s extreme reaction.
Joe patted a familiar hard shape in the side pocket of his coat. “Unless you want to compare calibers, I suggest we pay the bill and depart.”
*****
Sherlock was confident that John could deal with the musician, even though he was armed. Had he warned John about the revolver? Surely John must have observed. The man was American, after all, it was practically de rigueur.
His plan to lead the other man, the ‘Sorbonne student,’ away from John seemed to have worked. He continued his dash toward Regent’s Park, while evaluating the risk of confronting his sword bearing pursuer. The likelihood of physical danger versus the quantity and quality of information to be obtained from allowing the man to intercept him, did not seem so great at this juncture of the chase despite the fact that Sherlock was weaponless.
Once inside the boundary of the park, his stalker increased the distance between them along Avenue Gardens, and by the time Sherlock passed St. John’s Lodge he seemed to have out distanced the man. This would not do. Despite the man’s outward appearance as a library dwelling scholar, Sherlock had observed that he moved like a long distance runner and should have had no problem following. Sherlock retraced his steps until he found the man sitting on a bench. Sherlock approached, frowning at his opponent’s failure to pursue. The man sprawled on the bench, as if without a care, not even breathing hard. Sherlock stopped at the opposite edge of the park bench, and tilted his head in study of the man.
They appeared to be about the same age and he was quite as slender as Sherlock, but with a sharper face the like of which might appear in profile on an old Roman coin. And then he smiled, his face a confusing mesh of innocence and danger. Sherlock frowned.
“You stopped chasing me.”
“I don’t do the park at dusk.”
“Phobia?”
His failed stalker replied with a certain unnecessary jolliness, “You might say that.”
“I didn’t state it as fact, I asked. It was a question.”
“You’re very precise.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, but without any expression of pleasure.
“Disappointed? That’s a question.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, I got tired. Can’t chase you all night.”
“A lie.”
“Very good.” The man smiled. “What you’d really like is for me to dash off so you could chase me. Adrenaline junkie.”
Sherlock suppressed a smile, and finally sat down at the opposite end of the bench. Both of them looking south instead of at each other. “And I had such high hopes for this case. I should have never trusted Mycroft.”
“Mycroft? Holmes? I should say not,” Adam said sharply. “You should have kept the book instead of giving it to your companion, I might have chased you a bit longer, or faster. Dr. Watson and my good buddy Joe will have the whole adventure wrapped up before you get a peek at the book.”
Sherlock huffed. “You are not a very satisfactory opponent.”
“Sorry, kid. Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew?”
“No need,” Sherlock replied with the wave of a hand. “You deduced that I ran toward the park to lead you away from my friend with the real copy ofImmortal Swords. Furthermore, you realized I was unlikely to risk taking the real book of interest into the park where you, or a confederate, could have found the privacy to steal it from me. Actually, my main goal in leading you on a chase was finding a chance to talk with you.”
“Then you’ve won. We’re talking.”
Sherlock turned to watch the man’s face searching for tells, eye dilation, sweating, tics, and met the same evaluating gaze from his opponent. Maybe not so unsatisfying after all.
He gave the man his broadest, most dependably disturbing smile and reached out with his hand, “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”
“Aw, Mycroft’s younger, prettier brother!” The man took his hand: palm dry, grip firm, smile genuine, “Adam Pierson, vagabond.”
Sherlock continued to hold the hand, counting his pulse. “Not Benjamin Adams?” The name John had remembered.
“Not today.” Sherlock finally dropped the hand realizing the man wasn’t pulling away, but was staring in apparent fascination.
Then suddenly Adam broke their shared evaluation, looking around into the dusk for something he seemed to have heard. “I need to go now.” Adam stood and looked north, deeper into the park. “Maybe I’ll catch you later.”
Sherlock watched in the direction where Adam was staring. Suddenly, before Adam could move forward, they were both blocked from retreat by a man with a gun rushing in from the west. “Another American?” Sherlock complained.
