The American Affair: Chapter 4
The American Affair: Chapter 4
David wasn’t sure what to make of these specialists. They were British, for one, and David was pretty sure that American police rarely involved foreign specialists. And they didn’t look like any detectives David had ever seen; the tall one was far too tailored and too striking. If David had seen him on the street, he would have assumed he was some sort of male model, skinny and vaguely alien-looking without the makeup. It was only when the man’s attention was focused directly on someone, picking them apart like he had picked David apart at a glace, did one really see what he could be...what he was.
The shorter one, David was sorry to say, barely registered at first. Nondescript hair and clothes, shorter but still average height, worn features; he looked like he could be a cop, David thought. Someone used to undercover work and skilled at sinking into the background. David only really noticed him when Sherlock, and what kind of name was Sherlock. It sounds old, brought attention to him.
It was the shorter one that David watched as they left the precinct. His name was Doctor Watson, Call me John, yeah? but he didn’t seem like any doctor David had ever known. For one, he didn’t hold himself like a doctor. David had spent his live around men in peak physical fitness, and he could see when a man was, not just in shape, but in shape with a purpose. John definitely had a purpose; the man was ready for a physical threat.
What kind of detective looked like a model and traveled with a doctor who looked like a bodyguard?
John was looking out the window, craning his neck down to try and see the tops of the skyscrapers.
“First time in The City?” David asked.
John turned and gave David a slightly sheepish grin. It changed his whole face, revealing deep laugh lines and made his eyes sparkle. It was very--charming. David found himself warming to John. “That obvious?”
David shrugged. “Everybody walks around New York looking up when they first get here. You know The City’s lost it’s magic when you see them looking down.”
Sherlock made a noise behind David, and John glared at him over David’s shoulder. It was a worn expression, slipped into with ease and only half-meant after so much time. It was the type of expression David saw in older married couples, the ones who would bicker and complain of each other, and still love each other more than life. It was the type of expression that was starting to creep into his own relationship.
Were they lovers, then? It would explain the way they revolved around each other, constantly aware of the other’s presence. And it would explain why John stuck around--a charming, extremely fit and competent man, could have his pick. If he loved Sherlock, there must be something extraordinary, something to keep John around, because David didn’t think he could put up with the man’s annoyances. Like the way he was perched dramatically in his seat. David didn’t know anyone who could perch dramatically (except, maybe, Kurt Hummel - Diva).
Of course, that didn’t go any farther in explaining why the NYPD had called them in; David was pretty sure there was some sort of anti-fraternization rule. Though, maybe that was the Army.
“You have questions,” Sherlock said, and David startled. He didn’t remember Sherlock’s voice being that deep. “Of course you do. Ask them.”
“Sherlock,” John said, and there was a note of steeled warning in his voice. Sherlock waved it off with a flick of his fingers, but put his phone down.
“I promise, I’ll be nice,” Sherlock said to John, vaguely sing-song. David got the distinct impression that they were flirting around him. He cleared his throat.
“Tim didn’t run. I was right, wasn’t I.”
“That much is obvious,” Sherlock murmured. “What clued you in?”
David could feel John frowning on his other side, but he answered in a steady voice. “I’ve never heard of the police calling in a specialist from another country to investigate a disappearance that could easily turn out to be him running off with his boyfriend.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well reasoned, but you knew before we showed up. We just confirm what you had already suspected. Why?”
David looked away. “He had no reason to leave. Even if his new boyfriend wanted to whisk him away, Tim had just settled in. There’s no way he wouldn’t at least tell his landlady.” He paused. “He left everything; open projects at work, his things, his cat.”
“People to get sentimental about their pets,” Sherlock murmured, and pulled out his phone again.
David looked at John, who smiled sympathetically. “Yeah,” He said. “He’s always like that.”
***
The taxi pulled up in front of one of the skyscrapers, and they piled out onto the curb. John tried to keep his gawping to a minimum. After all, he lived in London. A major metropolis, that had it’s own share of impressive buildings. And the Gherkin. It was just--the scale of Manhattan was enormous. And the people walking by seemed much louder with their New York accents.
