Chapter Text
[log of Dr John H Watson-regarding the Hamerdish and Fawx case.]
[Property of Scotland Yard]
[Documentation of Dr John Hamish Watson]
[The Case of The Greenhouse Gambler]
It was October when this case first came to our doorstep, in the form of a rather drunk young man by the name of Peter Fawx- he had told us through slurred words that his father, Geronimo Fawx, was being sought after by what he believed to be a hitman. Sherlock had deduced from our inebriated friend that he was wealthy- old money- and had been out on the town for some time...
"Why, then, have you been drinking, Mr Fawx?" He asked. Sherlock was leaned back in the lounge armchair, his fingertips pressed together in the way he often did when thinking on something.
"Listen, I'ont- I dunno...how to deal with em, right? i been talkin- to this...guy-"
Sherlock raised a slender hand, his eyes shut in thought. "You're an alcoholic, Mr Fawx."
"Petah." He responded, clearly not at all amused at Sherlock's observation. The stink of alcohol reeking from him was...unpleasant, to say the least, and was intense almost to the point of being metallic.
"Peter. But, even in the imminent fear for your dear father's livelihood, you have no thought to hold back on your addiction? Wasting yourself before your little stop-off at our agency? I'm sure you aren't that worried for your father at all, Peter." My companion remarked, his eyes fluttering open once more.
"I am! trust me, I- I am, ok? I jus- I on- I dunno when- Hamerdis' said-" Peter was interrupted once more by his phone ringing, and Sherlock's would soon join it. they both answered, and soon Sherlock texted me from across the room.
"Murder at Greenhouse estate. East Chelsea. Victim is Geronimo Fawx. Peters father. Lestrade has given full access. -SH"
We headed to Chelsea in the next hour, which involved a very long discussion on why Sherlock signs off his texts with me even though they're in a whatsapp chat with me. Again, stupidest genius ever. Upon arrival at the Greenhouse Estate- named that way because it was just that. Entirely green- I was immediately struck with the fact that it was possibly the richest, most expensive house I have literally ever been in. Like ever. The estate was extremely large, and littered with fancy furniture, decor, and shiny objects. Sherlock was having fun, as I could see the faint and frantic tapping of his fingertips against his leg.
The body of Geronimo Fawx was, to say the least, pristine. He was stabbed in the chest, yet, the blood was extremely minimal and clearly attempted to be removed and cleaned after the crime, though, it looked like the killer had given up halfway through.
"A stabbing. yet, so little blood. Quite tricky to get speed and force readings from it, unfortunately." Sherlock stated. He crouched down next to Geronimo Fawx, examining the corpse closer, while Anderson, the forensic examiner, stood next to the window in the bedroom where Geronimo was found, looking at the street below.
Greg Lestrade entered a few moments later, carrying a large clipboard and the dagger that was apparently removed from the corpse and dropped in the kitchen sink. "They cleaned it." He said, handing the bagged weapon to Sherlock, who turned it over in his slender hands for a moment, before handing it back to Lestrade.
"It's not in my priorities right now, thank you." Sherlock stated. I rolled my eyes almost involuntarily. Lestrade sighed, taking the bag.
"What priorities are more important than the murder of one of the richest men in the entire UK?" Lestrade scoffed, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"Keeping my little brother out of it." Sherlock answered. The room silenced between the four of us for at least a minute and a half.
"Your what?" I asked. Sherlock didn't talk about his family- that much I knew already- and I didn't ask. But he had a little brother? and he was somehow involved in this? it would've been nice to know several hours ago when we got this case, but, I suppose better late than never is a mindset you should always carry with Sherlock Holmes.
"You mean Mycroft?" Lestrade stumbled. It was regular during our investigations to see the older man confused- Sherlock liked to string the Inspector along without any information, for whatever reason "He's your older brother."
"No. Alwyn." Sherlock replied, finally breaking eye contact with the dead man in front of him and standing, turning to Lestrade. "I have two brothers. The older being Mycroft, and younger being Alwyn. He is….much less socially adept than Mycroft or I am, which should be saying something as I am not socially adept at all. He prefers to be left alone. He may help, yes, but the media attention and complex, controlling dynamic posed by Scotland Yard may very well overwhelm him, and he is of no use to the Met if he doesn't trust them. Its complicated. He's a government official- and one of Mycroft's little toy soldiers. He mostly just...stays inside all day and doesn't talk to anyone."