“The gun is often diagnostic,” Adam glanced at the gunman doubtfully. “Reminds me of the last time I was in New York.”
“But the trainers are definitive,” Sherlock sniffed as he peered into the dimming light and revised his conclusion. “Isle of Man, not Manhattan.”
“If you say so,” Adam shrugged, allowing the point, but concentrated on another man walking more slowly toward him. “Hunting with a mortal, now? Not very sporting, Albert,” Adam said to the tall red haired man who emerged from the park shadows.
He also wore an overcoat. Sherlock observed the shape of a hidden sword.
“My man will take care of your man. You’ve grown a reputation for running with mortals yourself,” Albert replied. “I just wanted to make sure you face me this time.”
“Sherlock, tell Albert how long we have known each other.”
“We exchanged names approximately two minutes and 14 seconds ago.”
“A new friend for the good Doctor Adams to protect, then.”
“Actually, I’m really not that good,” Adam said as he captured Sherlock’s attention with a steady gaze. “Skillful perhaps, but goodness has nothing to do with it.” Sherlock realised that the look directed at him was full of meaning, and if it had been John sending him facial data, Sherlock would have stood a chance to interpret the meaning, but this man’s visage remained an interesting mystery.
The thug waved his gun forcing them deeper into the park. “Hurry along before we lose all the light,” Albert ordered.
“We’re going to disturb the lions,” Adam said.
Sherlock frowned, the zoo was located at the northeast corner of the park. He wondered what level of disturbance Adam and Albert planned.
The four of them reached a copse of trees located midway between the zoo and the Winfield House, and entered the shielding wood. There was a cottage-sized opening within the grove where they all stopped and stared at each other in momentary silence. The accomplice still held a gun on Sherlock when Adam and Albert pulled out their swords and set on one another with obvious ill intent.
“You’re going to duel! Fascinating.” Sherlock attempted to take a step toward the fighters.
“Stay still or you’ll be a bloody corpse!” Albert’s man demanded. He kept his gun steady and pointed at Sherlock. “Don’t interfere, and maybe nobody will kill you.”
“Definitely not American after all. Just a common imitation,” Sherlock stated, confirming the underlying Manx accent. “But the death threat? Overkill. Boring.”
******
Joe hustled them into the second cab in the rank, despite the glare they received from the first cabbie. “It’s getting dark, maybe we’ll lose them in the traffic.”
“So you are a covert operative? I thought Sherlock was over-extending his logic. CIA?”
“Christ, no. I’m a...bookrunner. A book scout,” Joe lied - but only a little bit. He had been a scout for Shakespeare and Company, back in the day, among a great many other more nefarious things. “Getting a line on this book - it’s like getting an autographed first edition of Ulysses. Which, believe me, is a glorious thing to behold.”
Joe paused, looking thoughtful for a moment before he continued, “I’ve heard a bit about Mycroft Holmes. He’s one of those formidable players hidden in the ranks that you’re better off not crossing paths with. If he took the notion, he could freeze my passport all over Europe with a wave of his hand.” If the rumors from the Watcher hierarchy were correct, Mycroft could do far worse than that, and had, to some careless Watchers who had troubled his webs. Joe had no intention of following their example.
John frowned. “Mycroft Holmes isn’t a name I’d expect to be bandied about in book groups. Sherlock said you were a bartender and a musician.”
“Hell, as old as I am, I’ve had a dozen jobs.” Joe relaxed a bit as the traffic closed around them. “Been fired from a dozen more,” he added, either lying or boasting, he wasn’t quite sure himself. “I guarantee that when I left the Marines, government work was the furthest thing from my mind. But you work for Mycroft? Talk about covert...SAS?”
John’s laugh was brief and mirthless. He shook his head. “No. Sherlock takes care of occasional commissions for him.”
“And you take care of occasional commissions for Sherlock?” Joe asked dryly, glancing at the bag containing the book, carefully ignoring the touch of red rising in the Doctor’s cheeks.
