Fic: The Adventure of the Dreamers (Inception + Sherlock, Crossover, PG-13)
title: The Adventure of the Dreamers
author: ilovetakahana
characters: Inception - Dom, Arthur, Eames, Ariadne, Yusuf, Saito // Sherlock - Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, Donovan, Moriarty [Irene Adler, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson are mentioned]
warnings: It's 3000+ words of an Inception/Sherlock crossover - isn't that warning enough? Spoilers for Inception and the first three episodes of Sherlock. Some violence. Cliffhanger ending mostly because I don't want to speculate on what Moffat and Gatiss have planned for the next series. [Don't kill me!]
disclaimer: I don't own the original stories or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: Having survived multiple encounters with Moriarty, Holmes calls in some help.
This is also partly a fill for this prompt at inception_kink.
Arthur stares at his mobile phone as it beeps insistently at him, backlit screen flashing the name of the caller:
DCobb calling
On the fourth ring he picks up and murmurs, “I thought you were out of the business?”
Even at this distance, with no way of telling for sure, he thinks he can hear a grin in the other man’s voice: “Out for good, and thanks for everything,” Dom replies. “But when this new client checked out perfectly I...I just had to come in on the job. You’ll understand. You have to confirm you’re in, first.”
Arthur feels the beginnings of a headache worm their way in around his temples and absently digs his knuckles in on one side and then the other, before replying: “A client who checked out completely perfectly? Since when did this kind of person exist? This is actually legit?”
“Yes,” is the reply, with a slight hint of What do you take me for? buried beneath.
“Dom, because it’s my job to worry. That’s why you have me around.”
Dom chuckles knowingly. “Point. Come on, Arthur, you’re going to like this job.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Arthur mutters. Then, half-resigned: “All right, all right. I’m in. Now give.”
“Sending you the information now.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow at his laptop screen. “Dom. Are you sure you’re awake? And are you sure you’re not pulling my leg? What do you mean by www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk?”
“Just GO, Arthur.” There is now a bite in the voice down the lines.
He gets as far as sympathizing with the quote “I would kill every one of you for a cigarette. - SH” before muttering, “I don’t know what he needs us for if he’s already got the ability to take over the world, by himself, cigarettes or no.” To Dom: “What does a consulting detective WANT with us?”
“Interested? We’ll get the rest of the details when the team’s complete.”
“And who exactly are we calling the team here?”
“All of us, at Saito’s insistence. And apparently Holmes wants his assistant to be part of the case. A Dr. John Watson. He can assist Yusuf and make sure we’re okay. Don’t worry about him - he knows about dream-share tech.”
Arthur is already Googling. “This doctor’s got a blog...a war vet? I guess that’s how he knows. Okay. Shall I call the others or are you going to put them through the same dog-and-pony act you just pulled on me?”
Dom laughs. It’s a little rusty from disuse, but it’s a welcome sound. “Go get them, will you? I’ll send you the tickets within the hour.”
“Well THIS should be interesting.”
***
London in August is muggy, hot, and hard on the clothes, so Arthur reluctantly switches out his usual three-piece suits for lighter cotton and linen.
When he arrives in London he’s met by a familiar face: Dr. John Watson. In stark contrast to Arthur’s tailored look he’s wearing slightly distressed jeans, a light cotton pullover, and a battered pair of running shoes.
Arthur says, “Good to meet you, Dr. Watson.”
“Likewise, Mr. Hardy,” is the reply, accompanied by a firm handshake. “And please, I’d rather you called me John. Will you follow me? Apparently we’re meeting at Claridge’s because the flat’s too small for all of us and Mrs. Hudson’s in hysterics trying to clean up after Sherlock. Oh, and because you’re all staying there, of course.”
Arthur smiles and senses a kindred spirit. “I take it he’s not, hmm, methodical about picking up after himself?”
John cracks a small but definitely amused smile of his own. “Try this: he never does. Taxi!”
***
It’s not really that difficult to find the team at Claridge’s.
This probably has to do with the fact that a very tall man in an incongruous long coat is arguing with Saito, who seems to be a little rattled but is managing to hold his own.
“This is no place for a meeting; I can’t think here!”
Arthur slides into a seat next to Eames (who is actually wearing a proper three-piece suit today; will wonders never cease) and is promptly offered some popcorn. A quick look around shows that not only is John now cramming a handful into his mouth - and Yusuf still has the bowl tilted helpfully in his direction - but Dom and Ariadne are also chewing thoughtfully.
John is also not above egging on the other two, as he quickly chucks a fluffy white kernel at the taller man, which lands neatly in his collars.
“Stop it, John,” the tall man finally growls after the third direct hit, which is still lodged above his ear when he sits down with a loud huff.
“Not my fault,” is the immediate riposte. “And you can’t exactly run around accusing someone in particular at this table because I am not the only one present who can handle a gun, and you’ve been jumping down the throat of the only person here without greasy fingers.”
Arthur has the sudden idea that John has been wanting to stump him for a while.
“It’s still down to you,” the tall man declares, “because you’re the only person who’s ever had a history of playing such childish tricks. Such as hiding my nicotine patches and taking my jar of eyeballs out of the microwave.”
“Because therapy works so well. No, this way is much more satisfying, ta very much.”
