Meet John Watson, also known as "Johnny Boy". A high professional thief hired by the consulting accountant and financial manager Sherlock Holmes to steal a high sum of money from his client: the Irish business-oligarch Jim Moriarty.
But let's start from the beginning, I'll tell you what happened.
From the start.
It has been clear since the moment John came back from the war. London had changed not only from the outside, but also on the inside. The drug business was declining. The streets weren't the same. Corruption was still invading every alley and every corner of one of the most cosmopolitan cities of the world. The gang had been losing their hopes and now they had become rusty.
After serving as a medical assistant in Afghanistan for five years as a sentence for a stupid and rubbish bank assault, a damn shot on his left shoulder, John was back in town ready to bring back to his gang the action they needed to feel alive again. John Watson, mostly known as "Johnny Boy", was the charismatic leader of one of the most famous gangs in London: the "Wild Bunch". They formed a group of thieves, drug dealers and people, who had something against the world and its rules. For example, Harriet Watson, better known as "Harry", was John's right hand and sister. After being dumped by all the girlfriends she'd had, she dedicated herself to be her brother's assistant. Harry Watson was in charge of the plans, procedures and the materials used in every assault or, as they called them, "jobs". She also had a close and deep relationship with beer and with any other alcoholic drink; the main reason of her failed romantic relationships.
Then there was DI Greg Lestrade, the second man of the gang who started working with them after meeting John in College. A corrupt Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard, capable of warning the team about drug busts or simply informing them that the force was behind their steps. With Greg's help the gang was capable enough to avoid the police and even prevent not only themselves but all their acquaintances from being arrested.
And finally, the freshmen and latest additions, Andy A. Anderson and Sally Donovan. They were a couple of drug dealers rescued from jail by the corrupt DI Lestrade because, apparently, they had disabled the biggest drug mafia in London and then they occupied the new empty place with their seven percent stronger solution. Johnny Boy thought they were useless and stupid, but after joining the group their budget has been raised thanks for their contributions with the drug business.
So the Wild Bunch was one of the most powerful gangs in London. With John Watson as leader, Harry as his right hand, DI Lestrade as John's best mate and Andy A. Anderson and Sally Donovan as freshmen, the Wild Bunch was the group of the most wanted criminals of the city.
And that's why Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty's consulting accountant and financial manager, required their services.
Because ever since the Irish magnate and business oligarch James Moriarty had put a foot on London, he had known what to do. Not for nothing he was millionaire. The British city was growing... up. The money was on the buildings. The money wasn't on shops, or bank investments, no. The money was on the buildings. And London had too much green space.
"London, my dear Seb... is fast becoming the financial and cultural capital of the world. London is on the rise. Property value has gone one way: up. And this has left the natives struggling to keep a foothold in the property ladder. I can teach you how to skin a cat and... In fact I did but now I can tell you a lot about the money in bricks and mortar. Like I said, it's going one way."
His Irish accent was enough to make anyone near him turn and blink. Twice. And his faithful and close assistant Sebastian Moran was the one in charge of making these people disappear. Because Seb was there to hand him a tissue but also to deal with those who needed more than a word. Sometimes, they needed to be skinned and turned into shoes. And that was his job. That's why for James Moriarty, his right hand man was his dear Seb.
And every rich and powerful man who owns enough money to save all the countries on bankruptcy needs an accountant, and James Moriarty had the best professional accountant and financial manager. Sherlock Holmes.
"Dear Seb, call Sherlock Holmes. Tell him I need to see him."
Now meet the very gifted and the financially creative Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Accountant and Financial Manager. The only one in the world, because he invented the job. The man had the brains to have a PhD from Cambridge, Oxford or any other posh and prestigious university on the world, but somehow he ended up being the clever and mastermind professional behind every financial and economical business plan for those who invested their fortunes on London. But that wasn't his only gift. Because Sherlock Holmes was clever enough to deduce and read facts normal people take for granted. Things that normal people don't see because they don't observe. For Sherlock Holmes, consulting accountant, there was always something more than meets the eye.
"Now, come on, give your beloved wife Irene a smile, Mister Holmes."
"I don't feel like smiling. I'm a 30-year-old consulting accountant married to a homosexual lawyer. I'm a beard without kids, Irene."
"Kids weren't a subject on our contract."
"Because I didn't and I don't want them."
"For a marriage of convenience, this can be quite inconvenient."
Sherlock Holmes was married to the most important, famous and powerful lawyer in the whole Commonwealth, Irene Adler. Not only recognised for being the PM and the Royals lawyer but also for her beauty, her attitude and the way she was able to make the whole country go down to its knees just with a move of his slender fingers. And all the press and the entire world agreed they were perfect for each other. Both intelligent, clever, professionals. Both had that same soft, dark hair and those bright eyes, full pink lips, perfect and long bodies.
Outdoors, they were the perfect couple. Indoors, they were just two people living together just to accomplish and follow a contract. It was a fake marriage. He was a man who sometimes needed his sex drive to be filled by his assistant, the shy, clumsy and blonde Molly Hooper. And Irene Adler was a lesbian who's been having a long relationship with her bisexual assistant, the ginger and boring Sarah Sawyer, the very same who sometimes tries to make her way under Holmes's duvet and why not, between his long legs.
They shared a posh house in a rich part of the city where promiscuity was as common as a pint of beer in a pub. The two of them, the famous Adler-Holmes couple had all the power on their hands. But Mister Holmes wanted more. Because he was bored. And James Moriarty was a good man to play a little game with.
Holmes was deeply lost in his thoughts when his phone beeped inside his pocket. The car ride with his assistant who was looked as bored as him, his fake wife and her assistant and lover was tedious and boring and his deductions about the sexual positions they had performed last night on the kitchen were already being deleted from his mind.
"Molly, my phone."
The blonde woman in front of him nodded with a blush on her cheeks. She let her right hand travel shyly over Sherlock's long coat. When she realised it wasn't on his coat, her hands went a bit further into his suit. His breast pocket was empty.
"Try on my trousers, Molly."
The assistant nodded, not daring to raise her head and face his employer. She let her right hand travel inside Holmes's pocket and she found the ringing BlackBerry.
"Molly Hooper speaking... Sir, is for you," the blonde assistant said clumsily when Mrs. Adler-Holmes talked to her.
"Who is it, love?"
"Mr. James Moriarty, madam."
"Are you sure he isn't gay? I'd love to have him on a leash."
Sherlock exchanged a few words with his client before finishing the phone call and placed the mobile back in his pocket.
"It looks like I have a new case. Molly, call Watson and arrange a meeting tomorrow"
"Seven, 221B Baker Street. And may I ask, since when do you desire a man on your bed, Irene?"
The brunette smiled and kissed his husband's cheek, leaving traces of her new red "blood" lipstick.
"Since last night when I heard you touching yourself. You know you can always ask for a hand"
That phone call was the beginning. Because what the Irishman didn't know was that his accountant has got bored of the safe life.
And he was looking for excitement in all the wrong places.