Sherlock Holmes and The Star of the East (1 of 8)
Author: 
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sarah Sawyer, others
Summary: Christmas time brings a new case for the world's only consulting detective.
Warnings: (cave canem)
Word Count: 10 000+ (This chapter 2300)
Author's Notes: For Challenge 002 at
violinandwatch
Sherlock Holmes and The Star of the East
‘And in good new stories, Lady Sylvia Morcar (widow of financier Lord Silas Morcar), has confirmed the rumours that she will indeed be donating The Star of The East to the British Museum. As with many famous gems, The Star of The East diamond had a wonderfully dark and bloody provenance, and some reputation as being cursed. The diamond’s curse hasn’t seemed to affect Lady Sylvia though. Since her husband’s death ten years ago, she has become one of Britain’s most beloved philanthropists, donating generously to a great number of charities and good causes. This year her cause is the British Museum. The stone, valued in excess of £5 000 000, will be housed in a special exhibit whose proceeds will be directed towards the Educate Britain’s Children, the national educational initiative.’
The video cut to a close-up of Lady Silvia, a pleasant-faced, fading beauty, with a twinkle of mischief about her eyes.
‘My needs are simple, so before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I truly intend to distribute the balance of my husband’s estate throughout world.’
‘Well, Lady Silvia, I’m sure I am not alone in thanking you and wishing you a Happy Christmas! This is Walter Simms, reporting from Stoke-on-Trent, for BBC News.’
In the background, Lady Morcar is shown throwing a ball for a large, hairy Borzoi, on the grounds of her estate. She laughs as the dog sniffs the ball, finds it beneath its dignity to pick it up, and returns to her side.
‘And that great thumping sound is just Lord Silas, turning in his grave. Thank heaven for eccentrics, and thank you, Walter,’ the anchorman concluded.
.oOOo.
December 23rd
Even two days before Christmas the waiting room of the little Kensington surgery was well-attended. Head colds and minor aches and pains refused to take time off and get into the holiday spirit. The lights on a flimsy tabletop Christmas tree gently shifted red to white to green and off as it leaned drunkenly in the corner. It would be glad when the holidays were over and it could resume its year-long hibernation in the safety of the storage room where there were no snotty children to twist its branches, nor stroppy teens to ridicule its forlorn condition, nor exhausted adults to scorn it for being what it was: a weak attempt at Christmas cheer. Yes, if it were not for the surgery staff who pitied it, dusted it, and re-straightened it, the little tree would have been as bitter as those wreaths hanging on doors to the dentists’ suite across the corridor.
This year, with Dr Edwards off on maternity leave, Dr Sarah Sawyer had hired another doctor to fill in on a part-time basis. To this Dr John Watson fell the least desirable patients: those malingerers who demanded fit notes so they could spend more time with their families, more fit notes for students who feared taking their exams, and to young children who needed to have a flu jab. Failing to get the latter right would cause a lifelong resentment of doctors accompanied by a fear of needles. The long hours with these patients and their endless complaints wore at the man, yet he stayed late each evening, reconstructing the tree, then to slump in the reception area, and wait to help Dr Sawyer close up.
At 1445 it was still more than five hours before closing when the little waiting area suddenly filled with commotion. A young child shrieked and another squealed with delight. Angry adult voices could be heard. Apparently some great fool had walked into reception with a very large dog. A wave of its tail scattered the coffee table’s stack of magazines all over the floor. There was more outcry and now voices were calling for Dr John Watson.
‘Sherlock, that’s a dog. A very big dog!’ John exclaimed as he emerged from the files room.
‘Astute as always John.’
‘No, I mean you cannot bring a dog into the surgery. There are health regulations...’
‘It’s for a case. An important case. I need you to walk him.’
‘What? No! I’m working here. Are you trying to get me fired?’
‘Is that a possibility?’ he asked, unable to disguise his hope.
‘No. It isn’t,’ Sarah replied from deep within her office.
‘Is it right to assume that you are spending the holidays at Sarah’s?’
