Delilah's World

Title: Showbiz
Fandoms: Muse/ Sherlock BBC 
Summary: Muse frontman Matt Bellamy is being stalked. After receiving several threatening messages, they decide to contact a certain consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes...
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence; sexual situations; slash
Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictional, even those based on real people and material (having been altered, added or left out for dramatic purposes). I do not own Muse; I do not own Sherlock Holmes nor the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and so fabulously reworked by Moffat and Gatiss .

Big thanks to my ever faithful beta deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOL

Thanks to all who have been reading/ reviewing. The story is going to have 6 parts in total and then a shorter sequel, of which half is written.


CHAPTER THREE
 
Sherlock had been pacing the sitting room of 221B for awhile, the Chinese takeaway John had left for him on the table untouched and long gone cold. Having spent most of the day at the computer or lying on the sofa with a couple of nicotine patches on his arm, he was painfully aware that he was no closer to finding the stalker than he had been before speaking to Dominic Anderson and Tom Kirk that morning. 

“Everybody with access to the information about the band’s hotel reservations is clean,” he announced, just as the sound of an incoming text was heard. “If it’s Mycroft, delete it.”

“What?” John looked away from the TV and frowned at him from his spot slumped in his armchair. It was very late, he should probably go to bed.

“My phone. I’ve received a text. Delete it if it’s from Mycroft, he’s been pestering me again. Quite desperate for assistance, if he’s lowered himself to texting rather than calling.”

“Right.” John couldn't gather the energy to be annoyed at the peremptory tone. He straightened immediately as he read the message. “It’s not your brother, Sherlock, it’s Dominic!” His jaw dropped. “My God, someone attacked Matt tonight at the hotel!” He had barely reached the end before Sherlock was beside him, ripping the Blackberry from his hands. “The police are already there.”

“Come along, John.” Sherlock shoved the phone in his pocket and started towards the stairs.


***


When they arrived at the hotel, the door to Matt’s suite was wide open, the Metropolitan Police conducting a search of it, two police constables bent over the couch, examining the cushions. Muse’s front man and drummer were sitting side by side on the opposite couch, their thighs pressed together despite there being room enough for at least two more people. They were conversing in low voices, Dom resting a hand on Matt’s knee briefly, squeezing gently.

“What happened?” Sherlock strode over to them.

A dishevelled Matt nodded his head in acknowledgement of the pair and stood to greet them, grimacing and discreetly taking a hand to his back as he did so. The motion didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock, nor did the ugly bruise forming on the pale skin above his elbow. The detective sat on the coffee table in front of the two, while John stood with his arms crossed at his side.

“Thanks for coming.” Dom smiled weakly.

Matt explained what had happened, describing the bulky, blond man who had attacked him as best he could. His voice didn’t shake, but the look in his eyes betrayed the real scare he’d gotten. 

“I don’t understand, why did he run? He could’ve... killed Matt right here.” Dom looked from Sherlock to John.

“Oh, he wasn’t going to shoot anyone at that stage,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. “His plan was ruined the moment Matthew managed to alert you to his presence.” He turned to face the singer. “He kicked you in the back, obviously. But not in an attempt to recover the gun. You were defenceless on the floor by then. Why do you think he did that?”

Matt’s blue gaze remained locked with Sherlock’s silver one. “He was pissed off.”

“Yes, precisely. He was already aware he had failed in his mission.” Sherlock nodded, John following the exchange with interest. “How old do you estimate he was?”

“Um, I don’t know. I got a good look at his face, but it’s hard to tell. Maybe thirty-five? Forty at most, I reckon.” Matt paused, trying to read the look the detective gave his partner. “What, you think he wasn’t the stalker?” 

“I am sure he wasn’t the stalker.”

“Come on, then who the hell was he?!” Matt’s eyes widened. “I know what you said last night when you saw the letters, that he was old and all that, but maybe you’re wrong, this bloke must have something to do with the messages! Dom’s told the police the whole story and they agree, they said it’s him.”