"That makes three of you then." I huff.
"Oh...yeah, yeah- I remember him. God, I remember meeting him when he was...like...twelve. I haven't seen him since." Lestrade mused, and afterwards was silent for a few moments, soaking in the information, as was I, for that matter. Sherlock never, ever, spoke of his family- and when he did it was hardly ever politely. To hear him speak of his brothers so bluntly and straightforwardly came as a bit of a shock.
I spoke up, breaking the silence, and, hopefully the tension in the fancy room, considering we were still standing over a dead aristocrat. "Alwyn? Bit of an interesting name."
"Yes. Theodore Alwyn James Holmes. We all have complex names." Sherlock remarked, refusing to elaborate before looking around the room and examining each surface a bit closer. "I suspect Alwyn will be particularly knowledgeable on this case."
Greg was still baffled, his usually confident demeanor broken by the knowledge that the brilliant consulting detective Sherlock Holmes hadn't told him something. again.
"So…where is he then?" He asked.
Alwyn was a quiet boy. Man, I should say, as he's 24. Sherlock had taken us to his house, which ended up being a quiet, slightly creepy little vintage house in a quieter neighborhood. It looked abandoned, but not in terrible shape- nothing was broken- but it was dark and the windows were all shut, except for the very top one, and the garden in the front was overgrown and had begun inching its way up the sides of the house. But, you could still tell it was lived in. Sherlock didn't bother knocking, and the door was unlocked, so we went inside.
The house was very dark. The lights were off, the curtains were closed, leaving the house lit solely by various lamps and string lights that seemed to be everywhere. Tapestries and blankets hung from the ceiling, and wherever they weren't, a mural was painted- most were of constellations or clouds, but every one had a rabbit somewhere on it. Almost every surface in the house was covered with small rocks, shiny objects, and other trinkets. most of which were organic like bones or small sticks, to painted rocks and even broken bottles hung from the ceiling. The first thing I noticed was the overwhelming smell of frankincense and soap. Like a lot of soap.
It only hit me then that Sherlock hadn't actually told his little brother he was bringing company, so I decided to speak up. "Sherlock, maybe you should text him or something." I whispered, watching as Sherlock closed the creaking door to the flat.
"He doesn't have social media. Or a phone." He answered. Lestrade and I shared a glance in reverence for our digitally trapped brains.
"How is he supposed to stay connected, then?" I questioned, stepping inside and closing the door gingerly behind us. Lestrade shuffled around a bit, eyes scanning the various puppets and fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. It was...whimsical? I guess is what you could say, you could tell that every scrap or trinket Alwyn had, he treasured and displayed.
"He doesn't need to. He's part of the homeless network- the head of it, really, as he founded them- Every bit of information on anything or anyone the Irregulars have, he receives, which is then put to use elsewhere. It's extremely useful. He allows me, and occasionally the British government, access to his data in order to complete cases or file claims. And also he doesn't like social media." Sherlock said.
Lestrade was the one to finally speak up after a long pause of processing. "So...he doesn't have a phone, doesn't have social media, and, what, doesn't talk to people?" He asked.
"No, he doesn't." Sherlock answered simply, looking around, likely trying to spot his younger brother- the man who I was beginning to suspect might be more of a cryptid than a human.
I shook my head, looking at Lestrade, who looked just as baffled as I suspected my own expression to be. "And yet, he heads this massive information network? he doesn't even...leave the house?" I asked.
"He leaves the house about once or twice a month." Sherlock clarified, and...well....it didn't help much. "Unless Mycroft gives him...orders." He declared ominously.
"And...nobody minds? that he doesn't- that he-" Lestrade paused, struggling to put his words together, and so I attempted to help.
"That he never makes an outside appearance? That he's basically a...non-existent figure behind a system that he feeds government information, and allows certain individuals access to, and yet he's almost a ghost?" I asked.
"No." Sherlock confirmed. "Why would anyone mind."