Dom snorts quietly in amusement at Watson’s response, while Ariadne turns green around the gills at the mention of eyeballs.
Saito finally cuts through the byplay by clearing his throat and nodding at the rest of the team. “Lady and gentlemen, may I introduce Sherlock Holmes.”
***
The first thing John does when they get into their hotel suite is say: “Bum a gun off any one of you?”
Everyone stares, and Arthur’s hands stop dead over the PASIV.
As Ariadne is sitting right on top of her own suitcases she hesitates for only a moment before extracting her Smith & Wesson M&P and handing it over.
John does a quick but thorough check of the gun, humming approvingly, before cocking it - and aiming it straight at Holmes’s head.
“Oh, carry on,” he says cheerfully to the rest of the room.
Arthur feels the breeze as Ariadne hops up from her bags, the tails of her cardigan and scarf flipping, squeezes hurriedly in between him and Eames, and hides behind them. She is gripping his elbow and Eames’s wrist. Her eyes are wide and wavering between “amused” and “oh hell psychopath run AWAY”.
John continues, addressing Holmes in a tight voice. “You are not to touch the PASIV; our colleagues will put you under and take you out, if I'm not around. You will be supervised at all times. You are not to use the device alone. You. Will not. Touch it. Are we clear, Sherlock?”
“Very. Incidentally, are you a soldier or a mother hen?”
Dom snorts and looks away; there is a suspiciously amused glint in his eyes.
Of course he would find this amusing. Why else did he find so many reasons to turn up at various workshops and hidey-holes during the planning stages of all the other jobs they’d done after? Privately, Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne had long since agreed that Dom showed up under flimsy excuses just to feel the excitement and - all right, they were all mature enough to admit it - immature humor of the team working together.
This, though, was some different kind of humor altogether.
***
Once they’re all under, Arthur notices that they are standing in a second-floor apartment. John is the dreamer, and he’s standing with arms folded casually across his chest, blocking the door.
He still has a gun, and it’s still pointed casually in Holmes’s direction.
Arthur is discomfited to notice a skull over the fireplace, perched on a stack of books.
Holmes paces around the chairs like he knows every inch of the flat; his shock of dark hair bobs comically around his ears with every sharp U-turn. “I am in pursuit of someone calling himself Jim Moriarty. He has already attempted to kill the two of us three times. Apiece, mind you. Now I am looking for clues as to where he is and I have tracked down one of his associates. So the case is simple: I cannot get him to talk because he is heavily sedated, so I have to go into his mind and extract the information.
“Unfortunately, New Scotland Yard has not been able to get their hands on a proper PASIV device as of present and is not keen on finding one through any means.”
“And you haven’t the resources to do this yourself?” Eames asks, the first time he’s said anything. “I find that hard to believe, sir. I know people who talk about you in whispers. I know people who’ve fled the home islands just to feel safer in their beds at night knowing you’re nowhere nearby. And I know a certain woman whom you will not name.”
Arthur hides his grin behind his hand. He had been there for that particular meeting; it had been funny and infuriating at the same time. Eames himself only ever referred to her as “Adler” - this despite the woman in question being his stepsister.
[“And you wonder how I learned to be such a dastardly criminal mastermind,” he’d joked to Arthur, after they’d fled her presence.
“Dastardly, yes; criminal, definitely. Mastermind?” Arthur had replied. “I’ll get back to you on that.”]
Arthur watches as Holmes glares at him and Eames with extreme disdain and just a hint of respect, takes a moment to clench his fists at his sides, before taking up the thread of his narrative again. “I understand you are the world’s foremost experts in this technology, and so we are meeting to discuss extraction.”
The expressions on Ariadne’s and John’s faces are identical: You’ll tell me this story or I’ll hurt you.
He winks at them both and turns back to Holmes.
***
At tea-time, John, Arthur, and Ariadne are clustered in the back of a sandwich shop around the corner; after a few moments, Eames joins them, his hands full of snacks.
“So, tell,” Ariadne demands after she inhales half of a chocolate bar, which is packed with nuts and raisins and makes Arthur wince and look away. “Who is Adler and why did Mr. Holmes react so badly to you mentioning her?”
Arthur watches as Eames’s hands twitch - he can’t smoke in here - and settle reluctantly around a chipped mug of tea. “So, yeah, there’s this woman, you know, her name’s Adler and she’s my stepsister - my dad kind of had an affair a long time ago.”
John’s eyes narrow as though waiting for a blow, a punchline, or both.
“She’s kind of a legend in some of the circles where I move. She taught me how to forge, you know. Her specialty’s forging into a person of the opposite sex - I remember her going into a dream and pulling lots of female projections - left me free to extract things.”
“And?” Ariadne asks impatiently.
“Think Mal,” Arthur says, grinning; Eames chokes on his jammy dodgers. “Only she was real, and completely capable of doing all sorts of Very Bad Things, and sneaky as all hell.”
She stares for a long moment and then blushes, and then chuckles, and then suddenly she’s nearly falling off her chair laughing. “I shouldn’t be laughing! Why am I laughing! This is so bad! Oh my god....”