John flinched in anticipation, but the scathing, derisive reply he half-expected from Sherlock never came. Instead, his flatmate took him by surprise again by shaking his head in mild negation, resting his elbows on his knees and inching closer to the edge of his makeshift seat, leaning towards Matt with an intense look.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Yes, this incident is undeniably connected to the letters, but this isn’t the man we’re looking for. That man got someone else to do his dirty work tonight...” He stared blankly at the floor, his mind going over the possibilities and permutations of a case which was turning out to be ever so slightly more interesting than he'd anticipated. "Why would someone of a fairly meticulous nature hire a petty thug who loses his temper easily for this task? It doesn't fit. What was it about you that made him change his methods...” Sherlock added, almost to himself as he stood to glance around the room, pivoting abruptly on the spot to look back at Matt. “What is it about you... you’re different, what makes you...” He narrowed his eyes assessingly and then his features relaxed as the answer came to him. “Oh.” There was a glint in his eye, a smirk creeping onto his face.

“What is it?” Matt demanded.

“Don’t you see? This isn’t new for him." Sherlock's speech sped up as enlightenment dawned . "He's accustomed to the hunt, it is very likely this isn’t the first time he's stalked someone. But he does it alone, if tonight’s abysmal failure is anything to go by. So, again, what is it about you that made him change tactics? What is it...” The progression of his thoughts was interrupted when his gaze met Matt’s once more.

Despite everything, Matt found himself trusting this odd man, whose icy, dispassionate shell had cracked completely, revealing the passion beneath. He obviously enjoyed his job; Matt didn’t think that was a bad thing. “All right, it wasn't him. So who was he and what did he want?”

“Mr. Bellamy,” another voice intruded. A Met sergeant, accompanied by a smartly dressed middle-aged man, was standing nearby, eyeing Sherlock and John doubtfully. “And you are?”

“He works for me,” Matt stated firmly. “He's Sherlock Holmes, the detective I mentioned to you earlier.”

“Right,” the sergeant sniffed dismissively. “Mr. Bellamy, the gun your stalker used -“

“Not his stalker,” Sherlock interjected.

“Excuse me. Of course this attack was perpetrated by Mr. Bellamy’s stalker.”

“Of course it wasn’t. But you wouldn’t be able to see that a mere hour after your arrival, would you? A detailed explanation of the situation in advance and three weeks to digest the information and you'd still be floundering about in ignorance like a Medieval peasant.” There was a shocked silence, then a stifled snigger. Everyone turned to Matt, who was unsuccessfully hiding a grin behind his hand. Sherlock blinked before allowing a small smile to grace his lips as Matt looked away and cleared his throat. “But you were saying?” He addressed the police officer again. “I believe you were about to inform us how the gun this man fired did not contain real bullets.”

“I -“ The sergeant narrowed his eyes and puffed out his chest, the surprise diverting his attention from the insult. “And how do you know that?” His sudden suspicion that Sherlock was involved was obvious.

“He wasn’t here to kill Mr. Bellamy, he was here to abduct him. And take him to the real stalker, clearly. The gun was meant as a method of persuasion, but he would never have shot at Mr. Bellamy multiple times if those were real bullets. It was never his intention to cause serious injury or death. Those were tranquilliser darts.”

“Like a hunter...” Matt breathed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and sharing a look with Sherlock.

“Any idea what incapacitating agent was used?” John asked, arms still crossed tightly over his chest, face stern.

“We’re collecting the darts for analysis and will have the report tomorrow. In the mean time, we would strongly advise Mr. Bellamy to exercise caution, because -“

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock butted in, rolling his eyes. “We already know there’s nothing you can do to protect him.”

“Excuse me,” the middle-aged man accompanying the officer spoke up, twisting his hands nervously. “The Connaught Hotel deeply regrets what happened and apologises profusely for the inconvenience caused. We'll move you to a new room, of course, and are more than willing to provide -”

“I don’t need any bloody protection. I’ll be fine here,” Matt mumbled stubbornly, looking at the floor.

“Just like you were tonight?” Dom was incredulous and, ignoring Matt’s protests, turned to both the police officer and the hotel manager. “We’ll get one of our bodyguards to be with Matt at all times from tomorrow on. Tonight, he stays with me. And we appreciate the offer to change rooms, but, as it won't make any difference now, we'll leave that for tomorrow, too.” In the drummer's opinion, changing hotels was the next step, but that could wait until Matt had got some rest. He turned to face Sherlock and John. “You'll want to have a look around, right?”

“They can’t -“

“Splendid. Ten minutes will suffice,” Sherlock said. ”And then I'll need the footage from the hotel's surveillance cameras.” He paused to stare intently at Matt. “Will you be all right?”

