Chapter Text
“For the last time, mum, I wasn’t going to set up a meth lab!”
James’ voice cracked on the final word, something it hadn’t done for months; Jill and Emma were suddenly nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, really,” I responded, dripping sarcasm like eaves in a sudden thaw. “So the equipment, the chemicals, that was all for school work, was it?” James looked away.
I glared at him and narrowed my eyes. “Don’t try to bullshit me, James, I know you too well” I was just barely holding back the urge to shout.
James’ jaw worked. “You know what?” he said, his hands balling into fists, “I don’t have to listen to this – I’m going out!” He turned on his heel.
“You bloody aren’t!” I shot back without losing a beat. My authority was absolute; James jerked to a halt and half-turned back. Suddenly all the fight went out of him.
“Okay, okay,” he said wearily, “the parcel of chemicals was for an experiment; so was the equipment. Jesus mum, if I was going to make meth, don’t you think I’d know better than to do it in the home of a known drug addict?”
I moved into his space, right into his face. “Did it never occur to you that Toby and his pals might put two and two together and come up with a very much larger number?” I said. “James, people were arrested for making bombs two floors above us last year, for god’s sake! Anyone who sees a parcel of chemicals around here is not going to automatically think GCSE chemistry coursework, are they?”
“Well, obviously!” James rolled his eyes. “I tried to keep the deal secret, but I needed another postal address.” Otherwise you’d have asked exactly these questions, was the unspoken rider to that.
“And your carelessness got Toby Greaves killed!” The words were out before I could bite them back; James rocked on his heels.
I clapped a hand over my mouth. “James, I’m really sorry,” I said, my eyes stretched round as saucers.
James’ face closed up immediately into a blank mask. “Thanks for reminding me,” he replied icily. “I’m sure I would have forgotten all about Toby otherwise. I’m off; don’t expect me back until late.” He spun round and set off down the hall.
“James!” I yelled, but I had lost the moral high ground and my command fell on deaf ears. I heard him rip open the front door ready to take off into the unknown once again.
“Hey, hey! Just hang on a mo – where d’you think you’re going?”
A new voice joined the confusion. I rushed out of the kitchen to see James fighting to get out onto the deck against an assailant equally determined to keep him in. John Watson stood in the doorway, his hand firmly against my son’s forehead, holding him while he flailed and swore, trying with little success to escape. John shook his head and regarded James with serious eyes.
“The language!” he remarked to the world in general, “My mother would have washed my mouth out with soap if she’d heard half of that from me at your age, James. She’d do it to you today if she were still with us, rest her soul.”
“Piss off!” James snarled, swinging impotent fists, long legs managing to get in a couple of glancing blows to John’s ribs.
“Hey, now wait a minute!” John sounded a bit irritated. “I don’t want any more bruises than I usually get on Sherlock’s cases, thank you, so I think we might just continue this inside, if that’s alright by your mother?”
I shrugged. “Be my guest,” I replied, “but be warned – he’s sneaky.”
“So am I,” John replied with a brief grin. He took his hand away from my son’s head, dropped his shoulder and rammed it into James’ abdomen. The sudden whoosh of breath from his lungs effectively quieted James’ volley of invective and John followed through smoothly with a fireman’s lift. Silenced but otherwise still a going concern, James continued to struggle ineffectively.
John gestured with his head. “Lock the front door, would you?” he said to me, “Preferably on the deadbolt.” Only once this was done did John loosen his hold on James, allowing him to slide gently to his feet.
James straightened his rumpled teeshirt and put a hand through his hair, all the while glaring at John speechless with fury; John raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
“What are you doing here?” James demanded a few moments later.
“I am here,” John began, “because Inspector Lestrade wanted to let you know that he won’t be pressing charges on any potential drugs offences, despite his own private misgivings.”
“Thank god for small mercies,” I muttered. I was lying; this was a very big mercy to me.
“Also,” John continued, “to warn you that he will be sending an officer later on this evening to take both your statements. The Inspector was at Baker Street on business this morning: he thought you might prefer to hear the good news from one or other of us.”
I snorted with scorn before I could suppress it. “And you drew the short straw, I suppose?” I said in answer to John’s mildly querying look.
“Sherlock’s on a case,” he replied shortly.
I shrugged. “Too busy, then,” I said.
“He’s in Bogota,” John told me without missing a beat, “He flew out last night.”
Clearly neither James nor I had put a dent in the attention span of the great Sherlock Holmes. Struck by something, I frowned.
“You let him out on his own?” I demanded before I could stop myself, “somewhere outside the UK? Does he have a minder?”
John turned his head to hide a grin. “No, that’s usually my purview,” he replied, his eyes twinkling, “but the local police have been warned.”
“I’m not sure that makes it any better,” I muttered. I gestured towards the kitchen, “Tea?” I offered, belatedly remembering my manners.
“Love some,” John responded, following me.
“You work with Sherlock Holmes, don’t you?” James said suddenly, following. John gave a quiet affirmative and pulled out a kitchen chair to sit down.
“Why?”
John didn’t answer immediately. He leaned his chin on his fist and frowned thoughtfully for a few moments. James stood and fidgeted, regarding John in that direct, no-nonsense manner that children have when they think they are asking you a perfectly straightforward question that doesn’t need any of this deep-thinking, calculating, working-out nonsense, thank you very much, so could you just get on with it because Hollyoaks is on in five minutes.
Finally James took an impatient breath. “I said…” he began. John held up a finger and, to my surprise, James fell silent.
“I work with him because he gives me what I need,” John replied. His tone was matter of fact, but there was more to his words than a mere explanation. My hands stilled on the mugs and I listened.