David led them into the building, past the security desk (where John signed in for both of them, because Sherlock was off inspecting some little detail that only he could see, the tosser), and to the lifts.
“I’ll take you to his office, first,” David said, pressing the button. “He technically worked for my partner, Rich. I can take you to him next, if you like.”
Sherlock nodded sharply, and put his phone in his pocket, standing with his hands behind his back as they waited for the lift. John eyed Sherlock as they waited. There was something the detective was hiding, deliberately hiding, from John. Nothing bad, John was sure. There was a playful hint about him. Internally, John sighed and prepared himself. Sherlock had a notoriously strange sense of humor.
The lift arrived and they entered, David standing squarely in the door-frame, making it look like just enough of an accident when another man in a suit came running, shouting for them to hold the door, and it closed in his face.
John tried to swallow a smile, but David saw, and flushed, faintly. “Sorry. That was rude, I know, but he eats God-knows-what on his lunches. You don’t want to be stuck in an elevator with him.”
“Ta,” John said, letting the grin show, and David ushered them off when they arrived at Tim’s floor. The office was mostly open, with several desks pushed together so that the employees sat facing each other in clusters. The walls were lined with the doors to the offices.
“His office is this way,” he said. “He earned himself a window just a few months ago. I had to find him here once or twice when he was running late for lunch.” Tim’s door was the only one closed, and David unlocked the door to let them in. “I have the master key,” he said, “because I’m a partner. When the cops took an interest, I had Irene come down and lock the door.”
John saw Sherlock’s head jerk at the name, and bit his lip. John knew Sherlock well enough to know nothing romantic had happened between them, but still--the whole affair was--well--Irene could have been a friend. And goodness knows, John knew how hard Sherlock had taken the news of her death. To this day, little mentions of her name left Sherlock searching, as if he never quite believed Irene Adler had died.
Sherlock swept into Tim’s office. John looked around. It looked--like an office. Still, after years of observing and learning Sherlock’s methods, it takes John a minute to rework the way he looks at things. He took a deep breath and looked closer.
It still looked like an office. The furniture matched the rest of the building--provided by the company then. There were no photograph, no personal touches aside from a non-standard issue palm-rest in front of his keyboard and a mug that read “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” In fact, the most telling aspect of the room was that it wasn’t telling.
Sherlock sat at the desk and started rifling through the drawers. David winced beside John. “Sherlock--” John started.
“The man was in love, John, newly in love. There would be some indicator of who he was in love with.”
“Not necessarily,” David said. “I mean, Tim wasn’t out at work, and his boyfriend was a client here. If he kept anything, it would be at his apartment. But I doubt there would be much--professional athletes can go to some lengths to keep their personal lives out of the spotlight. Especially if that love-life involved another man.”
Sherlock slammed the drawer shut. John noticed that he had gone through them all, anyway. “You’re certain he was a client?”
David nodded. “Yes. He said so, himself, when he was telling my why he couldn’t tell me more. He assured me he wasn’t one of his own clients, but that’s all.”
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table top. “I need to see his apartment,” he muttered. “Can you get me a list of clients?”
John saw David’s eyebrows rise. “This firm acts as agent to hundreds of--.”
Sherlock waved him off. “I don’t need his, obviously. That should narrow it down a bit.”
“David nodded, I can have Irene compile a list. It’s a matter of public record, anyway. Come on upstairs. I can get it for you while you meet with Rich.”
Once again Sherlock led the way, his coat flapping behind him. David gestured for John to follow, and the three pressed once more into the lift.
When the doors opened again, David left them out and to the left. This floor was a lot more ornate, with the flash of wealth and power.
“Irene,” David said. “These are the specialists looking into Tim’s disappearance. This is--”
John stopped stock still as the secretary stood from behind her desk. “No,” he whispered.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Irene Adler said. “And Doctor Watson.”