Lestrade was still struggling to speak, so I decided to continue questioning- mainly because I myself was confused and, yes, a little worried.
"And, what, that's somehow not illegal? because it sounds extremely illegal." I retorted.
"Oh, it is. At least slightly. But, either way, nobody can find out enough about him to do anything about it. He uses an alias- The Hare- which is what the Irregulars call him. He has more tricks up his sleeve than I do, which is certainly saying something." Sherlock said, before pausing, and raising a long finger to his lip, looking around, and-
"Alwyn. I know you're here." He called out.
There was the sound of shuffling from the doorway to a back room, and soon, Alwyn was standing in the doorframe, leaning against it in silence.
He was tall, that was one of the first things you'd notice. Tall and pale, with a slender, almost spindly build to him- he almost resembled a skeleton. His hands were almost eerily long, his fingers thin and bony. His facial structure was sharp and angular, much like Sherlocks, from his high cheek-bones and his sharp nose, to his thin pink lips and bright blue eyes- his being open unnaturally wide. His hair was long, past his shoulders and as dark as ink, acting almost as a curtain the way it covered his eyes- and he looked...tired. Incredibly tired.
The room was silent. Alwyn just stood in the door frame, not moving, not speaking, just...standing there, as if he were a statue.
Eventually, Sherlock spoke up, though his words were somewhat gentle- more so than he would speak usually. It was a very odd contrast to his typical egotistical approach to conversation.
"Alwyn, this is my colleague John Watson, and Inspector Lestrade, you met him when-"
"That’s alright" Alwyn whispered. His voice was soft, and quiet, not at all like Sherlock’s crisp and commanding one. He sounded sweet, like a small victorian boy, definitely not someone who ran a secret illegal government information system. "I know who you are. I know all about you."
I was just as shocked by his voice as I was by his appearance, he looked and sounded almost like a ghost child. Lestrade too, was very silent, eyes wide as he looked at the tall, spindly man.
Sherlock nodded, a hint of something almost akin to...fondness? in his eyes as he looked at his little brother. "Alwyn, do you recognize the name Geronimo Fawx?" He inquired calmly. I rarely heard him use that tone.
Alwyn tilted his head, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. After several moments he opened them, brushing his hair away from his face, and they slid across the room as if seeing it for the first time. They were a clear and bright blue, almost grey, and gave off an air of sadness. His bottom eyelids drooped in such a way that he looked perpetually dismayed, and his eyelashes were thick and dark, much like Sherlock's. He was, if I had to describe him shortly, like the human embodiment of misery.
"Yes. Why?" His voice never raised from the odd, chilling whisper.
Sherlock sighed, moving to stand nearer to Alwyn. "Geronimo Fawx was murdered last night. He was stabbed in his chest. The crime scene, knife used, and body were all cleaned rather poorly with tap water." He stated, and Alwyn's expression shifted into something akin to recognition. He stayed silent for several seconds.
“Hm.” He blinked after a moment, his eyes flickering around the room. "Im not at all surprised.” He said.
“Why not?” Sherlock asked, his tone more curious than before, his eyes gaining that glossy look he got when a case was getting interesting.
Alwyn shifted slightly on his feet, fingers fiddling with the sleeves of his black dress shirt, then up to the green ribbon he was wearing as a bow tie. "He owed money to a very...unpleasant man in the gambling scene. Much more than he could pay back, even with his extensive wealth." His voice was still soft, but now carried a quiet certainty that made it clear he knew exactly what he was talking about.
Sherlock hummed in response, nodding slowly as he processed the information. “And how do you know this?”
Alwyn’s lips twitched-just barely-into something resembling a smirk before fading back into neutrality. “Because I’ve been tracking that unpleasant man for months.” He paused, then added simply: “His name is Victor Hamerdish. Wiggins and I have a shared total of seven files on him, for seven murders I believe he is connected to."
I blinked. Hamerdish. The name from Peter Fawx’s drunken ramblings earlier today clicked into place like a puzzle piece.
Lestrade finally broke his stunned silence with an incredulous laugh. “So wait-you just knew about this whole mess? Before it even happened?”
Alwyn's expression remained blank, searching the Inspectors face as if he wasn't sure what point he was trying to make. "I know about many things before they happen.”
Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose-annoyed at the swaying topic of conversation. "Alwyn," He pinched the bridge of his nose briefly before fixing Alwyn with 'the look'. “Details. Now.”
Alwyn blinked slowly, like a cat deciding whether or not to indulge a human’s request. Then he scraped a fingernail down the paint of the doorframe, and began speaking in that same soft monotone. "Hamerdish owns several underground gambling parlors across London, all of which are illegal-including one Geronimo Fawx frequented near Chelsea Bridge. Fawx owed him £600,000,000,000 after a particularly bad streak last month. He was drunk.” A pause as he tilted his head slightly toward Sherlock for emphasis- as if to say You know where this is going. “He couldn’t pay it back... so Hamerdish sent someone to collect another way."
I frowned. "But-stab wounds? That doesn't scream 'professional hitman' to me."
For the first time since we arrived, Alwyn’s lips twitched again- this time unmistakably into an actual smile- before it vanished just as fast under that statuesque calm exterior. "You are a smart man, Doctor Watson." He tilted his head, his pale blue eyes sliding across the room to meet mine for the first time. The silence stretched just a beat too long before Alwyn continued, his voice so quiet we almost missed it.
"Hamerdish didn’t send a professional." His fingers curled slightly into his sleeves, winding around eachother like thin willow tree branches. "He sent one of Fawx's own sons. Geronimo had four of them, all of which threw themselves into the criminal lifestyle when they turned eighteen, as their father wouldn't give them a chunk of the family fortune. Harry, Frank, Thomas, and Peter."
Lestrade sucked in a sharp breath beside me. That was not what I expected-not at all. Peter had been drunk and panicked when he came to us, but... surely not him. So one of the other four.
Alwyn, meanwhile, had already turned and begun walking deeper into the flat-his feet making no sound on the floorboards. The rest of us could only follow as he led us to a cluttered desk in what appeared to be his ‘workroom’. Maps, newspaper clippings, case files, and small handwritten notes were pinned across every inch of wall space and stacked on the floor. And at the center of it all sat an old typewriter-no computer in sight.
Without looking back at us, Alwyn plucked a single sheet from his desk drawer and held it out between two pale fingers toward Sherlock
"The proof you need." His voice was barely above a whisper now-like even speaking too much exhausted him. "Bank records showing Harry Fawx received £100k from Hamerdish’s shell company three days before his father died."
Lestrade let out an impressed whistle while I just stared at Alwyn’s eerily calm profile like he might vanish if I blinked too hard. This man was... unsettling in ways I couldn’t quite define yet beyond sheer otherness.
Sherlock took the paper, scanning it with quick precision before handing it to me. His gaze lingered on Alwyn, something unreadable-almost protective-flashing in his eyes for a second.
"Good work, Alwyn" he said simply. Then, as if remembering we were still there, added "Lestrade will take this to the Yard."
Alwyn just nodded once, and retreated silently back into the shadows of his flat, cold and dark, without a goodbye. No further explanation needed or offered.
As we left (with Lestrade still muttering what the hell under his breath), I couldn’t shake one thought:
If Sherlock was London’s most brilliant detective... what did that make Alwyn?
Sherlock exhaled sharply as the door closed behind us, adjusting his coat with barely traceable amusement. "Are we satisfied?"
I blinked. "About what?"
"That my little brother"-he bit out the words like they were a personal insult-"isn't some basement-dwelling myth conjured by Yard gossip." He stormed ahead without waiting for a reply.
Lestrade muttered under his breath, "That is the head of an underground network? The same network head Interpols been tracking for years?" He gestured vaguely at Alwyn's flat behind us. "He looks like the ghost of a bloody famine victim! I mean, he was skinny as a lad, but- Jesus!"
Several hours later, after many tiring attempts to convince sergent Donavan that we simply 'stumbled upon' the evidence, I fell into step beside Sherlock who was walking with such calculated purpose it was almost a stormwalk.
"So...your brother." I began slowly.
"What about him?"
I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his oblivious tone, like he was discussing an unimportant client instead of a walking mystery. "How does the Yard know him? Like, Lestrade said Interpol was after him. Why?"
