The Good, The Bad and The Woman

The Diogenes Club

5. The Diogenes Club

After a hot shower and a quick change of clothes, Sherlock jumped into a taxi to the one address he knew he'd find his older brother at this late hour. When the Hackney carriage pulled up next to the lavish, white exterior of the corner building, the consultant detective paid the driver and stepped outside without further ado.

The old building stood almost hidden among its peers in the heart of London, protected, not surprisingly, by the mysterious, quiet air that surrounded it even in the modern age with its busy rumor mill.

The gilded, yet tastefully low-key sign beside the front door simply read 'The Diogenes Club', without closer specification. More than one passerby had certainly wondered about this club, and what it hid within its fine establishments, but only the invited knew what waited beyond the black entrance. Sherlock had known about the private establishment since its founding, of course. He'd never been formally invited, but with his brother as co-founder, he'd found his own ways of nestling inside the hidden realms of the self-contained upper class. Before John had appeared in his life, the good detective had spent quite a lot of time within these very walls whenever he craved solitude or was working a particularly hard case. The building embodied his mind palace, in a manner of speaking, in the real world outside the four walls of his head.

As he strolled inside the traditional, close to sacred, halls now, no one greeted him at the door. Casually, the tall man steered his steps further inside the familiar maze of silence until he came upon the first chamber that offered a sneak peek into the dealings of this quirky location.

Designed with classical Victorian oak walls it was a simple room. Five luxurious, comfortable armchairs with small complementary tables stood spread throughout the room, with enough space between them as to never inspire conversation. The fireplace framed by white stone stood as the centerpiece of the chamber, but no fire was lit even at this hour. The sun had almost set upon the western horizon outside and the room was lit simply by the numerous lamps spread atop the tables, like beacons in an ever fading world.

Four out of five armchairs were occupied as the consultant detective walked to the very center of the room and not one of the men even acknowledged him. All of the rusting men seemed occupied by their papers, though the reason for their absent reaction had more to do with the (un)spoken rule of silence at all times.

Sherlock could not help but smirk like a devil in disguise as he clapped his palms together. He felt the tension rise immediately between the men verging on the inevitable brink of anthropophobia, though in pure defiance no one turned even this time to look up at him.

Without missing a beat, the tall man spoke loudly with the purring voice of a satisfied kitten, "Well, well… In another time and place, as you are aware, I would appreciate this soothing atmosphere and refreshingly deduce all your secrets without those annoying interruptions you always meet outside these walls, but today I'm simply here for my brother. Is Mycroft around? Oh, come now, don't be shy! Fine. If you won't speak and I have to wait for my brother's attention, I might as well have some fun. Now, who's been receiving bribes to affect Downing Street recently? Raise your hand."

As he spoke, the three elder gentlemen looked increasingly angry as they conspicuously glared up at the consultant detective. Their patience seemed strung tight to its very limit and it was mere restraint that kept them from boiling over. The man closest to the fire place fervently rang a bell on the wall as he trembled with fury of having been disturbed in his safe haven.

Sudden movement appeared in Sherlock's peripheral view, however, as the fourth seated man slowly rose from his armchair. "Excuse me."

The consultant detective swirled around in the stranger's direction and took in the man's appearance. He was young for being a member at this particular club, approximately Sherlock's own age if the man had to guess. Clad in a glen plaid suit and a bold, blue tie, the stranger stepped over to the detective with a kind smile on his full lips. The man was nearly as tall as the great detective, though with a leaner body build that suggested a lot of cardio exercise. He had an aquiline nose and his chiseled chin was adorned with a short, trimmed beard and his short, blond hair was neatly styled.