“He’s - my friend.”
Joe nodded. “I hear you.” He checked their backtrail again, squinting against the falling darkness and the bright headlights, but saw nothing but commuters and traffic cameras. “How far to your flat? It would be nice to settle this peaceably.”
John nodded, his jaw tight. “Not far to Baker Street. You can call your friend, and I’ll call mine,” he said, making no promises.
“You can show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,” Joe agreed, a merry glint in his eye.
*****
Sherlock, having taken advantage of the distraction provided by the two swordsmen, disabled the unfortunate thug, swinging the solid weight of the guidebook in it’s bag as a satisfactory flail and significantly heightening his vocal range. Plucking the gun, a dull but serviceable Glock, from the miscreant’s now slack fingers, he traded the book bag for his new toy. Engrossed by the violent blade work, he allowed Albert’s man to creep away into the growing darkness. He concentrated on the fight, acutely enthralled.
Belatedly, Sherlock berated himself for not having the foresight to bring a torch. It
seemed that the combatants would soon need to call a halt to their struggle of thrust, parry and riposte in which they so vigorously attempted to destroy each other, as the light surrendered to the evening. Vicious wounds were inflicted on both sides, yet as blood crazed men they continued to punish each other.
Finally, Adam stumbled, oddly and awkwardly, it seemed to Sherlock, and Albert raised his sword for a great blow. It appeared his new acquaintance would perish in this battle, and Sherlock seriously considered interceding with the weapon now in his possession. He calculated the likelihood of his inconsistent marksmanship having the desired effect. His findings were that a wall was a far more cooperative target than two struggling combatants, and judged that there were too many variables - including the second short sword that Adam suddenly pulled from behind his back and used to disable and disarm Albert. Adam stood tall and with a merciless backhand sundered the head from the body and so the life from Albert.
Swords! Sherlock saw Adam fall exhausted to his knees. He pointed at Sherlock, "Run! Get back!" He shouted. An electric tendril reached from the body toward Adam. Book! Sherlock quickly stepped back from the clearing where the swordsmen had been fighting. In his peripheral vision he caught actinic light and movement. Under the trees, Sherlock turned back to watch as lightning enveloped Adam, seeming to electrocute the man. A stream of electricity continued to flow from the corpse to Adam’s body in an eldritch reversal of the animation of the Frankenstein monster. Energy? From the dead? The book! Immortal Swords!
Adam jerked like a ragdoll, each bolt of light shaking him down. As the strikes diminished, Sherlock walked back into the circle of violence, needing to understand. This man, Adam, he should be dead. Electrocuted. He was not. Swaying on his hands and knees, producing sounds of despair, muttering, "Too old for this!" But very much alive. Blood on clothes. No welling wound.
"Keep your distance, Sherlock.”
"Why? Will you cut off my head too?" Sherlock began pacing, waving the gun recklessly.
"No, not that, but I might hurt you." Adam climbed to his feet, looking demolished, hardly threatening. "Stop that, Sherlock! That's no way to handle a gun."
Sherlock pointed the gun at Adam. "Is this better?"
"Much." Adam tucked his bloodied sword back in his coat and stumbled off along the path. "Let's get the hell out of here, before the American ambassador starts complaining about the light show in the park to your brother."
Sherlock nodded his agreement, quite in favor of leaving before the authorities arrived. He knew that the telling of this sort of tale, no matter how true, would likely result in his being held for psych evaluation. Again. That was a nuisance he would rather avoid tonight.
They stole away back the direction they'd come.
"Why did you say you would hurt me? Are you electrified now?"
"No. Sometimes after the - aftermath - there's a tendency to take a shiny thing, if it's there handy."
"Take a shiny thing?" Sherlock required the whole of eleven seconds to realize he was the shiny thing. "Oh. You’re aroused. By the combat. Physiological response. Oh. No. It’s not - I don't do that." His own raw physiologic reaction to the spectacle was slowing his reasoning time.