At John’s blank expression Arthur and Eames hastily explain, and the doctor lets out a startled guffaw of his own. “And you lot survived that? No, forget this Shade business, you two actually managed to survive Miss Adler?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call my case surviving,” Eames mutters.
“Then I think you’re all even crazier than the man I share a flat with.”
“No objections here,” Arthur and Eames say together, half under their breath.
***
Arthur knows he actually has a legitimate reason to be visiting New Scotland Yard today, but he’s not the only one to look around for more discreet exits once they’re through the doors and on their way to DI Lestrade’s office.
He and Eames flank Ariadne like a pair of bodyguards, and he can feel the strength of her grip around his wrist. She is wide-eyed: wonder? Fear? They don’t exactly work in a legitimate capacity, all things considered, and this place is just one of the many Ground Zeros for worldwide law enforcement.
A black woman with impressive curls glares at them, and Arthur sees her eyes flick disapprovingly past Holmes.
The tall man promptly says, “Hands off, now, Lieutenant Donovan. Almost everyone in this group has already been spoken for.”
Which comment is then met with various reactions. Ariadne squeaks, shooting a wide-eyed look at Dom, who is simply grinning down at his shoes. Arthur looks everywhere but at Eames, who has one hand jammed firmly in the pocket that has a chain trailing out of it. An oblivious Saito is serenely talking to someone on his mobile phone, and Yusuf simply looks around, very confused.
“For the last time, Holmes, no one is talking, thinking, or dreaming about PASIV devices here!” Another policeman joins the group, gesticulating wildly, his silver hair gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. He glances at everyone, eyes stopping with surprise on Dom and the silver case next to his feet. “Are you all with this pair then? Follow me.”
Once the door is locked in Lestrade’s office, Holmes simply flashes him a smug little smile. “Mind your manners, Inspector, you are in the company of experts here.”
“Am I now? You and which army?”
John snorts and makes introductions: “Detective Inspector Lestrade: meet the team that performed that impossible thing Sherlock mentioned to you yesterday.”
***
Arthur has never been a fan of police stations.
He suspects Eames shares his feelings.
But here they are in the depths of one, somewhere in London. Underground lie the cells where the particularly nasty local elements are bunked down for the night.
Arthur is more than familiar with the idea of a skinny boy of sixteen as a master criminal - he’d heard enough stories from Eames and Adler, talking about learning how to forge at twelve and thirteen respectively - and he himself had dropped out of college to take up his current position of Point Man.
In this case, “familiar” has nothing to do with “comfortable”.
This may have something to do with the boy in question being straitjacketed on the hard bed, sleeping the heavy, insensate sleep of sedation.
Yusuf watches critically as John swabs down his wrist, then Holmes’s, then Eames’s and finally Arthur’s.
Last night they had taught John about the merits of totems and kicks and Arthur was just stupidly grateful that they did not use him as the test subject/guinea pig.
Now John fiddles with the iPod he had borrowed from Ariadne, setting it to the kick they’d worked out: “So Long, and Thanks For All The Fish”.
“Hope you brought a book,” Arthur says as they get comfortable, sitting in chairs and on the floor around the boy.
“Always,” and John shows him the cover of a Doctor Who novel. The title proclaims it as an Eighth Doctor story.
“Back in a few,” and they plunge into dreams.
***
After a long and begrudging moment Holmes mutters, “Excellent work.”
They are standing in a classroom that smells of turpentine, chalk, and electronics. The mid-afternoon sun pours in through the windows. From outside drift the shouts and thumps of boys on the football pitch; girls whooping and gossiping; cars driving past.
“Hello, who are you?”
They all turn to the mark, who has just entered the classroom. His shirt seems clean enough, but it’s shredded around the hems. The tie has fared no better.
Arthur quickly glances down at himself. His own school uniform seems all in place.
“Oh, hi, Geoffrey,” a girl’s voice says behind him.
He knows that it’s Eames, but the white blouse and pleated skirt in knee-length glen plaid say otherwise, as does the upswept hairdo of honey-golden curls, strands falling around a heart-shaped face. Her face falls a little. “Aww, come on, can't you remember me? It's Anne from maths class....”
“Um, hi, Anne....”
“Good to see you again, Geoff,” and it’s Holmes’s rumbling voice speaking next. He, too, is wearing a school uniform, though he seems to have made a production out of discarding his tie and stuffing it in his pocket. “Did’ja leave that book on Chomsky in the library for me?”
“Um, yes?”
“Jolly good! I’ll be back,” and he’s gone.
“I’m going with him, he promised to let me crib his notes,” Yusuf says, and chases the detective out.
Leaving Arthur with the mark and Eames.
Eames / Anne is currently sitting on the edge of the teacher’s desk, legs crossed primly, smiling at Geoffrey. “You know, I thought you were good friends with that kid who sat in the back of the class. What was his name, Jack or something?”
Geoffrey smiles, looks shifty. “Jim, Jim Moriarty.”
“Oh, yes, him!” Eames shifts her features into a complicated mix of pout and smile. “I'm supposed to be studying French with him, you know, like after-class work, but I haven't seen hide nor hair of him - have you? Or don't tell me he's skiving off now....”
“He...has, I guess,” Geoffrey answers, staring fixedly at the black butterfly pins in “her” hair. They are ornamented with tiny crystals in green and blue. “Haven't been talking to him.”