“Until a couple of years ago, I was in the RAMC,” John told him, “that’s army medic to you, James. I got shot – left shoulder,” he said shortly, “and I’m officially still in recovery. Trouble is,” he continued with a sigh, “it’s unlikely I’d pass the physical to get back into active service and the longer I leave it, the higher the odds stack up against me.”
James frowned. “Isn’t your work with Sherlock Holmes just as dangerous though?” he asked.
John smiled. “Yes,” he replied, “and that, James, is exactly why I do it.”
The kettle clicked as it turned itself off with a puff of steam. James stared at John with the concentration he usually reserved for the small, helpless creatures he examined under his microscope. I could almost see the circuits connecting – bad command or file name, path not found; internal stack failure.
I smiled as my hands renewed their automatic tasks. That explained a lot.
“What happened about your gun?” James had given that one up as a bad job and moved on. John’s mouth turned up at the corners in a polite smile and he raised his eyebrows.
“What gun would that be, then?” he asked easily.
James stared again. “The one you used to put a hole through that guy’s hand,” he replied clearly and slowly as though talking to an idiot. John’s smile widened and he shook his head.
“I’ve really no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied, reaching for the steaming mug I was carefully offering to him. “Oh, thanks Lesley – just the thing.”
“Now,” John said, taking a sip of his tea and putting it down on the table to cool; he picked up a couple of biscuits from the plate I slid under his hand and crammed one into his mouth. He turned and pointed at James as he swallowed.
“You may be off the hook as far as the police are concerned,” he began indistinctly through the crumbs, “but Sherlock and I have a different agenda here. James, what were you intending to do with those chemicals?”
James sighed and rolled his eyes. “Why is everyone mad keen to make me out to be some kind of drugs baron?” he asked plaintively.
John huffed out a laugh. “Pull the other one,” he responded, “a genuine drugs baron’d eat you alive without even spitting out the bones. No,” he continued, blithely unaware of James’ affronted glare, “I think you wanted that stuff for something completely different and seeing as you are… well, who and what you are,” he amended quickly, “it gives us cause for some concern.”
“What, you and that detective of yours?” James replied sulkily. “Why doesn’t he do his own dirty work, eh? Why isn’t he here asking his own stupid questions? Too posh for the likes of us, is that it?”
That was possibly both the truest and most ironic thing my son had ever said. I held my breath.
“I often ask myself the same question,” John sat back in his chair, deliberately relaxed, and smiled amiably at James. He narrowed his eyes and pointed an index finger. “Do you remember a case reported in the press about a hiker killed in the middle of nowhere by a blunt instrument that mysteriously disappeared?”
James gave no sign of having heard but I slid into a chair opposite John and nodded.
“Yes,” I replied, “It was in the newspapers a couple of months back. Police never solved it, did they?”
John shook his head. “No, they didn’t,” he replied, “Sherlock did, from the comfort of our Baker Street flat. I was the one out on the moors in wellies with a laptop hooked up to the police mobile wifi.” He laughed. “You can’t tell me anything about Sherlock’s laziness I haven’t already worked out for myself.”
“Sounds like a good life,” James replied with adult sourness. John blinked.
“It can be,” he replied, “but I note you’ve successfully got off the point. James, you have to come clean. This situation has made you a target for rival gangs on the estate. Your mother, Jill and Emma are also vulnerable by association. Now, if we’re going to help you, we’ve got to know what you were intending to do.”
James stuck his chin out belligerently. “I don’t need your help,” he said, dark eyes narrowing from behind his too-long fringe.
John laughed lightly and leaned forward. “You might want to rethink that,” he replied. “As a direct result of your connection with Toby Greaves and the gang he ran with, you are now a target for every undesirable on this estate and possibly for miles around: you, your family and everyone else close to you. While the ungodly believe you have something they want, you and yours are sitting ducks. Now, James, before I lose my temper, what are you up to?”
To give him credit, James didn’t flinch at the anger in John’s voice. Instead, he shook his head irritably. “It’s complicated,” he protested, “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” John responded flatly. James looked up at him.
“I’ll talk to Holmes,” he said.
A brief cacophony of panic rang in my ears. “He’s abroad,” I cut in too quickly, “He won’t be back for ages.”
“Actually,” John corrected with raised eyebrows, “he’s flying out of El Dorado tonight. He gets in to Heathrow at some god-awful time in the morning. He’ll most probably get a taxi back to the flat, charge it to Mycroft and wake me up to make him tea even through I’ve got an early shift at the surgery tomorrow.”
James ignored John and turned to scowl at me. “You just don’t want him here,” he said mutinously. “You don’t like him.” I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
John shot a brief frown at me and turned to James. “I’ll bring Sherlock to see you, I promise,” he said, “or you can come to Baker Street – if that’s okay with your mum?”
John raised a questioning glance to me.
I nodded; “Just so long as I’m with you.”
A faint frown flickered across my son’s face but he nodded readily enough, “When?” he asked.
John considered. “Later on in the week?” he suggested, “Once I’ve recovered from Sherlock’s jetlag. I’ll give your mother a call.”
We exchanged nods and John rose from his chair.
“Thanks for the tea, Lesley,” he said, rolling the tension out of his neck and shoulders with a grunt. “I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, take care on the Estate. The police might have caught Toby’s killers but the real crooks are still out there. They won’t give up easily if they think there’s something to be gained from you.”
He nodded at me. “Keep your door locked,” he told me as he left. I smiled without humour; like I ever left so much a window ajar on this estate.