Unexpected Depths (Sherlock BBC Fanfic)
AN - what if Sherlock and Mycroft had ties at the palace? A fic involving some of Britain's Royal Family - intended to be a bit light-hearted, not at all disrespectful.
The crime scene was not a particularly boring one - definite points of interest presented themselves on deeper inspection and it was only the lack of John at his side that made the whole thing less interesting than it should be. Lestrade was doing his best to pick up the slack, but Sherlock had gotten used to having John around in a shockingly short amount of time. Not that he was dependent or anything...
As they were walking out of the block of flats towards the car park one of Mycroft's ridiculous cars pulled up in front of them Sherlock had no time to do more than huff impatiently when Mycroft himself got out, wearing the Doom Face that Sherlock hated so much. That face meant that there was something that needed to be done that Sherlock would be unable to say no to - and he really wanted to get going on this new crime right now...
"Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock, you're to come with me at once," Mycroft ordered in the Doom Voice that so often accompanied the Doom Face, "Now Sherlock."
Lestrade gaped at his brother, then at Sherlock and got into the car quietly, obviously recognising authority when it sneered at him. Sherlock waited just long enough to make his point and then got in as well. Mycroft closed the door behind himself and the car pulled away again without any directions. Sherlock caught a glimpse of Sally Donovan's indignant face and smirked, wondering what she'd do if he mouthed 'help me' out the back window.
"Sherlock, I don't have time to sort out your hi-jinx," Mycroft snapped, "There has been a theft at the Palace. You've both been requested at the highest level."
The Queen was currently in residence at the Palace, which made the breach all the more serious. Sherlock watched in interest as Lestrade's face went from patiently clueless to intent in the space of a second, a reaction that Mycroft obviously approved of. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at his brother, which was as close to a demand for the facts as things got in public and folded his arms as Mycroft settled into his seat.
"Earlier this morning, Her Majesty was breakfasting with her grandson, discussing several matters that are not relevant to the theft. As His Highness was leaving the interview, he heard a noise that was distinctly out of place, coming from Her Majesty's private dressing room. He went to investigate and disturbed a footman at Her Majesty's jewellery case. There were several personal items in the case, which Her Majesty would be devastated to lose. The footman, one Derek Erich, managed to evade His Highness and made it out into the corridor. His Highness caught him at the top of the stairs, there was a struggle and the footman escaped, leaving His Highness injured at the bottom of the stairs. The footman was caught ten minutes later, without the jewels. A doctor was summoned, and Her Majesty sent me to get you Sherlock. She is naturally anxious to keep this out of the papers. I thought DI Lestrade would be useful in the matter as well," Mycroft smirked at them both and Sherlock did his best not to roll his eyes at his elder brother. He disliked going to the Palace, as Mycroft well knew. He didn't get along with the corgis at all, no matter that everyone said it was his fault they didn't like him.
"Of course," Lestrade was saying solemnly, giving Sherlock the equivalent of 'paternal evil eye'. It was a lot more effective when Lestrade did it that his own father and Sherlock sighed, giving a grudging nod. As he saw it, all he had to do was deduce where the jewels were hidden and who the intended recipient was. It wouldn't take very long and then they could get back to the more interesting murder case they'd left behind. If they were lucky, John would be able to come and enjoy the case with them.
The car pulled up inside the palace grounds; as he got out Sherlock noted they were using the family's entrance. Mycroft walked them in and then waved them off, stating he had other business to attend to, which was how Sherlock found himself accompanied by a slightly overwhelmed Lestrade to the small set of cells that held their suspect.
It was ridiculously easy to work out where the jewels were and who was supposed to receive them. Even Lestrade could have managed the task single handed, something Sherlock made sure to mention as they trudged through the hallways to the vase that held their treasure. The footman had been nimble, that was certainly true, and throwing a member of the Royal Family down a flight of stairs made for a good distraction. In the young Prince's defence, the footman had a surprisingly undetected talent for martial arts, which had led to the overcoming of the young man - military training in hand to hand not withstanding.