"Because he's the most influential and secretive information broker between the Atlantic and India, between Mycroft's odd jobs." Sherlock answered simply, his long stride as unreasonably hurried as ever even as he dodged an oblivious pedestrian. "The Interpol's been hunting him for years-they have a file as thick as Andersons skull filled with rumors and unsubstantiated claims. But they have nothing. No name, no location, no age, no gender, not even a whisper of a physical description. Just the Irregulars, and their leader." He turned the corner so sharply I almost tripped in my effort to follow.
For once, I was the one left speechless. Alwyn's 'legend' was even more outlandish than I'd thought. The Holmes family only got more complicated the longer I knew them. But Sherlock just sounded...irritated. I finally caught up with him and fell into step again, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer: "So...wait. No one knows who Alwyn is, And you're telling me you've just known all along?"
Sherlock didn't respond right away, his jaw tightening just barely as his eyes flicked toward me. He didn't look angry, but he didn't look pleased either. "Yes. I knew."
The silence stretched as we walked, the London drizzle settling over us like a damp veil. Sherlock’s expression remained unreadable, but I could tell he was turning something over in that infuriatingly brilliant mind of his.
Finally-just as we reached Baker Street-he spoke again, quieter this time:
"Alwyn... prefers it this way." His fingers twitched at his sides before he shoved them into his coat pockets. "He doesn’t want to be known."
I frowned. "But you brought us to him."
Sherlock’s lips thinned. "Because it was necessary for the case-and because I trust you and Lestrade not to be idiots about it." He paused on the front step of 221B, eyeing me with sudden intensity: "...Do try not to prove me wrong, John."
And with that cryptic warning hanging between us, he vanished inside without another word, leaving me standing in the dreary London drizzle. I stared at the drops of water racing down the paint of the door for a long moment before sighing, and heaving open the door to walk inside.
[1 WEEK LATER – 221B BAKER STREET]
A green envelope is unmarked, slipped under the door at dawn-no postage, no address, sealed with a golden stamp of a small rabbit, and containing a single sheet of thick, cream coloured parchment folded crisply into rectangular thirds. Sherlock picks it up without comment, already knowing what it is by the way his fingers brush the paper (or maybe by the faint scent of soap and iron-gall ink clinging to it).
Inside:
Brother mine,
Wiggins informed me of an underground fight club doubling as a smuggling ring near Blackfriars. After further investigation we discovered a young woman named Sarah Johnston used to work there as a tip collector. Her mother was recently murdered. Inspector Lestrade did not notify you of the incident because it appeared rather straightforward in the eyes of the police. It is not. She should be arriving to your house in about 10 minutes.
Tell Lestrade to stop worrying about my case file.
-AH (stamped with a green ink stamp of a Hares head)
Sherlock smirked, tossing the letter onto my lap as I sat half-asleep in my armchair. "Alwyns idea of a morning greeting," he remarked dryly, already reaching for his violin.
I squinted at the elegant cursive-it looked like something from another century- or like the signatures on the American declaration of independence. "Wait-murdered mother? Smuggling ring? And this Sarah Johnston is just... showing up here in ten minutes?"
Before Sherlock could answer, there was a sharp knock at the door. Mrs Hudson scurried out of the kitchen, peeking through the peephole, before Sherlock ushered her gently aside.
Sherlock swung open the door to reveal a young blonde woman with wide, haunted green eyes and dried blood on her cuticles from anxious picking. She didn’t wait for an invitation before stepping inside- her voice barely above a whisper:
"...They said you'd help me."
Sherlock led her up the stairs and into our flat, his expression unreadable as he met my gaze over her shoulder. "It seems we have a new case, John." he murmured, before turning back to our unexpected guest with that razor-sharp focus of his.
Mrs Hudson was already handing the woman- Sarah- a cup of tea, her usual bubbly demeanor softened into something gentler.
“So,” Sherlock said brashly, “you knew about the smuggling ring because you worked there?”
Sarah nodded tightly, fingers shaking around the mug. “I-I didn’t realize what it was at first. Just thought it was some underground boxing thing- a-and i needed the money.” She swallowed hard, before her eyebrows furrowed, and she looked up from her tea. “H-how do you know this already?"
