The Daughter and the Detective: IV

"...I've seen, like, every single one of your movies!" Lucy squealed for second time at the astounded-looking Colin Mears. "My favorite's got to be The Bass Man—the concert scene at the end is just, like, I can't even. It's so good that I just can't even. Or The Runaway? That was your first thriller, right? Oh, I'm getting chills just thinking about it—you were so cool, taking down like, a billion bad guys at once in the fight scene on the rooftop!"

"I, well, it's uh..." Mears stammered in response. Lucy refrained from narrowing her eyes as she analyzed the reaction. He was obviously thrown off his pace—understandable, how often were obsolete actors accosted by fourteen-year-old fangirls? But now she needed to see how fast he could recover. If he couldn't, case closed, he was no big shot drug dealer, but if did...

"...It's about time somebody remembered those classics!" Mears finished. The makeup artist giggled again and Mears grinned at her slyly. He could still be the ringleader who was on top of everything or the bimbo who could manage a witty reply while he was flirting with a girl twice as young as him. Lucy ignored the bile rising in her throat and continued, all smiles, all idiotic.

"My mum is such a huge fan of yours and I grew up watching those movies!" she said, her voice never far from a squeal. "I could do all the lines by the time I was six. 'Never again. Never again do I take no for an answer.' Brilliant delivery, just brilliant from On Dover's Cliffs."

"Know your stuff don't you?" Mears said, "Yeah, that was an excellent movie. ...Broke my leg filming the last scene." He added with a small pout.

"You poor thing," the makeup artist cooed. He turned to her, clearly about to make some jocular comment but Lucy stepped in before he could.

"Well you pulled it off spectacularly," she said effusively. "Do you...do you think I could get an autograph? I wrangled my dad into dropping me off out here just so I could see you—I follow your blog to know where you're shooting, you're so funny!—and if I didn't come away with something to show for it—"

"Of course!" Mears said. "I'd love to! Anything for an adoring fan!"

"I've got—" Lucy began, holding out the pen and notepad Sherlock had given her.

"Never mind, I have my own," he replied, whipping out a gold pen and flip book. Lucy controlled the smile threatening to show as he signed his name with a flourish and said to the artist: "Young people like this, y'know? So loving. So energetic. Just makes you want your own, doesn't it...?" If he carried his own pen and pad around, he was obviously an arrogant old git.

She made a list in her head: narcissistic, dramatic, self-absorbed, terribly shallow, unintelligent—all checked with being a poor, cocky actor who was desperate for money—but also: an inner confidence (not a quality of an underling drug dealer) and most notably, a high-pain tolerance (the delayed mention of the leg, only used for the benefit of attracting the girl, nothing to do with actual pain.) All checked out with the profile for a drug lord.

Never mind, Sherlock would be able to tell more once he got ahold of the autograph.

Lucy bowed to Mears slightly when he handed her the sheet, making sure to trip of herself with excitement.

"Thank you so much," she radiated. "You'll never know how much this means to me. I can't even, I just—I can't even thank you enough. You're the best—"

"My pleasure," he said, holding up a hand, flattered but dismissive. Traits of a boss, not a showman. He was playing further into their hands.

She bowed again.

"I'll go. Thanks again! Can't wait to see the new movie!" And she scuttled off towards the car; knowing full well that a consulting detective was trailing along just behind her, smiling broadly.

Sherlock waited till the Blood Runs in Gutters crew had cleared off for lunch before he explained.

"Definitely," he said, running his fingers over the signature as though writing it himself. "Definitely our man."

"Which man?" John asked. "There were two options." Sherlock glanced up at him.

"Hm? Oh, the drug lord, obviously. This is our ringleader for certain; just take a look at the autograph."

"Lovely," John muttered, declining the offered sheet with a gesture. "And I just sent my youngest child right into his arms. Fantastic."

"I'm fine," Lucy piped up comfortingly. "A bit appalled by him, but still untouched."

"Still lucky," John corrected. "Please don't tell your mother, alright? She would gleefully murder me."

"Done," Lucy said. "Now show us the signature." The last part was directed towards Sherlock, who obliging handed it to her. John, unable to handle himself, inserted himself above her shoulder to read along.

"Not enough of a swish in the capital letters," Sherlock explained, indicating. "Nor much of stylized quality. It's a business man's signature, despite whatever facade he tries to put out as an actor. He may have been serious about it before, but sometime over the ten year hiatus, he's become involved in a more syndicating career. No records of it publicly therefore it's secretive and he's linked to these drugs. If he were a low man on the totem pole, he wouldn't have nearly as much confidence, but lucky for us, he does—just see how he dots the 'i' in Colin—a quick, hard jab like that wants to make his mark. Anyone involved in the underground drug business with misplaced confidence like this doesn't last a year and he's been at this for nearly a decade.

