Love at Five
Title: Love at Five, Part One
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: None
Summary: By sheer luck, Sherlock and John stumble over one of Moriarty's schemes. In order to unravel the madman's plans Lestrade all but orders them to go undercover. Unfortunately, for the consulting detective and his blogger, the ruse takes place in a speed dating event. This might not be one of Lestrade's best ideas, but Donovan hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
Nathan Garrideb was a young man with enough energy to spare. But unlike Sherlock, he seemed to have successfully channeled it to his job as a teacher and love of rugby. Broad shouldered, with a nose that had to have been broken at least twice, the client seemed intimidating at first sight with his gorilla-length arms and massive thighs.
Then he smiled and suddenly John was reminded of a Christmas elf he’d seen on the tele just last year. A big, hunkering Christmas elf, but still an elf.
“Thank you for seeing me so quickly,” Nathan said. “I honestly don’t know what to make of all this.”
Sherlock unfolded the newspaper he’d gotten from Lestrade with a dramatic flourish. And preened a little when Garrideb’s eyes widened considerably.
John gave a polite cough and gently elbowed Sherlock along.
“As you can see, your situation has also come to our attention,” Sherlock explained. “So, what can you tell us?”
“The number leads to a private answering service,” Garrideb launched without preamble. “I left a message and not two hours later I got a phone call from a man who said he was John Garrideb from the States.
“Well, to make a long story short - he had inherited a huge sum of money from an uncle of his, a man he claimed to be a brilliant sort but barmy as they come. Anyway, John Garrideb grew up never meeting another with the family name. And according to his uncle, the only other family branch was here in England. But John was told that family branch was all wiped out during the Great War. So, he didn’t bother to look any further. Then the internet happened and things got easier.”
“So, he decided to drop by?” John asked. “Seems a bit touched himself.”
Nathan gave a toothy grin. “That’s a good observation to make, actually. I think the American family branch went a little crooked some time back. John is brilliant, no doubt about that. The man’s got a head for numbers. If he didn’t come from money I’m sure he would’ve made a tonne all on his own. But yes, I get the distinct feeling he’s slightly out of touch. Harmless, mind you, but a bit … well, eccentric I guess is the word.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Small, a fiery redhead from the looks of it, and ambidextrous. I get the feeling he received a good education but wasn’t very happy with it. Probably forced into his degree by his parents. His American accent is hilarious though. I’ve never heard anything like it, and I am a huge fan of American crime dramas.”
“Anything else?”
“He doesn’t like to write.”
“I beg your pardon?” John asked, confused. “What do you mean?”
“The man won’t write a scrap of word down. He memorizes whatever information is necessary. And he texts me if I need something from him. Even when I’m in the same room.”
John slid a glance at Sherlock who looked completely entranced by Nathan’s description of his distant cousin.
“That’s definitely unusual,” John prompted. “Maybe even psychological, which gives credence to your suspicions of the man being an eccentric.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Well, John wants me to find the third Garrideb because … because he’s ill, actually.”
John’s posture straightened. “How ill?”
“Cancer, second stage.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” John asked.
“He’s receiving treatments in London, and from what I can see it’s legitimate. But he wants to make sure that if he doesn’t survive the inheritance will go to the right people rather than the government. He tells me the inheritance laws in the States are just as problematic as they are here unless a family member is the heir.
“Something about taxes and all sorts of people filing rubbish lawsuits to delay the will.”
Sherlock looked at a row of books on top shelf. John, realizing the client was already losing Sherlock’s attention, quickly asked,
“Is there anything else we should know about? No matter how small or unusual?”
Nathan shook his head after a moment of consideration. “No, nothing. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” John said, even as Sherlock whirled out of the sofa and towards the shelves. “Why don’t I show you out, and we can talk about arrangements.”
John made his way back to the main room to find Sherlock nose-deep in a stack of old tomes.
“Better not drop those when you reshelve them. Looks heavy enough to crack your skull.”
Sherlock made some noises but his attention was clearly focused on his reading. John didn’t waste another minute. He sat down in front of his now Sherlock-free laptop and began once more searching for Garrideb and any related information. Even if the search took him to screens numbering in the three digits.