“Do you know where he's gone? My mam's going to be so angry if I don't pass French, you know, going to run off screaming I'm a disgrace to the family as usual....”
Arthur snorts quietly; Eames has been teaching Ariadne the rather coarser points of the French language - the sort of cadences and vocabulary that could help her blend into various seedy alleys all over the country - while also helping her with papers on Baudelaire, Fauvism, and Eco.
He himself has picked up a few new idioms in various languages, all melodiously derogatory, just listening to Eames talking himself through another dossier of information on some new mark. True, the new phrases would get him instantly kicked out of any number of respectable libraries, coffeeshops, boutiques, and cafes in Europe, but they're extremely useful phrases all the same.
Geoffrey's frown has been steadily getting darker as he mutters to himself; Arthur edges silently closer, reading his lips - Paris London Brussels Florence Kyoto Tokyo Singapore - and makes a note to tip Saito off about the visitor to his home city.
“Sorry, Anne,” Geoffrey finally says. “I really don't know where he's gone. Maybe...maybe we could study French together instead?”
So long so long so long....
“Oui, certainement,” Eames / Anne replies, and then they're gone.
***
“He's certainly been traveling the world,” Holmes says grumpily when they reenter the suite at Claridge’s. “These destinations present too many possibilities. He needs to keep moving, and I need more time to pinpoint what he is working on.”
“And are you going to share these ideas with the rest of the class?” DI Lestrade asks from the rolltop desk in the corner of the suite. He is cradling a cup of tea in one sunburned hand. There are several thick folders spread out on the glass, nearly all of them spilling their contents in some fashion or another.
Dom passes over his own files and Arthur glances at the photographs: the back of a person's head passing through Customs in Florence; a dashing blur among slower and faster blurs walking in Singapore; a man with his back to the camera, hands in his pockets at the Hachiko statue in Tokyo.
“He would pick that place to be photographed,” Saito comments sourly. “Everyone in Japan knows about Hachiko, and there are people around that statue at all hours. I need more data, Mr. Holmes.”
“Data, data, data - it always comes down to data,” is the equally surly answer.
***
All their efforts are finally rendered moot when a woman in crisp Claridge’s livery knocks on the door of the suite three days later.
“Yes, hello?” Arthur hears Yusuf ask in bewildered tones. According to the clock over the fireplace, it is 1:58 in the morning - too early even for the first newspapers to begin delivering.
“Do you have a Mr. Sherlock Holmes here by any chance? We have a package for him here. The gentleman was most insistent that his present be delivered immediately.”
Arthur, John, and Eames exchange looks and then they're crowding Yusuf at the door. The doctor finally manages to slip through the scrum they've made and dashes for the elevator, one finger already raised to stab at the Down button.
Arthur smiles at the flustered employee and holds out his hand. “Yes, I'm him, may I sign for my package?” Eames lends him his battered Livescribe pen. “Oh, could you tell me about the person this came from? I'm rather expecting several packages today and I'd like to be able to keep track of them, thank you so much.”
The girl's livery is a little crumpled around the edges, but she smiles tentatively back at them. “Er, yes - he was sort of short, wore a nice grey suit with a red shirt and a grey tie. Very short hair. Um, he didn't talk much, said he had a cold?”
Arthur finishes reading off the details of the invoice, smiles and takes the package, his face perfectly smooth. He slips the girl ten pounds. “Thank you.”
Eames and Dom are grinning at him as he closes the door. “Somehow,” Dom mutters, “I get the feeling he'll still be offended that you impersonated him, even though you did get some evidence.”
“We hope we've found some evidence,” Eames mutters darkly. His hand, Arthur notices, has once again disappeared into the pocket with the chain.
Ring ring.
Ariadne picks up: “Hello?” Arthur watches her as her eyebrows attempt to climb into her hair. “Yeah, they have the package, yeah, we'll wait for the DI. Gotcha. Come back up, John.”
Arthur immediately puts the package down in the center of the unused bed and notes, “She was wearing gloves, and I only touched it on the label and the short ends.”
Someone knocks on the door and almost everyone else jumps in shock. John looks no better when Yusuf buzzes him in; he's ashen-faced. “That was him.”
***
Their second visit to New Scotland Yard sees them head straight downstairs into the morgue.
“Ah, good, Molly's out,” Holmes says with satisfaction as he sheds his coat and scarf.
Arthur still doesn't know how he's managed to survive the stifling heat.
Holmes deftly unwraps the package - and reveals a touchscreen phone in a bright pink casing.
John groans feelingly, buries his face in his hands.
Arthur reaches over one of the tables and a precariously balanced rack of test tubes to pat his shoulder, and Ariadne gets down from her stool to stand next to him, rubbing his upper arm soothingly.
To everyone's surprise, Holmes approaches them and plants a heavy hand on John's other shoulder. “We'll get him this time and you can have first crack at him, my friend.”
John's mouth firms, thins into a resolute line. “Thank you, Sherlock.”
“Try shooting him in the kneecap first,” Arthur mutters, which is followed by a faint laugh coming from Dom's direction. “Hurts a lot, means he isn't going anywhere else.”
“I know,” John replies weakly.