‘I thought you never assumed...,’ John took one look at Sherlock’s expression and abandoned that course of answer. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Excellent! Mrs Hudson won’t allow the dog into the house. Here’s his food. He gets two cups for breakfast and two cups for dinner. He needs to be walked right now, and you will have to collect and retain any faecal matter. Take notes. Time and place. That sort of thing.’
‘Sherlock! I can’t just leave...!’
Sarah now joined them, gaping in disbelief at the exchange occurring in her midst. Unsupervised, the dog’s ridiculously long and pointed nose sniffed beneath the tree.
‘Oh! Not again!’ John exclaimed, pushing the dog aside and picking up the little angel which lay there. This time, its fall from its less-than-lofty position atop the tree had snapped off one of its wings.
‘Hurry up, John!’
‘Hang on! Give me a minute!’
John retreated to his consulting office with the porcelain fragments while Sarah and Sherlock shared an awkward pause. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he removed (yet another) long, curly dog hair from his coat. A few minutes later John emerged with his coat and scarf, looking hurried and flustered.
‘You needn’t spend all of Christmas at Sarah’s,’ Sherlock said, ‘Besides, it’s obvious that she doesn’t care for you any longer... ‘
‘What? Obvious? Obvious, how?’
‘Yes, Sherlock, how exactly?’ Sarah asked, arms folded.
‘Erm... ah... by letting you be seen in that ugly old coat.’
‘It’s not ugly, it’s warm.’
‘The terms are not mutually exclusive. Sarah, a second opinion, please?’
‘Yes. It is a warm coat.’ she replied. Diplomacy suited her. She also knew that its more fashionable replacement lay wrapped and waiting under the Christmas tree in her flat.
‘Wait, Sherlock! I don’t know anything about dogs! I don’t even know his name!’
‘It’s Gus. Gus something. And, it’s irrelevant. Remember, label everything. Time and date.’
.oOOo.
The pavement outside the surgery was wet with melting snow. Flurries danced on the wind but John’s coat and scarf protected him from the swirling draughts. Gus was either used to strangers walking him, or was just easy-going, and walked smartly by John’s side. People stopped to stare at the unlikely pair: the man in the ugly (yes, he could admit it, but just not to Sherlock) coat, and the very elegant Russian wolfhound. Every now and then, John would look down and smile in spite of himself. Gus would look right back at him with those deep brown eyes. John shook his head in amazement. He had never really known any big dogs before. His idea of a perfect dog was something smaller, more portable; something like a wire-haired dachshund or a small bulldog. Gus wagged his tail in a lazy fashion and sneezed when he snuffled in an errant snowflake.
They walked for a few blocks before rounding the corner to the church grounds and entering through the gateway. This was a shortcut to the next block and was a frequent haunt for local dog walkers. The snow was starting to accumulate on the grassy lawn but the paths remained mostly clear. Gus stopped for a squat. John nonchalantly looked around and spotted the poster for the Christmas Eve Carol service. Strains of Adeste Fideles being played on the great organ could be heard even from where he stood. John’s involvement with the church petered out around the time he started first form, but perhaps Sarah would be interested in the special service, and it seemed like something normal people would do at Christmas time. Civilian life would still take some getting used to.
Gus, his mission accomplished, stretched and pranced while John ‘bagged and tagged the evidence’. He tried to imagine Sherlock Holmes picking up after a dog. He laughed a little before he realised that the world’s only consulting detective would never stoop so low and would likely pawn that task off on some flunky.
Ah.
Miffed by this new realisation, John sat down on the cold bench, trying to think of a snarky comment to add to the notation on the baggie. Gus stopped and gave him a quizzical look so he settled for patting the dog’s head and fondling its silky ears.
‘Such a wonderful dog!’
Two young women from the Uni approached making cooing noises at Gus. John discreetly let the baggie fall beside the bench while the girls made a fuss. They wanted to know everything: his breed, his age, how long he had him. John had not received this much attention in a long time and marvelled that Gus was such a... what did his American friends say... oh yeah, chick-magnet. The girls left and John gave Gus a serious look.
