Sherlock fic: "Providential", reworked ending
So I did some asking and it turns out that Molly wouldn't be allowed to accept a reward or gift for her work. Thanks to the input of a Sherlock Brit-picking comm, I rewrote the last part to better conform to British culture & laws. Does it still work?
The tabloids played up the “Stiletto Murder” for over a fortnight until the arrest of one of Berkart’s friends, a woman who had taken revenge for being the losing corner of a love triangle. She had been smart enough to take both shoes rather than leave a single one, but had not counted on Sherlock being able to deduce their presence from the empty slots in a shoe rack and a file of the charges on Berkart’s credit card. She had also been stupid enough to sell said shoes on eBay since they were a by a rather posh designer and fetched a tidy sum. Once the shoes had been retrieved from the buyer, Sherlock and Molly had been able to detect blood and brain tissue left in the seams despite the attempt at cleaning. It was Molly who determined that the killer had ensured that the shoe would go through the skull by using a heavy onyx paperweight on Beckart’s night table as a hammer - the partial fingerprints left from a less-than-thorough wipe proved her theory.
A few days after the verdict, Sherlock was leaving a chippy with dinner when a middle-aged man who shouted “new money” fell into step beside him.
“You’re Holmes, right? The detective?”
Sherlock didn’t break stride, but began planning a roundabout route back to his flat that might take long enough to shake off this intrusion while arriving before his fish and chips got cold and required reheating. “May I ask who wants to know?”
“Sorry, Simon Berkart. Cicely was my niece, my brother’s girl. Wanted to thank you for your part in helping catch her killer.”
“Not at all.”
“That D.I., Lestrade, told me it was illegal for me to give him or the autopsy doctor or the prosecutor anything worth over £20. Damn silly law if you ask me. If it’s after the fact there’s no issue with influence or corruption. He pointed me to some charity that tries to rehabilitate prisoners. Daft of him, but it’s what he wanted. The prosecutor did the same thing, pointed me to a place funding scholarships for reading law.”
Sherlock refrained from pointing out the slow, insidious creep of corruption that the law was intended to prevent. He was almost certain that a windfall was headed his way, in the amount of at least a couple hundred pounds, and he didn’t want to interrupt the man’s intentions. Lestrade was beginning to try harder, but his superintendent still refused to allow the budget to be used for fees for an intrusive consulting detective.
“But if you’ll take it, being private and all, I’d just ask you to do something for that girl that did the autopsy work. Can you see your way clear to that?”
Sherlock nodded his assent. “I believe I can arrange that.” He was already listing possibilities in his head, mainly centring on the lab and equipment needs Molly had mentioned. Robinson had already proven himself to be less than concerned with the law.
“Good man. Here you go, with my deepest gratitude.” He shoved a thick envelope into Sherlock’s coat pocket before he could juggle his food to free a hand. Beckart peeled off to cross the street and disappeared into the crowd.
Sherlock arrived home with tolerably warm food and ate before fetching the envelope from his coat. It proved to be two thousand pounds, quite a bit more than Sherlock had deduced since the man had used £50 notes rather than £20. This was quite helpful indeed.
*****
Molly came into the lab in a very good mood. Dr Robinson had stopped her on her way in to inform her that the lifting trolley she had been begging for would arrive within the week. She hated having to plead for help from the custodians or nurses when a body outweighed her and she needed help shifting it.
She went to check her desk for any new files and stopped short. A black box with a white satin ribbon was sitting there. Gold lettering in the corner proclaimed the contents to be truffles from the very trendy, very expensive William Curley chocolate shop.
“They’re from me, just in case you were worried about being poisoned,” Sherlock’s voice echoed from the other side of the lab. He sat at his station, peering intently into his microscope as usual...not quite as usual. It appeared that Robinson had upgraded the scopes as well.
“Th-thank you, Sherlock. You d-didn’t have to-” Damn, why must she stutter so?
“Of course I didn’t. That makes it a surprise, or so I’m told.” Now he sat up, rubbed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. “You’ve been quite helpful to me and I decided it was time to show it. Consider them a late birthday gift. Or in honour of the Queen’s Jubilee. Or congratulations for obtaining a cat.”
Getting hold of herself, Molly took a breath to calm her elevated heartbeat. “All the same, thank you. They’re lovely.” She retreated to her desk and moved the chocolates to the side, off the files waiting for her. Sherlock watched her a moment longer, impressed when she didn’t seek to carry on the conversation or offer him one of the chocolates, then bent back to his microscope to hide the satisfaction in his eyes.