"No?" They were now a good hundred meters from the trees. “You don’t?” Adam stopped, catching his breath, head bent with hands on his thighs for a moment, then straightened and sighed. “Never?”
Sherlock studied him closely as if he were watching a magical creature dropped into modern London. Adam grinned, shook his head then grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat, pulling him close. "Then a chaste kiss." And Adam kissed him. It was not chaste, but it was not long either. Short, demanding, sensual. Then over. Adam released him and sighed deeply as if the kiss had taken all his energy, then he resumed walking out of the park. As if he’d been out for a mere...walk in the park.
In three, slightly accelerated heart beats Sherlock resumed walking too, following silently, brain sorting data.
When they reached the Outer Circle of the park, Adam said, "You haven't asked me a question in almost 30 seconds." His voice sounded tired.
"Processing."
"Smart man. You should do something about that adrenaline addiction though."
"You think you are immortal. You aren’t afraid of a gun. 'Too old' you said. You are old enough that you can slip from one job to another to another, having mastered many skills over an extended period of time, despite your young appearance. And you involuntarily lock in ritualized mortal combat with others that share your beliefs. That would explain several old myths. Not to mention a number of unsolved homicides involving headless cadavers through the centuries."
"Very good, Sherlock, very smart. Except that there is really no such thing as immortal. I’m just very hard to kill."
"Yes, obviously. What was that - ah - light show?”
“Some would say nirvana, I say hell on Earth.”
Sherlock nodded, perceiving that the man’s life could be hellishly long, lonely, boring, and punctuated with sudden unprovoked violence. “I am glad I’m not like you."
"More than smart, youngster, you’re a genius."
“Are you a genius too?”
“Nope. Just a very tired guy.”
*****
Joe hesitated when they came to the steps leading to John and Sherlock’s flat, eyeing the stairs like an old enemy. “Why don’t you go up and find us something stronger than tea, and I’ll be up in a flash,” he said with an encouraging grin.
“Sorry,” John said contritely.
“Hey, you didn’t build ‘em,” Joe shrugged.
“I do have beer, if that helps,” Allowing Joe his space, John climbed the steps a bit less briskly than he started.
“It never hurts, in my experience,” Joe allowed. “Guinness?”
“Continental. My flat mate has esoteric tastes.”
“I think I can manage to choke it down, just to be sociable,“ Joe said with teasing martyrdom.
“And I’ll see if Mrs. Hudson has any of that Marmite left,” John threatened good-naturedly in return.
As John disappeared up the stairs, Joe shamelessly exploited the opportunity, and quickly pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Methos. He quietly cursed like the Marine he’d once been when it went to voicemail. “221B Baker Street, one flight up, negotiating for the book.” He snapped the phone shut, and did his damnedest to double-time up the seventeen steps.
As he entered the flat, he caught John deactivating his own phone even while surveying the disordered flat with dismay. “Apparently your buddy is having as much fun as mine. No answer either?”
“Sherlock rarely answers when he’s on a case,” John admitted. “And your...buddy?”
“He’s more of a ‘don’t call me, and I won’t call you’ kind of correspondent. But he’ll hear the sound of a beer cracked open from three counties away.”
“Shall we experiment?” John offered. He carefully opened the refrigerator as if he were expecting something to jump out at him, then appeared relieved that it had not. He offered his guest a choice of either a dark Belgian or a light French lager, and seemed surprised when Joe took the dark.
“Adam says there are more vitamins,” Joe said with a smile.
“He’s a very strange doctor,” John remarked, as he moved around the room randomly moving objects in an apparent attempt to straighten up. “How is your shoulder?”
“Good as new,” Joe shrugged. “It was just a little bitty hole, nothing to write home about.” Passing by the couch, Joe settled at the kitchen table. Unbuttoning his coat, he reached into an inside pocket and drew out a fat envelope. “Provenance,” he said shortly. “Adam Pierson inherited the book legitimately from his paternal grandfather.”