"Ergo: we've a drug lord on our hands and a few of Inspector Gilligan's minions need only follow him for a few weeks to prove it."

Lucy grinned to herself. Lucy Watson, the fourteen-year-old; and Colin Mears, the drug lord. Not bad for a first real case.

"So that's it then?" John said, still huffy, though finally beginning to cool off now that his daughter was out of harm's way. "We're done here?"

"Of course we are. I've got the information I wanted to hand over with our man."

"Spectacular. I'm taking Lucy back to school then. Thank you for a lovely morning, Sherlock." He made his way towards the car before stopping and turning when he realized Lucy hadn't followed.

"Luce?"

"Can I, uh, can I—?" A thought had just occurred to her and she wanted to test her theory. "Can I ask Sherlock something?"

Her godfather, still scrutinizing the signature (probably working out what kind of shoes Mears did indeed prefer and which cigars his mother used to smoke) looked up at her with an uncustomary expression of surprise on his face.

John huffed and it seemed as though he was about to deny her and demand that Lucy return to school before something in his features softened.

"And I take it you don't want me overhearing?" he said quietly.

Lucy bit her lip. He understood her guilty affirmation.

"Fine. I'll sit in the car then. Come when you're done." With that, he opened the door and slid into his seat, though Lucy caught him glancing at them through the rear-view mirror once he'd closed the door.

"What do you want then?" Sherlock said, bemused, recapturing her attention.

She fixed him with a look

"This case," she said, peering at him shrewdly. "Why did you take it? It's only a five—on a good day."

Sherlock looked nonchalant

"It pays bills," he said simply.

"You don't care about bills," she scoffed. He considered her carefully and swallowed.

"...It's a six, give it a six at least."

"No. I won't cheapen sixes," she stated firmly. "This is a five and you know it. Why take the job?"

"It was better than the twos and threes that walked in this morning."

Lucy rolled her eyes; he could be so difficult when tried! But she was not going to let him worm his way out of this, because as of now she was 90% sure of her hunch.

"Fine. I'll use a different angle then," she said frankly. "You could have found all that information out without me."

A slight twinge in his cheek and his eyes narrowed a bit. He knew she was on to him.

"I needed a fangirl," he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

"You could've just as easily used Dad," she countered.

"True," he replied. And then there was a minute change in his voice: warmer, more tender. "...But I hadn't gotten you out of class in nearly three weeks and..." he swallowed. "The monotony was wanting for deviation."

It was as close to 'I love you' as he ever got. Lucy grinned at him impishly.

"Is that how you say you miss me during the weekdays?"

His jawset became firmer, his shoulders straighter. The moment was over.

"...We need to get you back to class," he said, his voice stiff but not unkind. He placed a hand on her shoulder as he guided her to her father's car.

"Using the Royal We...are we?" She teased. He smirked at her briefly.

"We're smarter than you. We're entitled." He opened the car door and let her in.

"Ah yes, forgive me," she said, leaning out of the window to adress him. "I'm just a mortal with a single personality and only capable of three simultaneous streams of consciousness in my clearer moments."

His voice was laced with some of the warmth from earlier: "Have some faith in yourself," he said. "You're better than you think." With a final wink, he straightened and turned to go.

…Have some faith in yourself...Have some faith in yourself...

As her father started the car up, Lucy stuck her head out of the window again.

"...Sherlock?"

He stopped, his posture alert and attentive, but didn't look back at her.

"Hm?"

"There is no difference in the pictures of the stained-glass-windows...Is there?"

A noncommittal: "Hm."

The answer wasn't quite good enough yet. She needed to be finite.

Lucy grinned.

"There is no difference in the pictures," she said firmly. "They're the exact same."

He pivoted back to look at her, a smile tugging at his lips, and she knew she was right. He came forwards, put his hand on her shoulder, pulled her in, and kissed her forehead.

"Confidence," he said, his face still close and voice so low she knew her father couldn't hear them, though he was sitting just next to her. "That's the real trick."

"Right," she whispered back. "Confidence...And then comes the arrogance."

"Naturally." He was trying to hide his amusement, but they both recognized that there was laughter dancing in his eyes.

"I'm quite pleased with you Lucy," he said, smiling and winking as he drew away. "You're doing very well."

Lucy could feel herself glowing

"...And John?"

The doctor looked up.

"See you back at Baker Street."

John grunted, revved the engine, and pulled away, glancing at his daughter out of the corner of his eye and shaking his head. It was both a beautiful and terrifying sight to see her getting so involved with his best friend. Indeed, it was quite impressive to watch them work together, and though John never even considered that he would be replaced, he had to marvel at the new unit that had formed—the daughter and the detective.

La Fin.