Once the jewels were recovered - one true antique and several pieces that held a significant sentimental value, including a ring that would be needed soon if the tabloids were any judge. Lestrade's eyes widened when he realised what he was holding and his instinctive attempt to pass the lot to Sherlock was blocked by Sherlock simply stuffing his hands in his pocket.
"I suppose we'd better go give them back," Sherlock sighed, "Pointless exercise though it was."
"Pointless!" Lestrade spluttered behind him as he swept off to the day parlour that was likely to be the centre of attention right now. They didn't have an escort, but then they didn't need one - Sherlock knew his way around as surely as he knew the Yard or Baker Street. Lestrade subsided into unhappy puffs of air and Sherlock was sure the man gulped when he simply knocked on the door and threw it open, sweeping inside.
The young Prince was on a settee, one foot elevated under an icepack, a wrist wrapped and a rather spectacular bruise on one cheek. Lestrade dithered by the door, unsure of the protocol while Sherlock bent over the young man to inspect the bruise more closely.
"Smashed into the newel post, I see," Sherlock announced and received an amused snort from the patient.
"Your manners haven't changed, Sherlock," the Prince grinned, "If I didn't know better I'd think you were completely without social graces at all."
"Don't believe everything Mycroft tells you," Sherlock sat on the nearest coffee table with fine disregard for its worth or age, "Do stop dithering, Lestrade."
"Sherlock, be nice," the voice from the door was so familiar and so completely unexpected that he started, almost falling off the low table in his shock. Lestrade and the Prince both snorted in amusement as he righted himself; the DI apparently overcoming his shyness in the face of Sherlock's surprise. John stood in the doorway, a tea tray in his hands, piled with sandwiches and proper biscuits as well as the fourth best tea service.
"Take the ice off," he instructed his patient, who leaned down and did so with a wince, "And get your bum off that table, Sherlock - we can't afford to replace or repair it. There's a perfectly good armchair over there. Hello Greg - Mycroft roped you in, did he?"
"Yes," Lestrade grinned and then handed the jewellery over to the future King. He noted that the ring in particular was examined carefully and remembered that the boys' mother had once worn it in happier times.
"I see you've met John," Sherlock was muttering as he subsided into his designated armchair and John put the laden tray down onto the table. John rolled his eyes - the traitor! telling tales out of school! - and waved Lestrade to the other armchair before pouring out four cups of tea.
"I flew a couple of missions with him," the Prince nodded, "When I took that blasted tumble, I asked for him while they were scraping me up off the floor."
"God knows why - you've got access to the best doctors in the UK, if not the world," John handed over a plate of sandwiches, positioned a teacup and then served Lestrade, which gave Sherlock a chance to see his expression when the Prince replied in a dry tone.
Sherlock gave his disconcerted and slightly embarrassed flatmate a grin as he was handed sandwiches and tea as well, noting that his plate only held one sandwich, cut into four pieces, without crusts. John did a remarkably good impression of a mind reader at times - it was almost uncomfortable.
By the time they'd finished their sandwiches it was time for the cold compress to go back on, and Lestrade and Sherlock took their leave, waiting politely by the door as John gave last minute instructions to his patient and then amiably passed over the remote for the television hidden discretely behind some panelling. He also insisted on waiting until someone was there to watch the Prince and then followed his flatmate out onto the landing, falling into step with Lestrade companionably.
As John and Lestrade started to discuss the crime scene that Mycroft had interrupted, Sherlock mused on the jumper wearing enigma that was his flatmate. Although he knew that there was more to the man than met the eye - John would never have lasted at Baker Street for so long if there wasn't - it never hurt to be reminded:
John Watson had unexpected depths.
Disclaimer - setting and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. No disrespect intended towards real life persons or situations either. Plot is mine.