How They Met Alice (BBC Sherlock Fanfiction)

Chapter 12

(Alice’s POV: )

 “Sorry, who?” John asked.

“Carl Powers, John.” Sherlock said, staring into the distance.

“What is it?” John said again, looking at me. I had gotten up and slung my coat back on.

“It’s where I began.” Sherlock answered, following me. We got a cab and all piled in on one side instead of splitting up, but none of us cared.

 “Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid – champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident.” Sherlock explained, showing John and I the front page of a newspaper on his phone. “You wouldn’t remember it. Why should you?” He added, specifically to John.

“But you remember.” John said, catching on a bit, but not really, to the conversation.

“Yes.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“Something fishy about it?” John asked.

“Nobody thought so – nobody except Sherlock... I thought about it a bit, but our family was a bit preoccupied. I was very little, and Sherlock only a kid himself. I read about it in the papers.” I said, a bit amazed that someone took his shoes.

“Started young, didn’t you?” John asked, to both of us as it appeared.

“The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late.” Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s last comment.

 “But there was something wrong.” I said. Sherlock nodded at me.

“Something I couldn’t get out of my head.” Sherlock finished, looking at me proudly. John was a little creeped out that we were finishing each other’s sentences.

“What?” He asked.

“His shoes.” Sherlock and I said together. John was thoroughly spooked.

“What about them?” He asked.

“They weren’t there. I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important.” Sherlock answered.

 “He’d left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes...” I continued. Sherlock leaned down and picked up a bag containing the trainers.

 “...until now.” Sherlock said happily.

 SIX HOURS TO GO; 221B

 Sherlock had shut himself in the kitchen and was sitting at the table with the trainers nearby – still in the bag – while he looked through photographs and printouts of newspaper reports of Carl Powers’ death from 1989. In the living room, on the other side of the closed doors, John was pacing back and forth in front of me sitting in Sherlock’s chair -He seemed stressed at my relaxed demeanor- and he finally stopped and slid one of the doors open.

 “Can I help?” He asked. Sherlock didn’t react to him at all. “I want to help. There’s only five hours left.” John insisted. His mobile sounded a text alert. He got the mobile from his trouser pocket and looked at the message. I could see it in the mirror. It read:

 “Any developments?

Mycroft Holmes”

 “It’s your brother. He’s texting me now.” John frowned. I smiled a bit. “How does he know my number?” He asked, a bit afraid.

“Must be a root canal.” Sherlock said thoughtfully. Putting his phone away, John came into the kitchen. “Look, he did say ‘national importance’.” John insisted.  Sherlock snorted, not looking up from his research.

“How quaint.” Sherlock mocked.

“What is?” John asked innocently.

“You are. Queen and country.” Sherlock said, not once looking up from his microscope.

“You can’t just ignore it.” John said sternly.

“I’m not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it right now.” Sherlock said, still not looking up.

“Right. Good.” John nodded. He folded his arms and nodded in satisfaction, then looked at Sherlock in puzzlement.

“Who’s that?” He asked.

 (John’s POV: )

 Some time later I, wearing a jacket and tie, was sitting in a chair opposite a desk in a large, rather intimidating office. I looked anxiously at my watch.. as if I had been waiting there for some time. The door opened and Mycroft walked in, reading a report.

“John. How nice. I was hoping you wouldn’t be long.” He said. I politely stood up as Mycroft walked across to the desk, still looking at the report. “How can I help you?” He asked. He walked straight past me and put the report down on the desk, imperiously waving a hand in my direction to signify that I could sit down again.

“Thank you.” I sat. “Um, well, I was wanting to ... um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans.” I stammered. Mycroft looked over his shoulder and smiled at me.

“Did he?” He asked, interested. “What about Alice?”

 “Yes. And she didn’t really… say anything…” I answered. I smiled back a little nervously as Mycroft turned towards me and leaned back against the desk. “He’s investigating now.” I added. Mycroft put his hand to the right side of his mouth as if he was in pain. “He’s, er, investigating away.” I continued unnecessarily. Lowering his hand again, Mycroft smiled as if he didn’t believe a word of it. “Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man.” I finished, quite intimidated.

“Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies... Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.” Mycroft informed.

“Right. He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train.” I assumed.

“No.” Mycroft said.

“What?” I asked, tilting his head a bit.

“He had an Oyster card...” Mycroft started. Grimacing, he raised his hand to his mouth again. I frowned as I began to realize that Sherlock may have been right about Mycroft having had a root canal filling to one of his teeth. “...but it hadn’t been used.” Mycroft finished.

“Must have bought a ticket.” I reasoned.

“There was no ticket on the body.” Mycroft said, lowering his hand.

“Then...” I began.

“Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea? That is the question – the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How’s he getting on? How does he like Alice?” He concluded.

“He-he’s-they’re fine, yes. He likes her… enough, I suppose… Oh, and-and it is going ... very well. It’s, um, you know – he’s completely focused on it.” I stammered. I grinned at Mycroft unconvincingly.

Aaaaaaaaaand Bob's your uncle! Chapter 12. Sorry it's short, please comment. Thank you!