okapi1895.livejournal.com

John set the dry glass upside down on a square of cloth and strode toward the stranger at the end of the bar. He took a deep breath, then said in a low voice,

“Someone like you in a place like this? You’ve got stones, pal. Or a death wish.”

“I’ve got both, actually,” replied the stranger. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for someone.”

“No one here will talk to you.”

“You’re talking to me.”

“I’m the barman. It’s my job. Order a drink.”

“I’ll have a ‘Death in the Afternoon.’”

John laughed. “Walk into a lycan bar and order a nightwalker drink? You have got stones. Big ones. But we don’t stock absinthe or champagne. You’ll have pint and pretend to watch the game,” he gestured to the screens above him, “or I’ll let some of the regulars get within a foot of you and they’ll realise, like I did, that it’s the ugly jumper and jeans that smell like wolf and not the ice lolly in them.”

The stranger’s lips twitched in the precursor to a smile. “I’ve been called many things, but never that. And you’re wearing a jumper like this.”

“Yeah, but I like ugly jumpers. I’m betting you’re used to Saville Row. One pint, coming up.”

John set the beer on the bar and turned his back to the stranger. He looked up at the screen. “Go, go, go!” he yelled. “Yeah!” He clapped as the pub erupted into cheers, then said under his breath, “That goal bought you two minutes, mate.”

“James Philimore.”

“Is dead. Suicide. Too bad.”

“His friend Gary still come in here? Ugh! This stuff tastes like piss. Is it piss?”

John laughed. “Yeah, but it’ll make you smell more like us. To answer your question, no, Gary doesn’t come around anymore.”

“He’s not looking for a new mate?”

John turned and growled. “We mate for life!”

The stranger smiled. “So they were mates? That isn’t Gary what told the police, and there would be ways of verifying.” He tapped his fingers to his lips.

“Some of us can pass easier than others. Jimmy was just a pup, really. Why are you asking questions about a lycan suicide? Our lot kill themselves all the time.”

“I don’t think it was suicide. I think it’s linked to the deaths of Beth Davenport and Sir Jeffery Patterson. They’re your lot, too, aren’t they?”

“You need to get out of here, mate.”

“Don’t you want to find out who’s killing the werewolves of London?”

“Why don’t you try Lee Ho Fooks?”

The stranger blinked.

John shrugged. “Just an old lycan joke my gran used to tell.”

The stranger frowned. “Your grandmother used to joke about lycan murders?”

John shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Listen, I know that you’re a doctor and a soldier, I know that you were invalided in Afghanistan, or maybe Iraq, I know that some of your wounds are real, some are psychosomatic, and that you really should fire your therapist. What else do I need to say to convince you that this isn’t an old joke, that I am not a joke? As I said, you’re a soldier, a doctor, and I bet a crack-shot, too, when that hand doesn’t shake. You’re bloody wired to help, and I need an assistant!”

“How did you know all that? Who are you?”

“Your tattoos, your tan lines, the cane in the corner that you don’t use, your hands, your haircut, the way you hold yourself, the way you pull a pint, a thousand different things, they all connect in my brain to form a picture. My name is—“

“SHERLOCK!”

Every head in the pub turned toward the door. Glasses hit tables, and a menacing growl rumbled.

The newcomer held a badge above his head, displaying it for all to see. “Sit, fidos! Police!”

The stranger quickly opened his wallet and slapped a few notes on the bar. “My card is under the money. If you want to help ….”

“All right, Sherlock.” Then the stranger was being grabbed by the hair and yanked off the barstool to the snickers and chuckles of all watching. “Come on, before you get us both killed.”

“Lestrade, you’re such a troll!”

John’s ears pricked, deciphering the mumbling that followed. “Listen, you posh mosquito, for the last time, I’m a goblin, not a troll or a dwarf or whatever other lower creature your mind can conjure. And only half-goblin. It’s the goblin half that’s going to haul your scrawny arse out of here and the man half that’s going to take you to Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“Another suicide? Something’s different this time.”

“Yeah, this one left a note.”

As he was dragged out the door, the stranger looked at John, his eyes pleading, mouth moving silently.

John read his lips.

‘Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.’