The thump on the side his head woke John. The man sat up violently while rubbing his eyes.
“Damn,” he muttered before squinting at the takeaway in front of him. “I’m still dreaming, aren’t I? You actually went outside and got food?”
Sherlock gave a wan smile and took off his coat. “From the distinct keyboard imprint on your left cheek, I can surmise your search went badly?”
“Try nothing,” John answered as he opened the cartons and took a whiff of the drunken noodles. “How did you do?”
“I dropped by a source in the papers. He remembered the name and pulled up some interesting history.
“Nathan Garrideb’s parents were killed May of last year. His father had chartered a private plane to fly over the Cliffs of Dover. It was his fortieth anniversary present. The plane got into trouble and crashed in the Channel. There were no survivors but all the bodies were eventually recovered.
“There was an investigation when an inquiry revealed the plane had previous problems with its fuel line. After what seemed like a legitimate investigation, the company wasn’t found at fault. Our client refused to look any further.”
“I would’ve missed it,” John said. “I was still in Afghanistan.”
“But that could be how our American friend found out about Nathan.”
“What do you mean?”
“If our John Garrideb, if that is even his name, was looking for another, more legitimate Garrideb, he could’ve found the news and tracked down our client here.”
“Did Nathan inherit a large sum of money?”
“No, his inheritance was modest, along with the flat he’d inherited after his parents’ death. He’s living there now. It’s in an up-and-coming area, but hardly worth this much deception.”
“So, why bother? The man doesn’t own much and nothing remotely valuable enough for this kind of charade.”
“It might not be what he owns, John, but what his parents owned.”
“You mean something he’d inherited? Something that’s more valuable than money?”
Sherlock nodded. “I think it’s time we met John Garrideb.”
John looked down at his noodles. “After dinner, right?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes but acquiesced to his friend’s request. He ate four dumplings but didn't touch the rest. He knew John constantly worried about his dietary needs, and it was endearing. But Sherlock knew himself better than anyone, Mycroft included, and his current schedule was the best for all concerned. He didn’t have such good run of luck with the Work since he started anew after the last round of rehab, and Sherlock wasn’t about to disturb something that was working in near perfect order.
Even better, now he had John who was a good doctor, and who kept a weathered eye out for Sherlock. So, Sherlock could afford to be a little careless, couldn’t he? John would take care of Sherlock if he had bit of bad luck during a case.
And it was nice, to have someone take care of him. Even if it were just few stitches here and there; some hot soup when Sherlock was too tired to properly eat solid food. Dependable, precise but gentle set of hands to herd Sherlock to bed as he crashed after days of work. Then, the same set of hands making eggy bread for breakfast along with good, hot tea to ensure that Sherlock’s appetite hadn’t totally disappeared. The same set of hands that typed those ludicrous but entertaining stories on the blog that kept a steady stream of clients with interesting, challenging cases flowing into Baker Street, and which allowed Sherlock to be on top form.
So, he missed a meal or two. And maybe should have slept a bit more here and there. At least he didn’t have craving for drugs anymore. There was an echo of want here and there, but that’s all they were. Ghosts from the past haunting him still even as they faded from memory.
A bargain really, if anyone took a hard look at the trade. Sherlock had John, and would keep John because John would stick around as long as he was needed. And even someone as blind as Anderson could see that Sherlock needed John. So, it was perfectly fine.
“I can’t figure out if that’s your contemplation face or ‘I’m Bored Enough to Harass Lestrade’ face.”
John’s quip elicited a smile from Sherlock. “It’s my thinking face.”
“Dare I ask what you’re thinking of?”
“Nathan Garrideb.”
“Too good a client?”
“No, he’s the quintessential solid, dependable Englishman. I just wonder if his parents were.”
“I did find something, but it happened before Nathan was born,” John said, pulling out a printout underneath his noodle carton. “He had an older brother, Samuel, who died in childhood.”
Sherlock read the information. “Cancer.”
