You guys are awesome! I'm so glad you like this idea! Also, sorry about the delay. I got sucked into the Inception kinkmeme (just reading, thank goodness!) and had to dig my way out via massive Arthur/Eames viking AUs.
John had put up very little fight at the prospect of a trip to Chicago. Sherlock had tidily wrapped up Victor in his old box, including the tawdry romance novel that had been packaged with him. He had used Mycroft’s credit card to purchase business class tickets to Chicago. He hated to fly coach. (Sherlock completely ignored Mycrofts texts to be careful. Mycroft always sent texts like that, and they were uniformly useless and boring.)
They arrived at O’Hare in midafternoon, and made quick work of customs. Dresden had probably expected a return letter before Sherlock’s arrival, but Dresden was completely lacking in email or texting capability. As Sherlock hated talking on the phone, he hadn’t bothered to call. But he knew where Dresden’s office was - the ad had gone missing from the phone book for as long as Sherlock had been keeping Victor, but it had recently been republished in the online version of this year’s business pages with a new address. The taxi took them to a slightly seedy area of town, but the walk up to Dresden’s office was clean and mostly free of graffiti. The door was unprepossessing, but the lettering was shiny and new. Harry Dresden, Wizard.
“Is he serious?” John asked behind Sherlock. The long flight had left John more vulnerable than usual to his psychosomatic limp, and he was leaning a little heavily on his cane.
“Yes, he is entirely serious. And yet, when I met him he was certainly not a madman,” Sherlock was focused on the door itself. He had not made the exhaustive study of Chicago that he had of London, of course, and he could not deduce much from traces of mud on the carpets or the threshold. There were fresh heel gouges, of the kind made by a woman in stilettos. Bending down, he could see a glimpse of tarnished silver underneath the door, and from the new vantage point he could see the frame had been scratched in a regular pattern - not the runes that decorated the box he was holding, but a sigil that Sherlock couldn’t identify. He took a snapshot of one of them with his camera for later.
“Sherlock. Stop investigating and give the wizard back his skull,” John interrupted, and leaned around him to push open the office door.
There was one desk in the room, and Dresden was slouched behind it. He had jerked up at the sound of the door, but was still holding onto a cheap paperback. He was understandably shocked to see them.
“Sherlock Holmes? I mean, uh, I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon,” Dresden rose to greet them. “And you have Bob?”
“You named it Bob?” Sherlock graciously repressed the sneer that wanted to come out, but he needn’t have bothered.
“None of that, Sherlock. You named it Victor, after all.” John stepped forward into the office behind Sherlock. “Have you put a ring of silver around the walls of your office?” He peered at Dresden curiously.
“Safety precaution,” Dresden said nonsensically. He took the box from Sherlock, and opened it to unwrap the skull. He smiled to see it, and as he held his hand over it, the skull changed. Sherlock’s eyes widened involuntarily as the skull went from the delicate ivory of the recently dead to a darker, yellowed tone with intricate carvings in a darker brown. Victor was considerably older than Sherlock had thought, and though Sherlock could think of several ways to hide the indicators of age he certainly could not have removed the camouflage so smoothly and thoroughly. And Sherlock had held the skull, knew precisely the feel and heft of it - it had not been coated in wax, or putty, or coloring of any kind. (Even if it had, there should have been no way for Dresden to remove them without even touching the skull!)
“Boss! Thank goodness. This one has even less sex than you do, and I honestly hadn’t thought that was possible. And the murders were mostly boring, and he didn’t even give me any new reading material!”
Venture wants ALL the crossovers. 5/??
John had put up very little fight at the prospect of a trip to Chicago. Sherlock had tidily wrapped up Victor in his old box, including the tawdry romance novel that had been packaged with him. He had used Mycroft’s credit card to purchase business class tickets to Chicago. He hated to fly coach. (Sherlock completely ignored Mycrofts texts to be careful. Mycroft always sent texts like that, and they were uniformly useless and boring.)
They arrived at O’Hare in midafternoon, and made quick work of customs. Dresden had probably expected a return letter before Sherlock’s arrival, but Dresden was completely lacking in email or texting capability. As Sherlock hated talking on the phone, he hadn’t bothered to call. But he knew where Dresden’s office was - the ad had gone missing from the phone book for as long as Sherlock had been keeping Victor, but it had recently been republished in the online version of this year’s business pages with a new address. The taxi took them to a slightly seedy area of town, but the walk up to Dresden’s office was clean and mostly free of graffiti. The door was unprepossessing, but the lettering was shiny and new. Harry Dresden, Wizard.
“Is he serious?” John asked behind Sherlock. The long flight had left John more vulnerable than usual to his psychosomatic limp, and he was leaning a little heavily on his cane.
“Yes, he is entirely serious. And yet, when I met him he was certainly not a madman,” Sherlock was focused on the door itself. He had not made the exhaustive study of Chicago that he had of London, of course, and he could not deduce much from traces of mud on the carpets or the threshold. There were fresh heel gouges, of the kind made by a woman in stilettos. Bending down, he could see a glimpse of tarnished silver underneath the door, and from the new vantage point he could see the frame had been scratched in a regular pattern - not the runes that decorated the box he was holding, but a sigil that Sherlock couldn’t identify. He took a snapshot of one of them with his camera for later.
“Sherlock. Stop investigating and give the wizard back his skull,” John interrupted, and leaned around him to push open the office door.
There was one desk in the room, and Dresden was slouched behind it. He had jerked up at the sound of the door, but was still holding onto a cheap paperback. He was understandably shocked to see them.
“Sherlock Holmes? I mean, uh, I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon,” Dresden rose to greet them. “And you have Bob?”
“You named it Bob?” Sherlock graciously repressed the sneer that wanted to come out, but he needn’t have bothered.
“None of that, Sherlock. You named it Victor, after all.” John stepped forward into the office behind Sherlock. “Have you put a ring of silver around the walls of your office?” He peered at Dresden curiously.
“Safety precaution,” Dresden said nonsensically. He took the box from Sherlock, and opened it to unwrap the skull. He smiled to see it, and as he held his hand over it, the skull changed. Sherlock’s eyes widened involuntarily as the skull went from the delicate ivory of the recently dead to a darker, yellowed tone with intricate carvings in a darker brown. Victor was considerably older than Sherlock had thought, and though Sherlock could think of several ways to hide the indicators of age he certainly could not have removed the camouflage so smoothly and thoroughly. And Sherlock had held the skull, knew precisely the feel and heft of it - it had not been coated in wax, or putty, or coloring of any kind. (Even if it had, there should have been no way for Dresden to remove them without even touching the skull!)
“Boss! Thank goodness. This one has even less sex than you do, and I honestly hadn’t thought that was possible. And the murders were mostly boring, and he didn’t even give me any new reading material!”