‘Keep that up and you are going to get me in trouble with Sarah.’
Gus just wagged his tail and batted his innocent big brown eyes.
John was about to retrieve his ‘package’ when another voice spoke to him.
‘That’s a fine dog you have there.’
John looked up to see Father Christmas approaching him.
‘He’s not mine,’ John confessed. ‘I’m walking him for a friend.’
‘Hello, Pretty One,’ Father Christmas said, extending a dog biscuit to Gus. ‘Can I pat him?’
‘I’m sure he would love it. He rather likes attention.’
‘Oh! Is there something wrong with his front paw?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ John said as he leaned forward to examine it more closely.
Good will suddenly switched to pain and terror. John’s scarf was yanked from the back of his neck and 50 000 volts surged from a stun gun held against his exposed skin. He screamed as his head exploded with pain and he collapsed into the slushy pavement. Gus thrashed against his leash, frantic to escape. Father Christmas swore in a most uncharacteristically vulgar way and he was joined by an accomplice. John could only twitch and try to breathe. He heard a dog yelp in pain and then he was being hauled to the back of a white panel van and unceremoniously tossed inside. Someone searched him and emptied his pockets. Doors were slammed shut and the van pulled into the afternoon traffic.
Before John could regain any control of his motor functions, he was stunned again, this time for a longer duration. When consciousness returned, he found himself gagged and blindfolded with duct tape, his hands were secured behind his back and his legs also immobilised, probably with rope. After a few futile attempts, he realised he was helpless. His head bounced against the cold metal floor with every bump in the road. Really, someone ought to put more work into motorway infrastructure repair.
.oOOo.
It was well dark when the van pulled off the main motorway onto a secondary road, and then to a stop. It was the lack of movement which probably woke John from his stupor. He heard the rear door open and a man climbed in. From the sound of it, he was trying to coax Gus to go out for a walk. The cold draft swirling into the compartment reminded John’s bladder that it really needed to be emptied. He tried to get his abductor’s attention, but the tape sealing his mouth muffled everything into what sounded like whimpers of protest. A rough hand gripped his jaw and another tore the tape away.
‘...needapee... please...’
‘Alright, Mr Holmes, but if you try anything stupid, I’ll zap you again.’
Mr Holmes? Well, that just figures, thought John.
There were at least two men. They untied (yes, it was rope) his arms and legs but left his eyes taped shut. One of them, the Father Christmas man by his voice, shoved him out the door. John’s legs and arms had stiffened, and he fell to the ground with a grunt. They laughed. Play along. Let them have the upper hand for now. Gather information. Not all observations are visual. John mumbled apologies as his hands felt the gravel under the slush. There was at least ten centimetres of snow. He listened for any sound, but all was silent except for the tread of his two captors and Gus. The only discernible smell was that of evergreen trees.
‘Get on with it,’ he was instructed, and so he did. Lying on the cold floor for so long had kicked his kidneys into overdrive. When he was finished, he was ordered to climb back into the van. Outside, the man walking Gus was not having any luck. The dog was nervous and just would not eliminate. Now Gus was refusing to get back into the van.
‘Call the dog, Mr Holmes. Call him or I’ll light you up like a Christmas tree.’ John stiffened as the stunner was once again pressed into his neck. He weighed his options and received a slap. Reluctantly, he called for Gus and felt the dog’s added weight rock the van as he jumped in. John reached out a clumsy hand and found Gus’s muzzle in apology just as the voltage ripped through his spinal column.
‘Next time, no hesitation, ye bastard!’ he heard through the pain.
Although it still hurt like hell, John could tell that the stun gun’s voltage was not as strong as before. The batteries were dying due to the cold. Small consolation considering he was too incapacitated to resist the replacement tape gag and the rebinding of his arms and legs. The doors were slammed shut and he and Gus were alone again as the van continued along its journey.
.oOOo.