“Bloody terrible even this day and age. Couldn’t even begin to think what it was like in the seventies, especially for a ten-year-old. It must have been brutal.”
Sherlock read the treatments and winced. “Brutal is the correct term. How did you get by this information?”
“You have to consider genetics in that type of cancer, especially since Samuel was so young. And since he died, I think the parents were terrified that Nathan would fall victim to the same fate. So, they meticulously documented everything. And Nathan has it in his records in case he has a child in the future.”
“What are these remarks here and here?” Sherlock pointed at the abbreviations.
“It means Samuel received treatment elsewhere. Outside of England, actually.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“Yes, but not unheard of,” John answered. “That particular clinic was and still is one of the best places in the world to get treatment for kidney cancer.”
“But NHS wouldn’t cover it.”
John gave a harsh laugh. “No. It probably bankrupted the parents to have their son treated in Stockholm.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t see the parents having that kind of money. His mother was a schoolteacher, and his father was a moderately successful artist in the seventies and the eighties. His works were noted in the local papers, but they would hardly bring in the needed funds to cover such costs.”
“Maybe he had a fan? Someone who could have lent the money, and allowed the father to pay it off with art? By the way, what kind of artist was he?”
“Metal etching and engravings,” Sherlock said. “Extremely delicate not to mention deadly work. With metal etching, you deal with acids and other corrosives on a daily basis.”
“Sounds like a hard job,” John said. “Could be someone rich hired the man to do work around the house, to pretty it up or something. And it could have been a damn dangerous one, from what you’re describing. There might not have been anyone willing to do such shite work for the long haul.”
Sherlock felt his head swim as he considered John’s words. He shuffled them like cards, laid them out in his mind’s eye before looking at each with careful consideration.
“Oh, John,” Sherlock whispered. “How did I ever manage without you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
From the worried gaze John had leveled on him, Sherlock knew he looked alarming. But he couldn’t be bothered to care. “Put the food away. We really need to see John Garrideb now.”
“All right,” John said, and slipped on his soldier mode without a fuss.
The takeaway was packed in airtight containers before being shoved onto the only shelf in the fridge that actually had food. Then John went upstairs and took his brand new gun, an automatic courtesy of Mycroft, before joining Sherlock.
“Where are we going?”
“We are going to see this John Garrideb. And then we’re going to stop by Scotland Yard. I’m sure Lestrade will have genuine interest in our friend from across the pond.”
John Garrideb was indeed sickly looking. His hair was limp and thinning in places. His skin was noticeably sallow, even by streetlight, and his entire demeanor was one of an exhausted man at the end of his rope.
“Watch,” Sherlock whispered.
A girl no older then fourteen tore down the street. She collided with Garrideb but didn’t bother to stop and help the man pick himself off the ground.
Instead, she screeched, “Watch where you’re going, you tosser!” before running away.
“Fuck you, you slag!”
John frowned. “Definitely not American.”
“No, I’d say Bristol. Well educated in spite of his words. Notice…”
“I believe you, Sherlock,” John said with a grin. “So, our man’s a fake. Does this surprise you in any shape or form?”
“No,” Sherlock said as he took several pictures of the imposter. “But it does weigh in on my thinking that our client’s in danger.”
“You think this fake is going to hurt Nathan?”
“Not unless he’s driven to it. But I do think John Garrideb wouldn’t hesitate to kill to get what he wants.”
“And what might that be?”
“Access to millions of pounds.”
“Exactly how many millions of pounds are we talking about?” Lestrade asked as he downloaded the pictures from Sherlock’s phone.
“I don’t know.”
John turned to him. “How could you not know?”
“Because I don’t know how much money they printed before the scheme fell apart.”
Lestrade stopped typing and looked up. “What?”
“Are we talking about counterfeiters?” John asked, just as confused as the DI.
“This was before your time, Lestrade, but do you remember the Stratford case in 1981?”
Lestrade blinked rapidly for a moment. “Oh yeah, I read about that. Bad luck there, at least for the counterfeiters.”