Sherlock went very still beside me.
Hamerdish again -the same name from Alwyn's warning weeks ago during the Greenhouse Gambler case; a loose end that hadn’t been tied off after Harry Fawx’s arrest... until now.
Across from us on the couch Sarah drew in an uneven breath before continuing, quickly giving up on getting an answer. "...My mother found out too much." Her knuckles whitened around her teacup as tears welled in her eyes. “He killed her, didn’t he? Why hasn’t he been arrested?”
Sherlock exhaled slowly through his nose, the way he did when piecing together a particularly ugly puzzle. He strode to the window, fingers steepled under his chin-the city’s gray light casting sharp shadows across his face.
"Because Hamerdish is careful," he said at last. "He uses layers of proxies-gamblers, indebted sons, desperate fighters like those in his ring-to do his dirty work while he remains untouchable." His voice hardened. "But not anymore."
Sarah looked up sharply. "You can prove it?"
Sherlock didn’t answer right away-his eyes flicked to the green envelope still clutched in my hand, then back to her with a chilling certainty. "The better question is-are you willing to testify against Hamerdish?"
Her spine straightened with something between terror and resolve when she nodded once, sharp as a blade; "Yes."
Sherlock's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He straightened, clapping his hands together once-the sound sharp in the tense air of 221B. "Excellent. Then we move now."
I barely had time to set down my tea before he was tossing me my coat. "Wait-now? Shouldn’t we at least call Lestrade first?"
"No need," Sherlock said smoothly, checking his watch as if timing something unseen. "He'll be here shortly."
Sure enough, two minutes later, rapid footsteps pounded up the stairs before Lestrade himself burst through the door-his face flushed from exertion (and possibly fury). He brandished a file stamped with THE HARE - TOP SECURITY in bold red letters. A small green stamp of a hare was on the front underneath it.
"Sherlock," He gritted out between breaths, "He's doing it again.”
Sherlock didn’t even glance up from the violin he was suddenly tuning, as if he’d been expecting Lestrade’s dramatic entrance all along. “Doing what again, precisely?” His voice dripped with feigned disinterest.
Lestrade scowled and slapped the file onto the coffee table hard enough to make Mrs Hudson jump. “DELETING ANY AND ALL INFORMATION ON HIMSELF.” He jabbed a finger at Sherlock accusingly. “This guy- person- thing- infiltrated Interpol last year for fun, and now they’re treating my division like a personal filing cabinet! Interpol wants me to tell them who he is!!”
A pause as Sherlock finally lifted his gaze-utterly unrepentant. “…And?”
“AND,” Lestrade hissed through gritted teeth before visibly restraining himself with an exhale (likely remembering that threatening a Holmes rarely ended well). His next words were quieter but no less furious: “I don't know!! You realize this is how people end up in unmarked graves? The kind of men Hamerdish works for don't take kindly to being exposed by some…some-”
“Ghost?” Mrs Hudson offered helpfully.
Sherlock plucked a single dissonant note from his violin before answering, deadpan. “Try shadow government and you might be closer.”
Lestrade looked like he wanted to strangle him. Or possibly himself. Instead, he exhaled through his nose again-long-suffering-and flipped open the file to reveal a photograph of Hamerdish mid-sneer at some high-end restaurant, talking to Eliza Johnston, with Alwyn's telltale tiny hare sketched faintly in the corner of the image like an artist’s signature. "This is what he left us."
Sarah made a choked noise from the couch. “Is that-”
“Proof,” Sherlock interrupted smoothly, setting his violin aside at last as he prowled toward Lestrade with predator-like grace, “that Victor Hamerdish is about to have the worst day of his life.” His grin was all teeth. “Shall we?”
Sherlock’s grin widened at Lestrade’s visible frustration. “Oh, don’t look so grim. You should be thanking him-they just handed you Hamerdish on a silver platter with evidence even the Crown Prosecution Service can't ignore.”
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “I would be thanking him-if he didn't just get me in trouble with Interpol!” He gestured wildly at the file. “This is madness, Sherlock! How does one person have access to this level of-"
She cut herself off as Sarah suddenly stood up from the couch, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her voice wavered but held steel: “Does it matter?”