Next Chapter: December 24th
Please sign the guestbook
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sarah Sawyer, others
Summary: Christmas time brings a new case for the world's only consulting detective.
Warnings: (cave canem)
Word Count: 10 000+ (This chapter 2300)
Author's Notes: For Challenge 002 at
violinandwatch
Sherlock Holmes and The Star of the East
‘And in good new stories, Lady Sylvia Morcar (widow of financier Lord Silas Morcar), has confirmed the rumours that she will indeed be donating The Star of The East to the British Museum. As with many famous gems, The Star of The East diamond had a wonderfully dark and bloody provenance, and some reputation as being cursed. The diamond’s curse hasn’t seemed to affect Lady Sylvia though. Since her husband’s death ten years ago, she has become one of Britain’s most beloved philanthropists, donating generously to a great number of charities and good causes. This year her cause is the British Museum. The stone, valued in excess of £5 000 000, will be housed in a special exhibit whose proceeds will be directed towards the Educate Britain’s Children, the national educational initiative.’
The video cut to a close-up of Lady Silvia, a pleasant-faced, fading beauty, with a twinkle of mischief about her eyes.
‘My needs are simple, so before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I truly intend to distribute the balance of my husband’s estate throughout world.’
‘Well, Lady Silvia, I’m sure I am not alone in thanking you and wishing you a Happy Christmas! This is Walter Simms, reporting from Stoke-on-Trent, for BBC News.’
In the background, Lady Morcar is shown throwing a ball for a large, hairy Borzoi, on the grounds of her estate. She laughs as the dog sniffs the ball, finds it beneath its dignity to pick it up, and returns to her side.
‘And that great thumping sound is just Lord Silas, turning in his grave. Thank heaven for eccentrics, and thank you, Walter,’ the anchorman concluded.
.oOOo.
December 23rd
Even two days before Christmas the waiting room of the little Kensington surgery was well-attended. Head colds and minor aches and pains refused to take time off and get into the holiday spirit. The lights on a flimsy tabletop Christmas tree gently shifted red to white to green and off as it leaned drunkenly in the corner. It would be glad when the holidays were over and it could resume its year-long hibernation in the safety of the storage room where there were no snotty children to twist its branches, nor stroppy teens to ridicule its forlorn condition, nor exhausted adults to scorn it for being what it was: a weak attempt at Christmas cheer. Yes, if it were not for the surgery staff who pitied it, dusted it, and re-straightened it, the little tree would have been as bitter as those wreaths hanging on doors to the dentists’ suite across the corridor.
This year, with Dr Edwards off on maternity leave, Dr Sarah Sawyer had hired another doctor to fill in on a part-time basis. To this Dr John Watson fell the least desirable patients: those malingerers who demanded fit notes so they could spend more time with their families, more fit notes for students who feared taking their exams, and to young children who needed to have a flu jab. Failing to get the latter right would cause a lifelong resentment of doctors accompanied by a fear of needles. The long hours with these patients and their endless complaints wore at the man, yet he stayed late each evening, reconstructing the tree, then to slump in the reception area, and wait to help Dr Sawyer close up.
At 1445 it was still more than five hours before closing when the little waiting area suddenly filled with commotion. A young child shrieked and another squealed with delight. Angry adult voices could be heard. Apparently some great fool had walked into reception with a very large dog. A wave of its tail scattered the coffee table’s stack of magazines all over the floor. There was more outcry and now voices were calling for Dr John Watson.
‘Sherlock, that’s a dog. A very big dog!’ John exclaimed as he emerged from the files room.
‘Astute as always John.’
‘No, I mean you cannot bring a dog into the surgery. There are health regulations...’
‘It’s for a case. An important case. I need you to walk him.’
‘What? No! I’m working here. Are you trying to get me fired?’
‘Is that a possibility?’ he asked, unable to disguise his hope.
‘No. It isn’t,’ Sarah replied from deep within her office.
‘Is it right to assume that you are spending the holidays at Sarah’s?’