Resting a hand on Matt’s shoulder, Dom was the one who replied. “He’ll be fine, thank you. He refused to see the medic that came with the police,” he glared at his band mate, ”but I’ll take him to a hospital tomorrow for a check-up, just in case. Come on, Matt.”

John watched as Dom tugged his friend into following him, the hotel manager leading them away. Sherlock observed them as they left, then set off to examine what had become a crime scene, infuriating the Met in the process, as usual.

Overlooked as it may have been by the others, John could not recall a time when Sherlock had shown such a genuine level of concern for a victim during a case as he had just demonstrated with Matt. His stomach in a knot and unsure as to why, John only knew that he was beginning to get anxious for the case to be solved.


***


Dom came out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth to find Matt settling himself on the couch in the sitting room, a thin blanket covering him from the waist down.

“Matt, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like to you, genius?”

Smiling softly, the drummer poked at the blanket with a toe. “Come on, get up.” Matt gave him a blank look and Dom nodded towards the bedroom. “Bed. Proper bed”

Matt scoffed and rolled over, turning his back on his band mate. Unperturbed, Dom sat on the edge of the couch and placed a hand against the jut of Matt's shoulder blade. He almost expected him to recoil, but at the touch the singer relaxed, taking a deep breath as Dom started rubbing his back. Stroking lightly up and down, the motion drew a muffled groan from Matt when the blond brushed the injured spot on his lower back.

“Stay with me tonight,” Dom whispered.


***


When the drummer stirred in the dark and ventured a glance aside at Matt, he realised his friend was awake, staring at the ceiling contemplatively. The alarm clock on the bedside table read 5am.

For awhile the only sound was the idle scratching of Matt’s fingernails against cotton as he fidgeted with the bed sheet, bundling and unbundling it from around his fist; but he was well aware that Dom had not gone back to sleep.

“D'you remember... d'you remember how we never used to care about dying? I mean, course we didn't want to die, but it didn't worry us, know what I mean? You remember that, Dom?”

Matt's random wonderings at strange moments had stopped being a novelty for the drummer years ago, and it always amused him that his friend didn’t necessarily need a response to continue. But Dom did - he did remember those days, it wasn’t that long ago. He knew well what his band mate was talking about.
Careless. Living for the moment. Never worried about the consequences of their actions. Death was fascinating to them, subject of discussion on many nights, both drunken and sober, but nothing they truly feared. They still did far too much stupid shit. Being in a band, and a successful one at that, gave them that freedom. It allowed them, in a certain respect, to forever remain feckless teenagers. But in light of recent events, Dom had a pretty good idea exactly what was keeping Matt awake.

“You're going to watch your kid grow up, Matt. Nothing's going to happen to you. You're not going to die now, we’re gonna catch the bastard.”

The silence that followed meant Dom had hit the nail on the head. Matt rolled onto his side with a grunt and gripped Dom's wrist, making him turn as well, so they were both lying on their sides facing each other. It was dark but not black, and he could see Matt perfectly. And even if he couldn’t, he was sure that he could close his eyes and still map out every single detail of Matt’s face; every inch of his body.

“I need you to promise me something,” Matt squeezed Dom's wrist almost painfully. “If something happens to me -”

“No,” Dom refused to even let such a thought enter his head. “Nothing's gonna happen to you. And you know what, this isn’t the time or the place -”

“We are having this talk. Nobody knows me as well as you do, Dom, you know you're the person I trust the most in the world.” Matt's voice was steady, without a hint of the awkwardness that usually seeped through his words whenever the conversation took an emotional turn. “You're going to promise me that if something happens to me you're going to be there for my kid and treat him or her as you know I would.”

“I don't think...” Dom swallowed. He could claim that his friend was being silly and very much choosing the wrong person to have this conversation with, but his intent was crystal clear. “You want me to be the baby’s godfather.”

“Call it whatever you want. I don't care what's it called, or even if it has a sodding name. Just promise me you'll be there if I can't, Dom. Please. Say you will and I won't ask you for anything else ever again.”

It wasn’t such an unexpected request, but Dom’s skin still prickled in response. Pride, flattery, gratitude, he didn’t know what it was. Never mind a successful career filled with praise and accolades, this was the sort of thing that he would look back on with fondness; one of the special moments that filled his life with meaning.

He scooted nearer Matt in the bed, feeling his body heat, and he was transported back to when they were hardly out of their teens, lumped together in the back of a van with the band’s cheap equipment, away from prying eyes, pressing their bodies close while Chris or one of their mates drove through the night to the next gig. They were past thirty now and the bed was large, the sheets luxurious; they didn’t need to bundle up against each other to avoid the cold. The feelings, though, they remained the same. “You can ask anything of me. Always.”

