The Jack of All Trades {Sherlock Holmes}

Chapter Twelve

Evelyn woke up to hands on her head, and no sight. Her eyes were still closed as she hissed, fingers pressing against her head.

She flinched away, trying to open her eyes as the hands grabbed her head and pulled her back.

"You need to stay still," A deep voice said, very close to her. 

"Fuck off, Sherlock," she growled, opening her eyes and pulling her head out of his hands.

"You hit your head, you could have a concussion," he said matter-of-factly, and also very stubbornly. Evelyn pushed him away from her as she lightly touched her head.

"Use your stupid voodoo magic then, don't poke and prod me like a cadaver in an autopsy!" She sat up slowly and carefully.

"I can't!" Sherlock yelled frustratedly. "It doesn't work on you." He reached over to a couple of boards on the table.

"Well, why not?" Evelyn said, holding her hand on the patch on her head. "It works on everyone else."

"If I knew, don't you think I'd tell you," he grumbled, boarding up the windows.

"No, actually," she muttered, leaning back against the couch and watching him work. Looking out the windows, it wasn't the middle of the day any longer. In fact, the sun was clearly setting as purple and orange danced across the sky. "How long was I out?"

"A couple of hours. Long enough for me to go to the store." He finished the last remaining boards before he turned to her. "Your car was across the street, wasn't it?"

Evelyn's eyes widened, and she stood up, looking through the boards of the window to see the wreckage of her now destroyed car. She nodded slowly.

"You can stay here for tonight, since they've stopped the taxi's along the roads to your flat." He pointed down the hallway to what she clearly knew was his bedroom, before she nodded her thank you and left. He didn't plan on sleeping anyways.

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Evelyn opened her eyes slowly, taking in the white ceiling above the bed where she laid, and the white sheets that reflected the light into the room. She silently listened in to the voices outside the room.

"Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak apparently," rang Sherlock's voice. Evelyn slowly pulled herself up from the bed to open the door slowly. 

"Oh my god, Evelyn," John said, rushing over at the sight of the white patch on her head. "What happened?"

"The table." Evelyn smirked, sitting slowly on the couch with John's help as he checked her for a concussion. She complied silently, not wanting to spend too much time fussing over it.

"I can't," Sherlock said, gaining the attention of Evelyn and John. Evelyn stared for a moment at the man sitting in John's chair.

"Who-" she asked quietly, recognizing the face that answered Sherlock.

"Sherlock's brother, Mycroft." She nodded slowly, suddenly a little scared. The name 'Mycroft Holmes' was an important one, that she knew for sure.

"Can't?" Mycroft asked, almost in disbelief.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time," Sherlock said, plucking at his violin. He glanced over at John and Evelyn as she winced, John's fingers on her head for a moment before the two of them looked at him in disbelief.

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance." Mycroft was clearly not letting up on this subject.

"How's the diet?" Sherlock asked, sulking as he averted his gaze from Evelyn and flicking his fingers across the strings. It was so quick, Evelyn almost missed it. Almost. 

She looked at him weirdly before John cleared her with no concussion. Her eyes flickered across his shirt for a moment, before her cheeks turned the palest pink. He must've grabbed a change of clothes while she was sleeping.

"Fine," Mycroft said. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John." Despite the name, Mycroft's eyes landed on Evelyn, a violated feeling washing over every nerve in her body. Screaming, 'Run.'

"What?" John said, walking towards the windows.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent," Mycroft continued, his eyes shifting to John.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock sassed.

"No-no-no-no-no. I can't possibly be way from the office for any length of time," Mycroft insisted, fixing his tie. "Not with the Korean elections so-" he trailed off as all three people looked directly at him, lifted heads and surprised looks. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires... legwork."

Evelyn snorted as Sherlock misplucked one of his strings, an irritated look on his face before he turned to John, who was absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa," Evelyn muttered, reaching up and pulling a small piece of sofa lint off his back and showing it to Sherlock.

"Oh yes, of course." John looked at Evelyn.

"How...? Oh, never mind." He sat down on the coffee table, Mycroft smiling at him.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became... pals." Sherlock threw his brother a dark look. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored," John said, shifting in his place.

"Good!" Mycroft said condescendingly, "That's good, isn't it?" Sherlock glared at him once more before Mycroft stood up, Sherlock picking up his violin bow and whipping one end of it in the air. Mycroft picked up a folder from the table beside him and held it out towards his brother, who simply ignored it, forcing Mycroft to hand it to John.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train, then?" Evelyn asked, Mycroft's beady eyes staring at her as she stands to look at the folder with John.

"Seems like the logical assumption," he said quietly as John quirked a brief smile.

"But?" John asked.

"But?"

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident, is what John's implying, Mr. Holmes," Evelyn said, earning a smirk from Sherlock.

"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system. The Bruce-Partington Programme, it's called... The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John sniggered quietly. "Not very clever."

"It's not the only copy."

"Oh."

"But it is secret. And missing. Very top secret," Mycroft insists, looking at John and Evelyn, placing his hands behind his back. "We think West must have taken it, and we can't risk it falling into the wrong hands." Mycroft's gaze shifted to Sherlock.

"You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock said angrily, raising the violin to his shoulder, about to play.

"Think it over." Mycroft leaned down, Sherlock staring unimpressed with him. Mycroft shook John's hand. "Goodbye, John." Mycroft headed towards the door before pausing and slowly turning to look at Evelyn.

She shivered.

"Ms. Taylor," Mycroft muttered, his eyes staring, and her eyes sharpening with a glare. Sherlock and John stared at the two of them as they had a silent conversation. Neither had told Mycroft her name. "I expect to see you very soon."

"Am I allowed to say that your expectation is false, Mr. Holmes?" She said, grinding her teeth as she spoke and earning a glare from Mycroft.

"Goodbye, Ms. Taylor."