‘I thought you never assumed...,’ John took one look at Sherlock’s expression and abandoned that course of answer. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Excellent! Mrs Hudson won’t allow the dog into the house. Here’s his food. He gets two cups for breakfast and two cups for dinner. He needs to be walked right now, and you will have to collect and retain any faecal matter. Take notes. Time and place. That sort of thing.’
‘Sherlock! I can’t just leave...!’
Sarah now joined them, gaping in disbelief at the exchange occurring in her midst. Unsupervised, the dog’s ridiculously long and pointed nose sniffed beneath the tree.
‘Oh! Not again!’ John exclaimed, pushing the dog aside and picking up the little angel which lay there. This time, its fall from its less-than-lofty position atop the tree had snapped off one of its wings.
‘Hurry up, John!’
‘Hang on! Give me a minute!’
John retreated to his consulting office with the porcelain fragments while Sarah and Sherlock shared an awkward pause. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he removed (yet another) long, curly dog hair from his coat. A few minutes later John emerged with his coat and scarf, looking hurried and flustered.
‘You needn’t spend all of Christmas at Sarah’s,’ Sherlock said, ‘Besides, it’s obvious that she doesn’t care for you any longer... ‘
‘What? Obvious? Obvious, how?’
‘Yes, Sherlock, how exactly?’ Sarah asked, arms folded.
‘Erm... ah... by letting you be seen in that ugly old coat.’
‘It’s not ugly, it’s warm.’
‘The terms are not mutually exclusive. Sarah, a second opinion, please?’
‘Yes. It is a warm coat.’ she replied. Diplomacy suited her. She also knew that its more fashionable replacement lay wrapped and waiting under the Christmas tree in her flat.
‘Wait, Sherlock! I don’t know anything about dogs! I don’t even know his name!’
‘It’s Gus. Gus something. And, it’s irrelevant. Remember, label everything. Time and date.’
.oOOo.
The pavement outside the surgery was wet with melting snow. Flurries danced on the wind but John’s coat and scarf protected him from the swirling draughts. Gus was either used to strangers walking him, or was just easy-going, and walked smartly by John’s side. People stopped to stare at the unlikely pair: the man in the ugly (yes, he could admit it, but just not to Sherlock) coat, and the very elegant Russian wolfhound. Every now and then, John would look down and smile in spite of himself. Gus would look right back at him with those deep brown eyes. John shook his head in amazement. He had never really known any big dogs before. His idea of a perfect dog was something smaller, more portable; something like a wire-haired dachshund or a small bulldog. Gus wagged his tail in a lazy fashion and sneezed when he snuffled in an errant snowflake.
They walked for a few blocks before rounding the corner to the church grounds and entering through the gateway. This was a shortcut to the next block and was a frequent haunt for local dog walkers. The snow was starting to accumulate on the grassy lawn but the paths remained mostly clear. Gus stopped for a squat. John nonchalantly looked around and spotted the poster for the Christmas Eve Carol service. Strains of Adeste Fideles being played on the great organ could be heard even from where he stood. John’s involvement with the church petered out around the time he started first form, but perhaps Sarah would be interested in the special service, and it seemed like something normal people would do at Christmas time. Civilian life would still take some getting used to.
Gus, his mission accomplished, stretched and pranced while John ‘bagged and tagged the evidence’. He tried to imagine Sherlock Holmes picking up after a dog. He laughed a little before he realised that the world’s only consulting detective would never stoop so low and would likely pawn that task off on some flunky.
Ah.
Miffed by this new realisation, John sat down on the cold bench, trying to think of a snarky comment to add to the notation on the baggie. Gus stopped and gave him a quizzical look so he settled for patting the dog’s head and fondling its silky ears.
‘Such a wonderful dog!’
Two young women from the Uni approached making cooing noises at Gus. John discreetly let the baggie fall beside the bench while the girls made a fuss. They wanted to know everything: his breed, his age, how long he had him. John had not received this much attention in a long time and marvelled that Gus was such a... what did his American friends say... oh yeah, chick-magnet. The girls left and John gave Gus a serious look.