John picked up his bag and settled across the table. “Adam Pierson? Not Benjamin Adams. A different name for each country? Papers can be forged. If they are legitimate, why steal the book in the first place?”
Joe leaned back, a pained expression on his face. “Good question. I think Adam wanted to avoid the fuss of a custody dispute. Though I’d like to point out, he didn’t actually steal anything.”
“And you? You’re carrying the papers. That argues a vested interest.”
Joe nodded slowly, not denying it. “He’s my friend,” he countered quietly. “Which reminds me... ,” he reached into his pocket and drew out his gun, slowing his movements when John tensed. Carefully, he popped the ammunition clip out, and slid it across the table. “You keep this until we’re done.” Pushing the empty gun well to the side, he added, “Friends don’t need extra persuasion to get together and talk. I never thanked you properly for the cover you laid down for our aid convoy. You saved a lot of people that day, not just my sorry hide.”
“I suspect you’d have done the same for me,” John said diffidently.
“I’d have been honored,” Joe said without embroidery.
John pulled out the the two-century-old tome from the book bag and placed it on the table where they could examine it together. “Careful. The curator mentioned it might be fragile.”
“It’s well sewn, and the spine is solid. Good craftsmanship,” Joe observed, as he ran his fingers over the cover, dry and pebbled, but the gilt lettering still shone. It had that ancient leatherbound book aroma that Joe loved. He turned the pages gently, and they both admired the clean, sharp illustrations.
“Nice drawings. Men and their swords, seems quaint. What is the mystery?” John mused. “And is that a woman? With that glorified hay scythe?”
‘A precursor to the battle bardiche - probably reforged from a scythe, yes,” Joe answered distractedly.
“Nasty.”
“You’ve no idea. You wouldn’t want to meet that lass in a dark alley.”
“You sound like you’ve had some personal experience in that vein.”
“I’ve been in a lot of dark alleys,” Joe confessed with a half smile.
“Or you’re older than you look.”
“Bite your tongue, whippersnapper.”
Joe grew silent when he recognized more of the Immortals from Watcher chronicles. The majority had lost their head since the book had been published. He shook his head sadly when he caught a glimpse of Fitz’s merry profile in one of the woodcuts. And there was a quite dashing depiction of Ramirez, based on the portrait in a very private museum in Toledo. He did place a few swordsmen that were still around, though most of those had changed their name and appearance enough that the book would not be harmful to them. Thankfully there seemed to be no illustrations of Methos.
Even better, there was no obvious place where the author explained what he meant by Immortal or had announced to the world, “Hey, these guys live forever, unless you remove their heads!”
And then he came to the illustration of one Duncan MacLeod. Artfully flanking his full figured portrait were a detailed depiction of one of his early Scottish blades, and his current signature katana. Joe sucked in a breath and swiftly turned the page. Damn. Four centuries old and their buddy had yet to change his name. Maybe this was what Methos was so tetchy about.
The likeness had been eery, and eerily familiar - it strongly reminded Joe of one of the woodcuts in Duncan’s own chronicle from around the time of the French Revolution. Joe paged back, and stared for a few seconds at the tumbling curling hair, the intricacy of the lace cuffs, the curve of his devil-may-care smile. It was, in fact, nearly line for line the same. The author had copied Watcher Chronicles for source material. This was a problem.
“Hey, don’t bogart that book,” John reminded him in an affected American accent, edging around the table to look over his shoulder, clearly curious.
“Just a little longer, bloke,” Joe grinned, or tried to, hoping his host had only glimpsed Duncan’s profile.
He paged further, and frowned at a gathering of monks, clustering around Darius. One hooded figure, face hid in shadow, rested his hand on the pommel of a very familiar broadsword. In the margin, neat calligraphy listed dates and heads taken going back to...”Shit.” Methos’ sword was worse than a fingerprint, in this context. He paged on, quickly. More swords. There was a Ramirez forged blade. And another. Connor’s dragon-headed katana as well, for Watcher’s sake. And dates, and opponents, and glowing reviews. Joe flipped to the back page, and ran his fingers over a blackened Watcher symbol deeply embossed on the inside leather binding.
