The Side of The Angels (A Sherlock Holmes Fan-Fiction)

Chapter Ten: Moby Dick and The Buckingham Palace

"There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday." Greg explained as we walked through a gravel parking lot. "Everyone dead."

"Suspected terrorist bomb." Sherlock concluded. "We do watch the news."

"You said 'boring' and turned over." John reminded him. I chuckled.

"Well according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board." He led us to an open car trunk to reveal a dead body. "Inside his coat, we found stubs from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here's his passport stamped in Berlin airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday, but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark."

"Lucky escape." John said.

"Not really. He's still dead." I pointed out. Sherlock crouched down, examining the man's hand with his magnifying class.

"Any ideas?" Greg asked.

"Eight so far."

"Really?" I asked skeptically. He looked up at me.

"Ok four ideas." I looked at the boarding pass in Greg's hand, grabbing it and showing it to him, my eyebrows raised. "Maybe two ideas."

~~~

"No, no, no, don't mention the unsolved ones!"  I looked up from my book to see Sherlock standing beside John, glad in a plaid dressing gown, safety goggles and gloves, and wielding a beaker and a blow torch. I don't want to know.

"People want to know you're human." John told him.

"Why?"

"Because they're interested." I replied, turning the page.

"No, they're not. Why are they?"

"Hmm, look at that. One thousand Eight hundred and ninety-five."

"Sorry, what?"

"Didn't you reset the counter last night?" I asked. He nodded.

"Mhm. This blog has had nearly two-thousand hits in the last eight hours. It's escalated incredibly since Claudia showed up. This is your living, Sherlock, not two-hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash."

"Two-hundred and forty-three." We corrected together. They both turned and looked at me. I looked up.

"What? I get bored too."

"How can you get bored? You have a new book every two days." John stated. I looked down at my copy of Moby Dick.

"This isn't new. I've read it six times." He rolled his eyes and I chuckled, going back to it. "Besides...I identify with it."

"How can you possibly identify with Moby Dick?" He asked, turning around.  I paused, remembering that the answer isn't nearly as light-hearted as this conversation. Sherlock shot me a knowing look. I shook my head.

"That is for me to know, and you...No, that's it. It's just for me to know."

It's simple, really. Captain Ahab, hunting the white whale who took his leg.

Claudia Lestrade hunting the white whale who pretended to be her first true love.

Who says fiction can't be just a little bit real?

~~~

"So what's this one? The belly button murders?" Sherlock asked as we walked off of the stage at the public theatre.

"The Naval Treatment?" I suggested.

"Ooh, that's good. Can I use that?" I nodded.

"By all means." We entered the hallway of dressing rooms, meeting Greg as we went.