He was rewarded with a serene smile from Matt, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He looked impossibly young when he smiled like that. “Thank you,” the pianist whispered, finally closing his eyes. He complied willingly when Dom slid an arm around his waist and pulled him close.

Lips brushing the corner of Matt’s mouth, Dom smiled when the silly goatee he insisted on sporting lately scratched him. “Love you, too.”


***


“Get up, John. John!”

Shifting uncomfortably in his armchair, the doctor took a hand to the back of his neck, rolling his head around carefully. Light was filtering through the curtains and he glanced resignedly at his watch. 9am. Great, no chance of a proper sleep now.

“Come on, John! We can stop for breakfast on the way if you really must.” Sherlock was circling the flat, agitated. “I've discovered who broke into Matthew's room last night.”

That woke John up. “Who?”

“George Rufus, age thirty-five. He has a criminal record, consisting mostly of property damage. I was able to track him down through the surveillance footage.” He put his suit jacket on over a pristine white shirt as he spoke. “His car was parked on the other side of the road, a blue Ford Fiesta. The license plate was obscured but not difficult to find out. And now for the most interesting part - the same car was in the exact same spot Friday night.”

“He's been following Matt!” John was wide awake now. “You think... Sherlock, he might have planned to attack Matt on Friday, but he didn’t... because we were with him!”

“Yes, my thoughts precisely. Also...” Sherlock snatched a picture from the desk and nearly shoved it in John's face, the doctor standing up to grab it from him. It was an old photograph of a school class. “I got this from his Facebook account. Know where it was taken?”

“At a school?” John offered lamely. Sherlock didn't deign to reply. “You don’t mean... at the same school Matt went to?”

“Rufus’s parents worked in sales and moved often in his youth, until they finally settled in Leeds. Guess where he spent his high school years? Exeter, Newton Abbott, Torquay, Plymouth...”

“In Devon. And you'd already determined the stalker met Matt when he was growing up, in Teignmouth.”

“Don’t you see, John? School! That is the connection! Which adults besides family have the most contact with children and teenagers? Who would consider himself a good judge of someone’s abilities? Matthew’s stalker was one of his teachers.” Sherlock was almost breathless. “Rufus’s last known address is in south London, where he lives with his wife and children. We’re going there now. I need to question him. Our man must have been a teacher of his, too.”

John was already slipping his jacket on, but slowed at that. “Sherlock, we should go to the police first. They’ll arrest him.”

“No,” he stated. “There’s no time for that and they’d just scare him away.”

John considered for a moment before running upstairs to get his gun. It would be impossible to make the detective change his mind; the least he could do was not let him go by himself.


***


“Yeah, can I help you?”

On the other side of the door a plump blonde eyed Sherlock and John warily. The cry of a child echoed from inside the house.

“Hello. Mrs. Rufus, I presume? Is your husband home?” Sherlock questioned.

“No.” Her mouth twisted in displeasure. “Why? Who’re you?” She suddenly looked behind herself at the sound of glass breaking. “Oi! What the bloody hell have you two done now? Go back to your room!”

John looked aside at his partner, cringing inwardly, but Sherlock was focused on scanning what he could see of the interior.

“Listen ‘ere, I’m busy, so what do you want with George?” She put her hands on her hips. “Did he do something? He told me he'd left the dodgy schemes in the past; he’s trying to straighten his life out. I’ll put him out of the house if I find he lied to me!”

“We’re just wondering if you could tell us where he was last night?” John finally asked, noticing Sherlock had ignored the question and was staring at an untidy child who had snuck up behind his mother to stick his tongue out at the two with a wicked smile.

“Went down to the pub to watch the footie and said he was filling in for someone at this bakery where he does some work sometimes after. He’s still unemployed so he takes what he can get. Hasn’t got back yet, he’s bloody late.” 

“Mrs. Rufus, does your husband own a computer?” Sherlock asked. John saw the child was now clinging to his mother’s legs, frowning.

“Not that I know of.” She raised her eyebrows. “Ian threw his old laptop out the window last year.” 