When the phone rings they're all ready to dash out the door.
fin
author: ilovetakahana
characters: Inception - Dom, Arthur, Eames, Ariadne, Yusuf, Saito // Sherlock - Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, Donovan, Moriarty [Irene Adler, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson are mentioned]
warnings: It's 3000+ words of an Inception/Sherlock crossover - isn't that warning enough? Spoilers for Inception and the first three episodes of Sherlock. Some violence. Cliffhanger ending mostly because I don't want to speculate on what Moffat and Gatiss have planned for the next series. [Don't kill me!]
disclaimer: I don't own the original stories or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: Having survived multiple encounters with Moriarty, Holmes calls in some help.
This is also partly a fill for this prompt at inception_kink.
Arthur stares at his mobile phone as it beeps insistently at him, backlit screen flashing the name of the caller:
DCobb calling
On the fourth ring he picks up and murmurs, “I thought you were out of the business?”
Even at this distance, with no way of telling for sure, he thinks he can hear a grin in the other man’s voice: “Out for good, and thanks for everything,” Dom replies. “But when this new client checked out perfectly I...I just had to come in on the job. You’ll understand. You have to confirm you’re in, first.”
Arthur feels the beginnings of a headache worm their way in around his temples and absently digs his knuckles in on one side and then the other, before replying: “A client who checked out completely perfectly? Since when did this kind of person exist? This is actually legit?”
“Yes,” is the reply, with a slight hint of What do you take me for? buried beneath.
“Dom, because it’s my job to worry. That’s why you have me around.”
Dom chuckles knowingly. “Point. Come on, Arthur, you’re going to like this job.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Arthur mutters. Then, half-resigned: “All right, all right. I’m in. Now give.”
“Sending you the information now.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow at his laptop screen. “Dom. Are you sure you’re awake? And are you sure you’re not pulling my leg? What do you mean by www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk?”
“Just GO, Arthur.” There is now a bite in the voice down the lines.
He gets as far as sympathizing with the quote “I would kill every one of you for a cigarette. - SH” before muttering, “I don’t know what he needs us for if he’s already got the ability to take over the world, by himself, cigarettes or no.” To Dom: “What does a consulting detective WANT with us?”
“Interested? We’ll get the rest of the details when the team’s complete.”
“And who exactly are we calling the team here?”
“All of us, at Saito’s insistence. And apparently Holmes wants his assistant to be part of the case. A Dr. John Watson. He can assist Yusuf and make sure we’re okay. Don’t worry about him - he knows about dream-share tech.”
Arthur is already Googling. “This doctor’s got a blog...a war vet? I guess that’s how he knows. Okay. Shall I call the others or are you going to put them through the same dog-and-pony act you just pulled on me?”
Dom laughs. It’s a little rusty from disuse, but it’s a welcome sound. “Go get them, will you? I’ll send you the tickets within the hour.”
“Well THIS should be interesting.”
***
London in August is muggy, hot, and hard on the clothes, so Arthur reluctantly switches out his usual three-piece suits for lighter cotton and linen.
When he arrives in London he’s met by a familiar face: Dr. John Watson. In stark contrast to Arthur’s tailored look he’s wearing slightly distressed jeans, a light cotton pullover, and a battered pair of running shoes.
Arthur says, “Good to meet you, Dr. Watson.”
“Likewise, Mr. Hardy,” is the reply, accompanied by a firm handshake. “And please, I’d rather you called me John. Will you follow me? Apparently we’re meeting at Claridge’s because the flat’s too small for all of us and Mrs. Hudson’s in hysterics trying to clean up after Sherlock. Oh, and because you’re all staying there, of course.”
Arthur smiles and senses a kindred spirit. “I take it he’s not, hmm, methodical about picking up after himself?”
John cracks a small but definitely amused smile of his own. “Try this: he never does. Taxi!”
***
It’s not really that difficult to find the team at Claridge’s.
This probably has to do with the fact that a very tall man in an incongruous long coat is arguing with Saito, who seems to be a little rattled but is managing to hold his own.
“This is no place for a meeting; I can’t think here!”
Arthur slides into a seat next to Eames (who is actually wearing a proper three-piece suit today; will wonders never cease) and is promptly offered some popcorn. A quick look around shows that not only is John now cramming a handful into his mouth - and Yusuf still has the bowl tilted helpfully in his direction - but Dom and Ariadne are also chewing thoughtfully.
John is also not above egging on the other two, as he quickly chucks a fluffy white kernel at the taller man, which lands neatly in his collars.
“Stop it, John,” the tall man finally growls after the third direct hit, which is still lodged above his ear when he sits down with a loud huff.
“Not my fault,” is the immediate riposte. “And you can’t exactly run around accusing someone in particular at this table because I am not the only one present who can handle a gun, and you’ve been jumping down the throat of the only person here without greasy fingers.”
Arthur has the sudden idea that John has been wanting to stump him for a while.
“It’s still down to you,” the tall man declares, “because you’re the only person who’s ever had a history of playing such childish tricks. Such as hiding my nicotine patches and taking my jar of eyeballs out of the microwave.”
“Because therapy works so well. No, this way is much more satisfying, ta very much.”