Joe sighed. The author had penned an Immortal compendium, as controversial then as the Watcher’s computerized database was in the 1990’s. And he’d certainly done it without sanction from the Watcher bigwigs. This is what got him eliminated and the book destroyed. Even today its existence embodied the constant potential for exposure faced by Immortals.
Transfixed by the Watcher symbol he started, but didn’t draw away when John gently grasped his right wrist and turned it over, revealing a matching tattoo graved into the sensitive skin of his wrist. “That must have been painful.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
*****
When he arrived at 221B Baker Street, in his other Bentley, Mycroft used the key Mrs. Hudson had given him (in the event of an emergency) then quietly climbed the steps and entered the flat with the skill of which a ghost could be proud. John and his new acquaintance had their heads bowed over a much-travelled volume, and were arguing over an illustration.
“It’s a coincidence.” The man with the well-trimmed beard twisted his face when he spoke, as if the obvious lie caused him actual discomfort.
“It’s got to be a forgery! It’s the same man I saw in Afghanistan, bringing in supplies! The hair is longer, and he was wearing khaki, not plaid, but it’s the same man! Someone is pulling one over on both of us,” John was insisting.
“It’s worse than a forgery, John,” Mycroft interjected. “It’s an impossibility. An intolerable impossibility.”
Both men started, then John sighed and glanced at his guest. “Sorry, Joe. I had locked the door, but he rarely knocks. Rudeness runs in Sherlock’s family. It practically gallops, as they say.”
Dawson slowly closed the book, keeping his hand down on the cover. “Mycroft Holmes, I presume?”
“Presumption is dangerous, Mr. Dawson.” Mycroft cocked his head. “Very dangerous. You should watch your words.”
“I should watch my backtrail,” Dawson growled, gripping his cane.
Mycroft took in the tableau. Dr. John Watson and Watcher Joseph Dawson meeting at the kitchen table, scattered beer bottles, disassembled pistol, provenance papers and the found copy of Immortal Swords lying between them.
“Well John, I see negotiations are well underway.” He made a show of looking around, a three-sixty turn with his umbrella as axis. “Missing the more excitable members of this party, I see.”
“I’ve been authorized to act alone,” Dawson said evenly, revealing a telling bent for self-sacrifice that might prove useful. “As an agent for the owner. Everything is aboveboard.”
“Including your handgun, I see,” Mycroft nodded at the table. “Your highly illegal handgun, I’m afraid.”
Dawson kept his eyes on Mycroft, and straightened. “In point of fact, I have papers for the weapon, too, if requested.”
“Indeed? Remarkable. I must look into that.”
Outside the sitting room window the dimming sky suddenly lightened as if by fireworks, briefly brightening the apartment.
“I’ve got to go,” Dawson said, jamming his cane down for extra leverage to stand up quickly. “We’ll chat soon.”
“I’m afraid I must insist you share our hospitality for a good deal longer,” Mycroft purred like a cat with no sense of humour. His hand shot out and anchored the book to the table before Dawson’s hovering hand could gather it in. Mycroft sat down at the table and Dawson re-seated himself with a heavy sigh.
“Joe is my guest,” John warned.
“Your choice of friends is perilously flawed.”
“Including Sherlock?”
“Quod erat demonstrandum.” Mycroft smirked. “QED.”
Mycroft opened the book with the point of his finger, unerringly locating the illustration of MacLeod. “How very interesting.” Then he pulled out his smart phone and spent a few moments locating a black and white photograph, which he then shared with them. “This is from a personal top-secret file of Sir Winston Churchill. ‘Duncan MacLeod, 1943. Excellent operative,’ is the note. Quite a likeness, wouldn’t you say?”
*****
Part 3