“Thank you for your time,” Sherlock said, shamming politeness. “Have a nice day.” The child burst into tears, pointing accusingly at the detective as they turned to leave, Mrs. Rufus's yells to get the boy to shut up audible even after the door closed. “We won’t find anything relating to his activities inside, it’s clearly not an environment our stalker would approve of him working in. Rufus has a Facebook account that he updates regularly, although his wife isn’t aware he’s got regular access to a computer. He must have it all in his car,” he mused. “Now the question is, where is he?”

“What did you do to the kid?” John demanded once they were in a cab, the Mayfair police station their next destination.

“What do you mean?”

“The little brat. You made a face at him, didn’t you? He was sticking his tongue out at us and then when we left he was pointing at you and crying.” John grinned when he saw Sherlock pursing his lips in that peculiar manner he’d learnt to recognise as amusement. “A child, Sherlock. Seriously? How old are you again?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

They arrived at the station twenty minutes later, Sherlock barging in and heading straight for the sergeant's desk.

“The man who attacked Mr. Bellamy last night. His name is George Rufus.”

“Yeah, we know.”

Sherlock couldn't hide his surprise. “You do? How novel.” He surveyed the desk, but nothing relating to the case was on display. “Yet, you haven’t arrested him nor been to his house. Why?”

“Arresting him would be rather difficult now. He's dead. Family’s about to be informed.”

“What happened?” John blurted.

“Drowned. Found in the Thames an hour ago by a construction worker who called it in. He was armed and had recent photos of Bellamy in a pocket, so the connection was made. Case closed.”

“The case is far from being closed,” Sherlock’s voice had lowered dangerously. “He was an accomplice, hired muscle. The person who engineered all this is still out there and poses a significant threat. Why do you think Rufus is dead?”

“Too much drink, fell in the river. Happens all the time.”

“So you choose to ignore the signs that his death is suspiciously convenient? Is it because there's less paperwork if you declare it an accident?” He leaned over the desk, palms flat, stance confrontational. “It appears the Met set new standards of stupidity every day.”

John took a hand to his temple in despair.

“Take your investigation somewhere else, Holmes. We're done here.”

The sergeant all but booted them out, but not before Sherlock asked a final question. “Mr. Bellamy. Has someone at least bothered to inform him?”

“I'm afraid you'll have to talk to the Detective Chief Inspector about that. If he can be arsed to speak to you. You see, he’s been warned.” He smiled unpleasantly and Sherlock turned his back on him, leaving without another word.

“Idiots,” he sniffed, John trailing right behind.

“You think he was murdered by the stalker, don't you?”

Sherlock was fiddling with his phone as he looked right and left on the street, trying to spot a cab. “Call Matthew to see if he's been summoned to identify Rufus as the man who attacked him and wait here for him and Dominic. I need you to gather as much information as you can about the circumstances of his death and find out whether they’ve found his car.”

“And you?”

“I need to see the body, I’m going to Bart’s. We're dealing with someone far more dangerous than anyone gives him credit for, John. There’s something I’m missing.”


***


The phone call from the police with the news of the attacker’s death hadn’t come as a relief for either Matt or Dom, rather the opposite. If Rufus was indeed operating under the orders of someone else, him showing up dead after failing to complete his task could mean the Muse front man was in far more danger than he had first appeared to be.

The drummer had been on the phone to Dom Anderson, their tour manager, discussing what to do and asking him to return from New York when John had rung to check on their whereabouts.

The two musicians arrived at the police station shortly after, accompanied by Jason, one of the band’s bodyguards. Dominic, in particular, looked quite troubled, John noted, which seemed to be reflected in his outfit, the blond's clothes surprisingly subdued. But he couldn’t help wondering whether Matt had been able to retrieve any of his belongings from his suite before they left the hotel. The doctor’s descriptive powers had improved leaps and bounds since he'd started blogging about his adventures with Sherlock, but he was still stumped by Bellamy's outfit. His trousers, clearly part of a suit, were brown, but they were also somehow purple, and they glittered. He'd paired them with a blue and red plaid work shirt, a grey tartan scarf and a black winter coat. Rock star eccentricity was all very well – but there was eccentricity and there was genuinely not having a clue and, in his opinion, Matt was fashionably clueless.

However, he readily identified the man who had attacked him the previous night from the photos the police showed him and had no qualms about raising several questions with the DCI. Despite his valid concerns, he was repeatedly told there was no more reason to worry. Reportedly, they had found a couple of Muse albums at Rufus's house, which was apparently enough to suggest that he was an obsessive follower of the band and therefore cement their theory that he’d been the one who sent the letters. For all intents and purposes, the case was closed.

