Chapter 3:

The Client

At best, it was an interrogation. At worst, it was an awkward tea party between himself, the client, and Mycroft.

The aforementioned elder brother sat rigidly in one of the study's numerous cushioned chairs, a saucer and cup perched on his knee precariously – his mind was elsewhere. Two untouched biscotti slices stacked on the edge of the plate – still as weight conscious as ever. His left hand was attempting to appear relaxed on the chair arm, but it kept tapping out an agitated rhythm – he didn't want to be here, but really, when did Mycroft ever enjoy spending time with his little brother?

Sherlock sighed wearily and rubbed his arms while the client noshed away at the biscotti, and noisily knocked backed two cups of tea. He had run out of nicotine patches ages ago, and he feared he was developing some kind of phantom itch of withdrawal. John usually would have run out to get him some more, but since they were fighting… Instead, he had to settle for bribing Mrs. Hudson, who had a tendency of using his money to get scratch cards instead. She'd never admit it though, but the scraps of foil stuck beneath her nails were louder evidence than her lies.

"So," he finally said, breaking the ever-increasing awkwardness of the silence. "My client here is in need of assistance."

Mycroft scoffed. "Well, why else would he be here?" Sherlock resisted the urge to shoot his brother an ugly look. "Forgive me, I should have been more specific – my client here is in need of your assistance."

"And what assistance could I possibly offer that the Great Sherlock Holmes could not?" A small smirk was playing at the corner of Mycroft's lips, and Sherlock knew he was reveling in the realization that his baby brother had to call in this favor. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock attempted to remain calm as he went over to the desk to pick up a ziplock bag filled with some things. He tossed it to Mycroft, who caught it rather haphazardly and began examining it like it might possibly be a bomb that could go off at any second.

"It's what was in his pockets," Sherlock explained, jerking his head in the direction of the client. "A stale biscuit, a tattered and very outdated travel guide of London, broken pocket watch, ripped bow tie, and a napkin with a Chanel red lipstick print, shade name 'Ferrari', if I'm not mistaken… "

"So you're dealing with a drunkard suffering temporary amnesia," Mycroft deducted rather dryly. He set the bag down on the coffee table beside him and folded his hands in his lap as he leveled a cold stare with Sherlock. "You called me down here. On my day off. To call in a favor. With helping a drunk."

"I'm not a drunk!" piped up the client indignantly. He lost his hold on his saucer, and a bit of unfinished biscotti toppled off onto the floor. "Well….at least I don't think I am…" He stared down miserably at the crumbs, and seemed to sort of fold in on himself, like a house of cards imploding. Sherlock realized that if John were there, this would have been the part where he'd offer up some kind of sympathetic line – human emotional services, Sherlock had dubbed them. But John was not here, and he himself was not necessarily wired for doling out such condolences.

"Well, regardless of the man's sobriety," Mycroft prattled on, "I still fail to see why you need me here. You easily could have ransacked missing persons files without my help, and even if that was too daunting of a technical task for you to grasp, you could have at least gotten Lestrade to do your dirty work."

Sherlock ignored the jibe at his lack of "common sense" skills – as John called them – and pretended to wipe something off the hem of his coat. "When you're done taking out your frustrations about your futile doctor's visit on me, please, let me know." Mycroft's hand clenched on the chair, and for a fleeting moment, Sherlock was reminded of the times when they were children and he would get pummeled for running his mouth.

The client, seeming painfully aware of the tension between the two brothers, set his saucer down on the table and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Listen, if this is a bad time," he began, standing as if to leave, "I can always just – "

"No you can't." Sherlock cut across tersely. "You've got no money, no connections, and you haven't even got a proper coat." The client blinked in surprise and stared down at his worn, tweed jacket, as if he were just realizing he was dressed for early fall as opposed to the dead of winter.

"So did you just call me in to borrow some money for him?" Mycroft asked, his irritation apparent. Sherlock shook his head. "'Course not. I can do charity work and tax write offs on my own, thank you very much." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rumpled sheet of paper. "No, I called you here because I also happened to find this on my client here." As the paper passed from his hands to his brother's, Mycroft's look of agitation evaporated. For a moment, one could almost see a flicker of fear in the elder Holmes's eyes as he scanned the document, but it was quickly replaced by a cold mask of indifference and clinical efficiency. He turned to the client and held up the piece of paper. "Where did you get this."