‘Keep that up and you are going to get me in trouble with Sarah.’
Gus just wagged his tail and batted his innocent big brown eyes.
John was about to retrieve his ‘package’ when another voice spoke to him.
‘That’s a fine dog you have there.’
John looked up to see Father Christmas approaching him.
‘He’s not mine,’ John confessed. ‘I’m walking him for a friend.’
‘Hello, Pretty One,’ Father Christmas said, extending a dog biscuit to Gus. ‘Can I pat him?’
‘I’m sure he would love it. He rather likes attention.’
‘Oh! Is there something wrong with his front paw?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ John said as he leaned forward to examine it more closely.
Good will suddenly switched to pain and terror. John’s scarf was yanked from the back of his neck and 50 000 volts surged from a stun gun held against his exposed skin. He screamed as his head exploded with pain and he collapsed into the slushy pavement. Gus thrashed against his leash, frantic to escape. Father Christmas swore in a most uncharacteristically vulgar way and he was joined by an accomplice. John could only twitch and try to breathe. He heard a dog yelp in pain and then he was being hauled to the back of a white panel van and unceremoniously tossed inside. Someone searched him and emptied his pockets. Doors were slammed shut and the van pulled into the afternoon traffic.
Before John could regain any control of his motor functions, he was stunned again, this time for a longer duration. When consciousness returned, he found himself gagged and blindfolded with duct tape, his hands were secured behind his back and his legs also immobilised, probably with rope. After a few futile attempts, he realised he was helpless. His head bounced against the cold metal floor with every bump in the road. Really, someone ought to put more work into motorway infrastructure repair.
.oOOo.
It was well dark when the van pulled off the main motorway onto a secondary road, and then to a stop. It was the lack of movement which probably woke John from his stupor. He heard the rear door open and a man climbed in. From the sound of it, he was trying to coax Gus to go out for a walk. The cold draft swirling into the compartment reminded John’s bladder that it really needed to be emptied. He tried to get his abductor’s attention, but the tape sealing his mouth muffled everything into what sounded like whimpers of protest. A rough hand gripped his jaw and another tore the tape away.
‘...needapee... please...’
‘Alright, Mr Holmes, but if you try anything stupid, I’ll zap you again.’
Mr Holmes? Well, that just figures, thought John.
There were at least two men. They untied (yes, it was rope) his arms and legs but left his eyes taped shut. One of them, the Father Christmas man by his voice, shoved him out the door. John’s legs and arms had stiffened, and he fell to the ground with a grunt. They laughed. Play along. Let them have the upper hand for now. Gather information. Not all observations are visual. John mumbled apologies as his hands felt the gravel under the slush. There was at least ten centimetres of snow. He listened for any sound, but all was silent except for the tread of his two captors and Gus. The only discernible smell was that of evergreen trees.
‘Get on with it,’ he was instructed, and so he did. Lying on the cold floor for so long had kicked his kidneys into overdrive. When he was finished, he was ordered to climb back into the van. Outside, the man walking Gus was not having any luck. The dog was nervous and just would not eliminate. Now Gus was refusing to get back into the van.
‘Call the dog, Mr Holmes. Call him or I’ll light you up like a Christmas tree.’ John stiffened as the stunner was once again pressed into his neck. He weighed his options and received a slap. Reluctantly, he called for Gus and felt the dog’s added weight rock the van as he jumped in. John reached out a clumsy hand and found Gus’s muzzle in apology just as the voltage ripped through his spinal column.
‘Next time, no hesitation, ye bastard!’ he heard through the pain.
Although it still hurt like hell, John could tell that the stun gun’s voltage was not as strong as before. The batteries were dying due to the cold. Small consolation considering he was too incapacitated to resist the replacement tape gag and the rebinding of his arms and legs. The doors were slammed shut and he and Gus were alone again as the van continued along its journey.
.oOOo.
Next Chapter: December 24th
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