Yes, Doctor Molly Hooper had turned out to be quite a providential choice.
The tabloids played up the “Stiletto Murder” for over a fortnight until the arrest of one of Berkart’s friends, a woman who had taken revenge for being the losing corner of a love triangle. She had been smart enough to take both shoes rather than leave a single one, but had not counted on Sherlock being able to deduce their presence from the empty slots in a shoe rack and a file of the charges on Berkart’s credit card. She had also been stupid enough to sell said shoes on eBay since they were a by a rather posh designer and fetched a tidy sum. Once the shoes had been retrieved from the buyer, Sherlock and Molly had been able to detect blood and brain tissue left in the seams despite the attempt at cleaning. It was Molly who determined that the killer had ensured that the shoe would go through the skull by using a heavy onyx paperweight on Beckart’s night table as a hammer - the partial fingerprints left from a less-than-thorough wipe proved her theory.
A few days after the verdict, Sherlock was leaving a chippy with dinner when a middle-aged man who shouted “new money” fell into step beside him.
“You’re Holmes, right? The detective?”
Sherlock didn’t break stride, but began planning a roundabout route back to his flat that might take long enough to shake off this intrusion while arriving before his fish and chips got cold and required reheating. “May I ask who wants to know?”
“Sorry, Simon Berkart. Cicely was my niece, my brother’s girl. Wanted to thank you for your part in helping catch her killer.”
“Not at all.”
“That D.I., Lestrade, told me it was illegal for me to give him or the autopsy doctor or the prosecutor anything worth over £20. Damn silly law if you ask me. If it’s after the fact there’s no issue with influence or corruption. He pointed me to some charity that tries to rehabilitate prisoners. Daft of him, but it’s what he wanted. The prosecutor did the same thing, pointed me to a place funding scholarships for reading law.”
Sherlock refrained from pointing out the slow, insidious creep of corruption that the law was intended to prevent. He was almost certain that a windfall was headed his way, in the amount of at least a couple hundred pounds, and he didn’t want to interrupt the man’s intentions. Lestrade was beginning to try harder, but his superintendent still refused to allow the budget to be used for fees for an intrusive consulting detective.
“But if you’ll take it, being private and all, I’d just ask you to do something for that girl that did the autopsy work. Can you see your way clear to that?”
Sherlock nodded his assent. “I believe I can arrange that.” He was already listing possibilities in his head, mainly centring on the lab and equipment needs Molly had mentioned. Robinson had already proven himself to be less than concerned with the law.
“Good man. Here you go, with my deepest gratitude.” He shoved a thick envelope into Sherlock’s coat pocket before he could juggle his food to free a hand. Beckart peeled off to cross the street and disappeared into the crowd.
Sherlock arrived home with tolerably warm food and ate before fetching the envelope from his coat. It proved to be two thousand pounds, quite a bit more than Sherlock had deduced since the man had used £50 notes rather than £20. This was quite helpful indeed.
*****
Molly came into the lab in a very good mood. Dr Robinson had stopped her on her way in to inform her that the lifting trolley she had been begging for would arrive within the week. She hated having to plead for help from the custodians or nurses when a body outweighed her and she needed help shifting it.
She went to check her desk for any new files and stopped short. A black box with a white satin ribbon was sitting there. Gold lettering in the corner proclaimed the contents to be truffles from the very trendy, very expensive William Curley chocolate shop.
“They’re from me, just in case you were worried about being poisoned,” Sherlock’s voice echoed from the other side of the lab. He sat at his station, peering intently into his microscope as usual...not quite as usual. It appeared that Robinson had upgraded the scopes as well.
“Th-thank you, Sherlock. You d-didn’t have to-” Damn, why must she stutter so?
“Of course I didn’t. That makes it a surprise, or so I’m told.” Now he sat up, rubbed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. “You’ve been quite helpful to me and I decided it was time to show it. Consider them a late birthday gift. Or in honour of the Queen’s Jubilee. Or congratulations for obtaining a cat.”
Getting hold of herself, Molly took a breath to calm her elevated heartbeat. “All the same, thank you. They’re lovely.” She retreated to her desk and moved the chocolates to the side, off the files waiting for her. Sherlock watched her a moment longer, impressed when she didn’t seek to carry on the conversation or offer him one of the chocolates, then bent back to his microscope to hide the satisfaction in his eyes.
Yes, Doctor Molly Hooper had turned out to be quite a providential choice.