Dom snorts quietly in amusement at Watson’s response, while Ariadne turns green around the gills at the mention of eyeballs.
Saito finally cuts through the byplay by clearing his throat and nodding at the rest of the team. “Lady and gentlemen, may I introduce Sherlock Holmes.”
***
The first thing John does when they get into their hotel suite is say: “Bum a gun off any one of you?”
Everyone stares, and Arthur’s hands stop dead over the PASIV.
As Ariadne is sitting right on top of her own suitcases she hesitates for only a moment before extracting her Smith & Wesson M&P and handing it over.
John does a quick but thorough check of the gun, humming approvingly, before cocking it - and aiming it straight at Holmes’s head.
“Oh, carry on,” he says cheerfully to the rest of the room.
Arthur feels the breeze as Ariadne hops up from her bags, the tails of her cardigan and scarf flipping, squeezes hurriedly in between him and Eames, and hides behind them. She is gripping his elbow and Eames’s wrist. Her eyes are wide and wavering between “amused” and “oh hell psychopath run AWAY”.
John continues, addressing Holmes in a tight voice. “You are not to touch the PASIV; our colleagues will put you under and take you out, if I'm not around. You will be supervised at all times. You are not to use the device alone. You. Will not. Touch it. Are we clear, Sherlock?”
“Very. Incidentally, are you a soldier or a mother hen?”
Dom snorts and looks away; there is a suspiciously amused glint in his eyes.
Of course he would find this amusing. Why else did he find so many reasons to turn up at various workshops and hidey-holes during the planning stages of all the other jobs they’d done after? Privately, Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne had long since agreed that Dom showed up under flimsy excuses just to feel the excitement and - all right, they were all mature enough to admit it - immature humor of the team working together.
This, though, was some different kind of humor altogether.
***
Once they’re all under, Arthur notices that they are standing in a second-floor apartment. John is the dreamer, and he’s standing with arms folded casually across his chest, blocking the door.
He still has a gun, and it’s still pointed casually in Holmes’s direction.
Arthur is discomfited to notice a skull over the fireplace, perched on a stack of books.
Holmes paces around the chairs like he knows every inch of the flat; his shock of dark hair bobs comically around his ears with every sharp U-turn. “I am in pursuit of someone calling himself Jim Moriarty. He has already attempted to kill the two of us three times. Apiece, mind you. Now I am looking for clues as to where he is and I have tracked down one of his associates. So the case is simple: I cannot get him to talk because he is heavily sedated, so I have to go into his mind and extract the information.
“Unfortunately, New Scotland Yard has not been able to get their hands on a proper PASIV device as of present and is not keen on finding one through any means.”
“And you haven’t the resources to do this yourself?” Eames asks, the first time he’s said anything. “I find that hard to believe, sir. I know people who talk about you in whispers. I know people who’ve fled the home islands just to feel safer in their beds at night knowing you’re nowhere nearby. And I know a certain woman whom you will not name.”
Arthur hides his grin behind his hand. He had been there for that particular meeting; it had been funny and infuriating at the same time. Eames himself only ever referred to her as “Adler” - this despite the woman in question being his stepsister.
[“And you wonder how I learned to be such a dastardly criminal mastermind,” he’d joked to Arthur, after they’d fled her presence.
“Dastardly, yes; criminal, definitely. Mastermind?” Arthur had replied. “I’ll get back to you on that.”]
Arthur watches as Holmes glares at him and Eames with extreme disdain and just a hint of respect, takes a moment to clench his fists at his sides, before taking up the thread of his narrative again. “I understand you are the world’s foremost experts in this technology, and so we are meeting to discuss extraction.”
The expressions on Ariadne’s and John’s faces are identical: You’ll tell me this story or I’ll hurt you.
He winks at them both and turns back to Holmes.
***
At tea-time, John, Arthur, and Ariadne are clustered in the back of a sandwich shop around the corner; after a few moments, Eames joins them, his hands full of snacks.
“So, tell,” Ariadne demands after she inhales half of a chocolate bar, which is packed with nuts and raisins and makes Arthur wince and look away. “Who is Adler and why did Mr. Holmes react so badly to you mentioning her?”
Arthur watches as Eames’s hands twitch - he can’t smoke in here - and settle reluctantly around a chipped mug of tea. “So, yeah, there’s this woman, you know, her name’s Adler and she’s my stepsister - my dad kind of had an affair a long time ago.”
John’s eyes narrow as though waiting for a blow, a punchline, or both.
“She’s kind of a legend in some of the circles where I move. She taught me how to forge, you know. Her specialty’s forging into a person of the opposite sex - I remember her going into a dream and pulling lots of female projections - left me free to extract things.”
“And?” Ariadne asks impatiently.
“Think Mal,” Arthur says, grinning; Eames chokes on his jammy dodgers. “Only she was real, and completely capable of doing all sorts of Very Bad Things, and sneaky as all hell.”
She stares for a long moment and then blushes, and then chuckles, and then suddenly she’s nearly falling off her chair laughing. “I shouldn’t be laughing! Why am I laughing! This is so bad! Oh my god....”
At John’s blank expression Arthur and Eames hastily explain, and the doctor lets out a startled guffaw of his own. “And you lot survived that? No, forget this Shade business, you two actually managed to survive Miss Adler?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call my case surviving,” Eames mutters.