It wasn't a question – it was a demand. The client flinched, and sunk lower into the padding of the chair. "I-I-I had it in my pocket. I thought it must've been something I just picked up or something…."

"This isn't something you just pick up," spat Mycroft. He suddenly rounded on Sherlock. "You want to explain to me why the hell your client has a copy of my case file dealings with North Korea?!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Because obviously, this man is in need of the help of both my astounding intellect, and the help of the British government." He reached over and snatched the paper from Mycroft's hand. "And you, dear brother, happen to fit rather relatively well into the latter category." He began to shred the document, and Mycroft let out a noise similar to that of a strangled cat.

"Relax," younger Holmes assured, scattering the confetti pieces into the bottom of the nearby bin. "It was just a copy. Merely a way of flagging down your attention. The real file is still safe and sound and happily uncompromised beneath your mattress, no doubt." Sherlock smirked as his brother made that strange noise again in protest. "You really should come up with some more original hiding places, Mycroft. You make it almost too easy."

"So you're saying," cut in the client, "that the sole reason I had top notch confidential, security of the State information collecting lint in my pocket was so that I could get your attention?"

Sherlock shook his head and steepled his fingers as he explained. "You told me when you first arrived that you had been directed to me by Inspector Lestrade down at the station. However, you could not recall who had directed you to Lestrade. Obviously, that someone had knowledge of my connection to him, and knowledge of the fact that Lestrade would be too swamped with holiday work to bother with an apparent drunkard. But this someone also needed you to acquire Mycroft's involvement, which is why I speculate they put that document copy into your pocket before they sent you on your merry way. So no, you did not have that file – nor were you dispatched to me by Lestrade – so that you could get our attention, but rather so that your keeper could."

The client's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "My…keeper?"

Mycroft sighed in a mix of frustration and realization as he held up the ziplock bag. "He's talking about the woman."

So you noticed it too?" Sherlock grinned. "The lipstick stain is fresh," he added for the benefit of the bewildered man. "Whoever sent you to Lestrade knew what they were doing."

While Sherlock beamed with the afterglow of yet another successful deduction, and while Mycroft simmered in suspicion and anxiety, the client buried his face in his hands and shook his head. "None of this makes any sense..." he muttered miserably.

"On the contrary, it makes perfect sense," Sherlock replied defensively. Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone from his pocket. "I'm going to call my cab and head back to the office," he said. "I need to do a security sweep, just to be certain, and I'll see what I can do in regards to finding out who this keeper woman is."

"And what am I supposed to do?!" the client asked forlornly. "Wait here for you?"

A smug smile worked Mycroft's features. "Dr. Watson won't be returning tonight, so feel free to take up his bedroom for temporary accommodations. Sherly won't mind."

Collateral damage, most likely for the comment about the doctor's visit… Sherlock just sat and sulked. "Second bedroom upstairs on the left." he told the client.

"So that's it?" he asked incredulously. "I get free room and board for a night, your brother runs off to check his mattress regarding the security of the nation, and you…"

Sherlock tapped his temple and grinned. "I think."

The client shook his head and laughed. "You two are mental. Honestly, I think if I had gone to anyone else, I would have just been locked up."

Sherlock shrugged as Mycroft chuckled and started putting back on his many layers of sweaters and coats. "It's not the Holmes way," he said simply. "Although we will have to do something about what to call you…"

"You mean the man doesn't even have a bloody name?!" Mycroft paused, one arm still needing to be put into his jacket.

"I don't remember it, and I didn't have any ID in my pockets to offer any suggestions," the client explained. Sherlock waved an impatient hand, as if these were just minor details. "We'll just call him John."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose somewhere into the stratosphere of his hairline. "As in 'Smith'," Sherlock hastiliy amended, fighting back a flush of embarrassment. "'John Smith'."

"What about 'Allonso'?" offered the client.

Mycroft shook his head with a smirk. "Oh no, trust me – 'John' will suit you much better."

Sometimes, Sherlock truly hated his brother.