The room fell silent as we all turned to her-this bruised but unbroken young woman who had just lost everything to Hamerdish's cruelty. Her next words were quieter but no less fierce: "...If someone has proof he killed my mother... if they can stop him from doing it again... does it really matter where that proof came from?"
Lestrade opened her mouth-then closed it again after a long moment before exhaling in resignation. "Well...yeah. Kinda. In court."
[Three Weeks Later – Headlines Splash Across London]
VICTOR HAMERDISH ARRESTED IN LANDMARK UNDERGROUND CRIME BUST- KEY EVIDENCE PROVIDED BY ‘ANONYMOUS SOURCE’
The Daily Telegraph adds, in a smaller font beneath the byline: "Scotland Yard declines to comment on shadow figure's involvement."
[The same day- Scotland Yard press conference]
Lestrade stands at the podium, flanked by a dozen officers and Sergent Sally Donavan as camera flashes explode around him. On the screens behind them plays footage of Victor Hamerdish being led out of his Mayfair penthouse in handcuffs-his smug sneer finally wiped clean by sheer shock. Sherlock and I stand near the front, as Lestrade finally agreed to let us into one of these things.
A reporter shouts over the clamor: "Inspector! Can you confirm these charges are connected to the unsolved murder of Eliza Johnston?"
Lestrade’s smile is tight but satisfied. “We can now confirm that Mr. Hamerdish is facing charges for conspiracy to commit murder, among many other offenses.” A pause as he adjusts his notes- mostly about Alwyn, and less about Hamerdish.
Another reporter- “Gregory! Inspector Lestrade! What do you have to say regarding rumors of an anonymous members involvement with the Met?”
Lestrade's expression flickered-just for a second-into vague anxiety before Donavan answered instead "We don't comment on unnamed sources," she said crisply, but the way her grip tightened on the table gave her away. Lestrade hadn't said anything to her yet, but she knew. She could tell. Lestrade was remarkably transparent- she just didn't know who.
Another reporter shoved forward: "Then how do you explain this?" He held up a printout of Hamerdish’s financial records- each page bearing that same tiny hare stamp in the corner.
The room erupted. Cameras flashed wildly as journalists shouted over each other, their voices tangling into one frantic roar:
"Is this shadow person working with Scotland Yard?"
"Who is behind the new evidence?"
"Are they dangerous?"
Lestrade looked like he wanted to disappear into the floorboards, pointedly avoiding the stare of a ticked off Sergent Donavan. Sherlock, meanwhile, had his phone out and was typing something with faint amusement dancing at the edges of his mouth. A second later-
@SHolmes (verified): The Hare doesn’t work with anyone. London works for them.
“Well, that's remarkably vague.”
Alwyn set down the small phone he had been using to read the post Sherlock had made a few hours before. He didn't exactly know how to use one, so, he fidgeted with it in his hands for a moment, bright blue eyes scanning the text on the screen.
“How so?” Sherlock mused. “It's the truth.”
“Hm….not quite. I'd say my Irregulars work for me. But- London can't work for me, that's absurd. You also didn't specify what work I do. Not that it's any of their business, mind- who's this message to, anyhow? It's awfully dramatic.”
Sherlock looked mildly annoyed for a moment, before having the decency to cover it with his usual indifference, picking up his phone from where Alwyn had gingerly set it on the table. “It's not a message. It's a post. On social media.” he stood, slipping the small device in his pocket and walking away from his armchair, the picture of practiced nonchalance. “You really shouldn't take things so literally.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Alwyn chirped, though he didn't look sorry so much as he just seemed confused.
Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.
…When I first met Sherlock Holmes, that also meant I met his brothers. One was a formidable politician, who carried a black umbrella and a remarkable ability to be a complete snob about any given thing. The other, well…the other was more of a ghost. A specter, floating through life rather than really living it. I haven't known any of the Holmes brothers that long, and i've had limited conversation with them as I tend to get annoyed very quickly, but, I should like to get to know them all very well, however off putting they may be. I think, somewhere, there's a tiny crack in the ice that surrounds all three of them. Somewhere.
[Log End]