“Then I think you’re all even crazier than the man I share a flat with.”
“No objections here,” Arthur and Eames say together, half under their breath.
***
Arthur knows he actually has a legitimate reason to be visiting New Scotland Yard today, but he’s not the only one to look around for more discreet exits once they’re through the doors and on their way to DI Lestrade’s office.
He and Eames flank Ariadne like a pair of bodyguards, and he can feel the strength of her grip around his wrist. She is wide-eyed: wonder? Fear? They don’t exactly work in a legitimate capacity, all things considered, and this place is just one of the many Ground Zeros for worldwide law enforcement.
A black woman with impressive curls glares at them, and Arthur sees her eyes flick disapprovingly past Holmes.
The tall man promptly says, “Hands off, now, Lieutenant Donovan. Almost everyone in this group has already been spoken for.”
Which comment is then met with various reactions. Ariadne squeaks, shooting a wide-eyed look at Dom, who is simply grinning down at his shoes. Arthur looks everywhere but at Eames, who has one hand jammed firmly in the pocket that has a chain trailing out of it. An oblivious Saito is serenely talking to someone on his mobile phone, and Yusuf simply looks around, very confused.
“For the last time, Holmes, no one is talking, thinking, or dreaming about PASIV devices here!” Another policeman joins the group, gesticulating wildly, his silver hair gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. He glances at everyone, eyes stopping with surprise on Dom and the silver case next to his feet. “Are you all with this pair then? Follow me.”
Once the door is locked in Lestrade’s office, Holmes simply flashes him a smug little smile. “Mind your manners, Inspector, you are in the company of experts here.”
“Am I now? You and which army?”
John snorts and makes introductions: “Detective Inspector Lestrade: meet the team that performed that impossible thing Sherlock mentioned to you yesterday.”
***
Arthur has never been a fan of police stations.
He suspects Eames shares his feelings.
But here they are in the depths of one, somewhere in London. Underground lie the cells where the particularly nasty local elements are bunked down for the night.
Arthur is more than familiar with the idea of a skinny boy of sixteen as a master criminal - he’d heard enough stories from Eames and Adler, talking about learning how to forge at twelve and thirteen respectively - and he himself had dropped out of college to take up his current position of Point Man.
In this case, “familiar” has nothing to do with “comfortable”.
This may have something to do with the boy in question being straitjacketed on the hard bed, sleeping the heavy, insensate sleep of sedation.
Yusuf watches critically as John swabs down his wrist, then Holmes’s, then Eames’s and finally Arthur’s.
Last night they had taught John about the merits of totems and kicks and Arthur was just stupidly grateful that they did not use him as the test subject/guinea pig.
Now John fiddles with the iPod he had borrowed from Ariadne, setting it to the kick they’d worked out: “So Long, and Thanks For All The Fish”.
“Hope you brought a book,” Arthur says as they get comfortable, sitting in chairs and on the floor around the boy.
“Always,” and John shows him the cover of a Doctor Who novel. The title proclaims it as an Eighth Doctor story.
“Back in a few,” and they plunge into dreams.
***
After a long and begrudging moment Holmes mutters, “Excellent work.”
They are standing in a classroom that smells of turpentine, chalk, and electronics. The mid-afternoon sun pours in through the windows. From outside drift the shouts and thumps of boys on the football pitch; girls whooping and gossiping; cars driving past.
“Hello, who are you?”
They all turn to the mark, who has just entered the classroom. His shirt seems clean enough, but it’s shredded around the hems. The tie has fared no better.
Arthur quickly glances down at himself. His own school uniform seems all in place.
“Oh, hi, Geoffrey,” a girl’s voice says behind him.
He knows that it’s Eames, but the white blouse and pleated skirt in knee-length glen plaid say otherwise, as does the upswept hairdo of honey-golden curls, strands falling around a heart-shaped face. Her face falls a little. “Aww, come on, can't you remember me? It's Anne from maths class....”
“Um, hi, Anne....”
“Good to see you again, Geoff,” and it’s Holmes’s rumbling voice speaking next. He, too, is wearing a school uniform, though he seems to have made a production out of discarding his tie and stuffing it in his pocket. “Did’ja leave that book on Chomsky in the library for me?”
“Um, yes?”
“Jolly good! I’ll be back,” and he’s gone.
“I’m going with him, he promised to let me crib his notes,” Yusuf says, and chases the detective out.
Leaving Arthur with the mark and Eames.
Eames / Anne is currently sitting on the edge of the teacher’s desk, legs crossed primly, smiling at Geoffrey. “You know, I thought you were good friends with that kid who sat in the back of the class. What was his name, Jack or something?”
Geoffrey smiles, looks shifty. “Jim, Jim Moriarty.”
“Oh, yes, him!” Eames shifts her features into a complicated mix of pout and smile. “I'm supposed to be studying French with him, you know, like after-class work, but I haven't seen hide nor hair of him - have you? Or don't tell me he's skiving off now....”
“He...has, I guess,” Geoffrey answers, staring fixedly at the black butterfly pins in “her” hair. They are ornamented with tiny crystals in green and blue. “Haven't been talking to him.”