Chapter 3
Chapter 5
David wasn’t sure what to make of these specialists. They were British, for one, and David was pretty sure that American police rarely involved foreign specialists. And they didn’t look like any detectives David had ever seen; the tall one was far too tailored and too striking. If David had seen him on the street, he would have assumed he was some sort of male model, skinny and vaguely alien-looking without the makeup. It was only when the man’s attention was focused directly on someone, picking them apart like he had picked David apart at a glace, did one really see what he could be...what he was.
The shorter one, David was sorry to say, barely registered at first. Nondescript hair and clothes, shorter but still average height, worn features; he looked like he could be a cop, David thought. Someone used to undercover work and skilled at sinking into the background. David only really noticed him when Sherlock, and what kind of name was Sherlock. It sounds old, brought attention to him.
It was the shorter one that David watched as they left the precinct. His name was Doctor Watson, Call me John, yeah? but he didn’t seem like any doctor David had ever known. For one, he didn’t hold himself like a doctor. David had spent his live around men in peak physical fitness, and he could see when a man was, not just in shape, but in shape with a purpose. John definitely had a purpose; the man was ready for a physical threat.
What kind of detective looked like a model and traveled with a doctor who looked like a bodyguard?
John was looking out the window, craning his neck down to try and see the tops of the skyscrapers.
“First time in The City?” David asked.
John turned and gave David a slightly sheepish grin. It changed his whole face, revealing deep laugh lines and made his eyes sparkle. It was very--charming. David found himself warming to John. “That obvious?”
David shrugged. “Everybody walks around New York looking up when they first get here. You know The City’s lost it’s magic when you see them looking down.”
Sherlock made a noise behind David, and John glared at him over David’s shoulder. It was a worn expression, slipped into with ease and only half-meant after so much time. It was the type of expression David saw in older married couples, the ones who would bicker and complain of each other, and still love each other more than life. It was the type of expression that was starting to creep into his own relationship.
Were they lovers, then? It would explain the way they revolved around each other, constantly aware of the other’s presence. And it would explain why John stuck around--a charming, extremely fit and competent man, could have his pick. If he loved Sherlock, there must be something extraordinary, something to keep John around, because David didn’t think he could put up with the man’s annoyances. Like the way he was perched dramatically in his seat. David didn’t know anyone who could perch dramatically (except, maybe, Kurt Hummel - Diva).
Of course, that didn’t go any farther in explaining why the NYPD had called them in; David was pretty sure there was some sort of anti-fraternization rule. Though, maybe that was the Army.
“You have questions,” Sherlock said, and David startled. He didn’t remember Sherlock’s voice being that deep. “Of course you do. Ask them.”
“Sherlock,” John said, and there was a note of steeled warning in his voice. Sherlock waved it off with a flick of his fingers, but put his phone down.
“I promise, I’ll be nice,” Sherlock said to John, vaguely sing-song. David got the distinct impression that they were flirting around him. He cleared his throat.
“Tim didn’t run. I was right, wasn’t I.”
“That much is obvious,” Sherlock murmured. “What clued you in?”
David could feel John frowning on his other side, but he answered in a steady voice. “I’ve never heard of the police calling in a specialist from another country to investigate a disappearance that could easily turn out to be him running off with his boyfriend.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well reasoned, but you knew before we showed up. We just confirm what you had already suspected. Why?”
David looked away. “He had no reason to leave. Even if his new boyfriend wanted to whisk him away, Tim had just settled in. There’s no way he wouldn’t at least tell his landlady.” He paused. “He left everything; open projects at work, his things, his cat.”
“People to get sentimental about their pets,” Sherlock murmured, and pulled out his phone again.
David looked at John, who smiled sympathetically. “Yeah,” He said. “He’s always like that.”
***
The taxi pulled up in front of one of the skyscrapers, and they piled out onto the curb. John tried to keep his gawping to a minimum. After all, he lived in London. A major metropolis, that had it’s own share of impressive buildings. And the Gherkin. It was just--the scale of Manhattan was enormous. And the people walking by seemed much louder with their New York accents.