Sherlock had texted John to inform him he’d meet them at the hotel bar and was positively fuming when he arrived.

“Molly is on holiday and nobody else will allow me access to the body,” he announced disdainfully. “They say the most they can do is give me a copy of the autopsy report. What for? It is the body I need to see. The report is useless, as they'll miss everything of importance!”

“Fucking hell, why don’t they let you go in if you do it all the time anyway?” Matt asked in exasperation, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

It had not been an easy morning for the singer. It had dawned on him while still at the police station that there was a possibility the stalker knew his mother and he’d just had a difficult conversation with his brother Paul where he'd tried to explain what was going on with the minimum of detail and that he needed him to convince their mother to go visit him and his family for a few days to get her out of Devon. He hadn’t quite worked out yet how to talk to his girlfriend’s parents without coming across as a paranoid freak or leaving them worried to death. 

“We should pack and change hotels, you know,” Dom suggested when both Sherlock and John rose to leave and continue working at Baker Street, the detective deeming it essential now to go through every teacher Matt and George Rufus had had at school. The data was archived locally but Tom Kirk had called in a favour from an acquaintance in Teignmouth and already e-mailed them the names of Matt’s teachers. Rufus’s were likely to be available the following day.

“That’s great, that’s awesome. Jumping from hotel to hotel, hiding now, is it?” Matt complained, gesticulating broadly. “Isn’t that what he wants, to frighten me? He likes this, doesn’t he?” He asked Sherlock. “He likes to have this control over me, to have this power. Fucking psycho, bet he gets off on it.” 

“It really isn’t safe for you to wander around,” John said, half apologetically.

“And there's nothing we could help you with?” Matt asked. “There must be something we can do, something I can do?”


***


“So you two live together?”

Dom admired the large, eclectic sitting room of 221b Baker Street, the tall windows letting the light in through Mrs. Hudson’s curtains. It wouldn’t be long until sunset. 

John could tell the drummer liked their flat. What he couldn’t tell was why Sherlock had felt the need to invite them both there. Not that he minded, not at all, but it nagged at him, what Sherlock’s real reason had been. It wasn’t as though he needed Matt to investigate his teachers; it wasn’t even necessary to keep Matt safe, as he could afford to have one bodyguard (or several) at his disposal twenty-four hours a day, if he so wished. The two band mates had bickered in private for a few minutes at the hotel before they  had accepted Sherlock’s offer, dismissing Jason for the remainder of the day.

Sherlock was stuffing newspapers away and making an effort at clearing the room in a manner that made John recall the first time he had set foot inside the place himself. “We’re flatmates.”

Dom nodded and glanced furtively at Matt.

“We work together,” John added. He’d grown accustomed to that assumption by now. “Kind of like you two.”

“Not really like you two,” Sherlock instantly corrected.

Matt and Dom, standing side by side, exchanged an inscrutable look, but neither of them replied. And then the singer spotted the music stand near the couch and the violin case on the floor.

“Is that a violin?” He turned to Sherlock enthusiastically, who nodded briefly. “Is it yours? You didn’t mention you could play.”

“I... I do. A bit.”

John couldn’t believe Sherlock’s reaction. Was he turning a light shade of pink?

“He plays very well, he’s being modest,” John snapped. Sherlock was absolutely brilliant on the violin. And modesty didn’t suit him.

“You'll have to play a bit for us later.”

Still smiling and oblivious to John’s irritation, Matt turned around to inspect the rest of the sitting room, the doctor pettily wishing he’d stumble upon one of Sherlock’s unnerving experiments, perhaps a flask containing severed fingers in battery acid.

But Matt’s attention was diverted by something else – the notes, pictures and other evidence relating to the case pinned to the wall. His smile faded as he walked towards it. The letters, reports from the police about Rufus, school photos of him... Sherlock had silently joined him.

“D’you always solve the cases you take?”

“Always,” Sherlock assured him, Matt nodding and taking a deep, fortifying breath. The detective extended his hand towards the desk confidently. “Shall we?”
 


-----------------------------------------------

Note: All credit to my beta for Sherlock's insult towards the Met sargeant -  A detailed explanation of the situation in advance and three weeks to digest the information and you'd still be floundering about in ignorance like a Medieval peasant. - in fact, I specifically requested her help there cos I'm crap at witty jokes and she's marvelous. Thank you! :D