“Do you know where he's gone? My mam's going to be so angry if I don't pass French, you know, going to run off screaming I'm a disgrace to the family as usual....”
Arthur snorts quietly; Eames has been teaching Ariadne the rather coarser points of the French language - the sort of cadences and vocabulary that could help her blend into various seedy alleys all over the country - while also helping her with papers on Baudelaire, Fauvism, and Eco.
He himself has picked up a few new idioms in various languages, all melodiously derogatory, just listening to Eames talking himself through another dossier of information on some new mark. True, the new phrases would get him instantly kicked out of any number of respectable libraries, coffeeshops, boutiques, and cafes in Europe, but they're extremely useful phrases all the same.
Geoffrey's frown has been steadily getting darker as he mutters to himself; Arthur edges silently closer, reading his lips - Paris London Brussels Florence Kyoto Tokyo Singapore - and makes a note to tip Saito off about the visitor to his home city.
“Sorry, Anne,” Geoffrey finally says. “I really don't know where he's gone. Maybe...maybe we could study French together instead?”
So long so long so long....
“Oui, certainement,” Eames / Anne replies, and then they're gone.
***
“He's certainly been traveling the world,” Holmes says grumpily when they reenter the suite at Claridge’s. “These destinations present too many possibilities. He needs to keep moving, and I need more time to pinpoint what he is working on.”
“And are you going to share these ideas with the rest of the class?” DI Lestrade asks from the rolltop desk in the corner of the suite. He is cradling a cup of tea in one sunburned hand. There are several thick folders spread out on the glass, nearly all of them spilling their contents in some fashion or another.
Dom passes over his own files and Arthur glances at the photographs: the back of a person's head passing through Customs in Florence; a dashing blur among slower and faster blurs walking in Singapore; a man with his back to the camera, hands in his pockets at the Hachiko statue in Tokyo.
“He would pick that place to be photographed,” Saito comments sourly. “Everyone in Japan knows about Hachiko, and there are people around that statue at all hours. I need more data, Mr. Holmes.”
“Data, data, data - it always comes down to data,” is the equally surly answer.
***
All their efforts are finally rendered moot when a woman in crisp Claridge’s livery knocks on the door of the suite three days later.
“Yes, hello?” Arthur hears Yusuf ask in bewildered tones. According to the clock over the fireplace, it is 1:58 in the morning - too early even for the first newspapers to begin delivering.
“Do you have a Mr. Sherlock Holmes here by any chance? We have a package for him here. The gentleman was most insistent that his present be delivered immediately.”
Arthur, John, and Eames exchange looks and then they're crowding Yusuf at the door. The doctor finally manages to slip through the scrum they've made and dashes for the elevator, one finger already raised to stab at the Down button.
Arthur smiles at the flustered employee and holds out his hand. “Yes, I'm him, may I sign for my package?” Eames lends him his battered Livescribe pen. “Oh, could you tell me about the person this came from? I'm rather expecting several packages today and I'd like to be able to keep track of them, thank you so much.”
The girl's livery is a little crumpled around the edges, but she smiles tentatively back at them. “Er, yes - he was sort of short, wore a nice grey suit with a red shirt and a grey tie. Very short hair. Um, he didn't talk much, said he had a cold?”
Arthur finishes reading off the details of the invoice, smiles and takes the package, his face perfectly smooth. He slips the girl ten pounds. “Thank you.”
Eames and Dom are grinning at him as he closes the door. “Somehow,” Dom mutters, “I get the feeling he'll still be offended that you impersonated him, even though you did get some evidence.”
“We hope we've found some evidence,” Eames mutters darkly. His hand, Arthur notices, has once again disappeared into the pocket with the chain.
Ring ring.
Ariadne picks up: “Hello?” Arthur watches her as her eyebrows attempt to climb into her hair. “Yeah, they have the package, yeah, we'll wait for the DI. Gotcha. Come back up, John.”
Arthur immediately puts the package down in the center of the unused bed and notes, “She was wearing gloves, and I only touched it on the label and the short ends.”
Someone knocks on the door and almost everyone else jumps in shock. John looks no better when Yusuf buzzes him in; he's ashen-faced. “That was him.”
***
Their second visit to New Scotland Yard sees them head straight downstairs into the morgue.
“Ah, good, Molly's out,” Holmes says with satisfaction as he sheds his coat and scarf.
Arthur still doesn't know how he's managed to survive the stifling heat.
Holmes deftly unwraps the package - and reveals a touchscreen phone in a bright pink casing.
John groans feelingly, buries his face in his hands.
Arthur reaches over one of the tables and a precariously balanced rack of test tubes to pat his shoulder, and Ariadne gets down from her stool to stand next to him, rubbing his upper arm soothingly.
To everyone's surprise, Holmes approaches them and plants a heavy hand on John's other shoulder. “We'll get him this time and you can have first crack at him, my friend.”
John's mouth firms, thins into a resolute line. “Thank you, Sherlock.”
“Try shooting him in the kneecap first,” Arthur mutters, which is followed by a faint laugh coming from Dom's direction. “Hurts a lot, means he isn't going anywhere else.”
“I know,” John replies weakly.
When the phone rings they're all ready to dash out the door.
fin