David led them into the building, past the security desk (where John signed in for both of them, because Sherlock was off inspecting some little detail that only he could see, the tosser), and to the lifts.
“I’ll take you to his office, first,” David said, pressing the button. “He technically worked for my partner, Rich. I can take you to him next, if you like.”
Sherlock nodded sharply, and put his phone in his pocket, standing with his hands behind his back as they waited for the lift. John eyed Sherlock as they waited. There was something the detective was hiding, deliberately hiding, from John. Nothing bad, John was sure. There was a playful hint about him. Internally, John sighed and prepared himself. Sherlock had a notoriously strange sense of humor.
The lift arrived and they entered, David standing squarely in the door-frame, making it look like just enough of an accident when another man in a suit came running, shouting for them to hold the door, and it closed in his face.
John tried to swallow a smile, but David saw, and flushed, faintly. “Sorry. That was rude, I know, but he eats God-knows-what on his lunches. You don’t want to be stuck in an elevator with him.”
“Ta,” John said, letting the grin show, and David ushered them off when they arrived at Tim’s floor. The office was mostly open, with several desks pushed together so that the employees sat facing each other in clusters. The walls were lined with the doors to the offices.
“His office is this way,” he said. “He earned himself a window just a few months ago. I had to find him here once or twice when he was running late for lunch.” Tim’s door was the only one closed, and David unlocked the door to let them in. “I have the master key,” he said, “because I’m a partner. When the cops took an interest, I had Irene come down and lock the door.”
John saw Sherlock’s head jerk at the name, and bit his lip. John knew Sherlock well enough to know nothing romantic had happened between them, but still--the whole affair was--well--Irene could have been a friend. And goodness knows, John knew how hard Sherlock had taken the news of her death. To this day, little mentions of her name left Sherlock searching, as if he never quite believed Irene Adler had died.
Sherlock swept into Tim’s office. John looked around. It looked--like an office. Still, after years of observing and learning Sherlock’s methods, it takes John a minute to rework the way he looks at things. He took a deep breath and looked closer.
It still looked like an office. The furniture matched the rest of the building--provided by the company then. There were no photograph, no personal touches aside from a non-standard issue palm-rest in front of his keyboard and a mug that read “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” In fact, the most telling aspect of the room was that it wasn’t telling.
Sherlock sat at the desk and started rifling through the drawers. David winced beside John. “Sherlock--” John started.
“The man was in love, John, newly in love. There would be some indicator of who he was in love with.”
“Not necessarily,” David said. “I mean, Tim wasn’t out at work, and his boyfriend was a client here. If he kept anything, it would be at his apartment. But I doubt there would be much--professional athletes can go to some lengths to keep their personal lives out of the spotlight. Especially if that love-life involved another man.”
Sherlock slammed the drawer shut. John noticed that he had gone through them all, anyway. “You’re certain he was a client?”
David nodded. “Yes. He said so, himself, when he was telling my why he couldn’t tell me more. He assured me he wasn’t one of his own clients, but that’s all.”
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table top. “I need to see his apartment,” he muttered. “Can you get me a list of clients?”
John saw David’s eyebrows rise. “This firm acts as agent to hundreds of--.”
Sherlock waved him off. “I don’t need his, obviously. That should narrow it down a bit.”
“David nodded, I can have Irene compile a list. It’s a matter of public record, anyway. Come on upstairs. I can get it for you while you meet with Rich.”
Once again Sherlock led the way, his coat flapping behind him. David gestured for John to follow, and the three pressed once more into the lift.
When the doors opened again, David left them out and to the left. This floor was a lot more ornate, with the flash of wealth and power.
“Irene,” David said. “These are the specialists looking into Tim’s disappearance. This is--”
John stopped stock still as the secretary stood from behind her desk. “No,” he whispered.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Irene Adler said. “And Doctor Watson.”
Chapter 3
Chapter 5