“There was a fire in a small, detached house that was quickly put under control,” Sherlock explained. “At first it all looked like a normal kitchen fire until a constable found a hidden floor trap. When he pulled that up, he discovered a printing ring with millions of counterfeit pounds all stacked and ready for dispersal. Unfortunately, the people who lived there had no clue as they’d just moved in. The previous tenants couldn’t be tracked so the investigation stalled.”
“They found almost everything save for a single engraving,” Lestrade added. “The ten pound one was missing.”
“The paper was good, but what was even better was the engraving, John. It was perfect. In fact, the people in the treasury were shocked by how good it was.”
“But that wouldn’t matter now, would it?” John volunteered. “What with the special paper and all that other claptrap. Not to mention we use cards nowadays.”
“Cash is still the accepted source of payment. And In India or Pakistan? Those countries could be flooded with fake money and no one the wiser until it was too late," Sherlock said.
“And once it is electronically transferred, it’d be impossible to track,” Lestrade supplied.
John’s frown deepened. “And this American Garrideb knows about the Stratford case, how?”
Lestrade looked at his computer screen. “Nothing’s coming up. But that doesn’t mean much, especially if you consider cases that happened before everything went digital.”
“Were there any suspects?” Sherlock asked.
“Oh yeah, two suspects. One was Thomas Langham who died in a car accident in 1987. And a … woman, actually. Her name was Janice McIntyre. She died in what looked like a robbery gone wrong in 1985.”
Sherlock leaned forward. “Did either of them have children?”
“Yeah, Janice a boy named John Winter.” Lestrade didn’t need any prompting. He typed in the name and files flooded his screen. “He’s been a very busy boy.”
“That’s our Garrideb,” John said as he saw the familiar face. “Bloody hell … what is he playing at?”
Sherlock’s usual pallor worsened. “He isn’t.”
John closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Your number one fan.”
Lestrade’s demeanor soured even further. “Moriarty.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “As John noted, those of us who are financially stable enough to use cards to purchase do and pay the nominal fees without much thought. But for the poor or those even less fortunate, those who cannot afford to use such services, still use cash. And if they are specifically targeted, the end result could be catastrophic.
“Which would be exactly what Moriarty wants,” John added. “So, our Garrideb isn’t working alone.”
“No, Moriarty wouldn’t reveal himself to the likes of Garrideb. Not after Hope.”
“If there is a middle man, and this person could lead us to Moriarty, we need to nab both,” Lestrade said. “John Winter isn’t enough.”
“No, and the odds are good that if we arrest him, he’ll be dead before sunset,” Sherlock said grimly.
Lestrade’s demeanor hardened immediately. “Hold on a minute…”
“He’s not questioning your people’s loyalties,” John hastily explained. “All Moriarty needs is a sniper and a single chance.”
Lestrade winced. “We’re not dealing with a Spotty, are we?”
“No, we most certainly are not,” Sherlock stated. “Moriarty is meticulous, Detective Inspector. His intelligence gathering is top rate, frighteningly so. And he spares no expense in getting what he wants.”
“Does he know we’re onto Garrideb?” John asked.
“I honestly don’t know, and I wouldn’t hazard a guess," Sherlock answered.
John leaned back. “So, how do we go about nabbing two instead of one? Without alerting the spider in the center?”
Sherlock looked at John. “We see what our Winter is up to. He has to meet his contact to report his progress with the real Garrideb.”
“What makes you think he didn’t already?” Lestrade asked.
“Winter is obviously meticulous as he is cunning. He has drastically altered his physical appearance to look the part of a cancer patient, and has gone through great lengths to convince our client that he is American. A man like that would either report very often or only as necessary.
“When you factor in that he reports to one of Moriarty’s people, I posit that he would keep contact as often as possible.”
“Thank heavens for small mercies,” John softly said.
Suddenly, Sherlock’s phone made a rude noise, attracting everyone’s attention. John smiled when he saw the name on the screen.
“That’s Mycroft’s ringtone?”
Sherlock grinned and opened the message. “Ahh, here is Winter’s personal calendar.”
“You contacted your brother about this?” Lestrade asked, surprised.
“I’ve come to respect my opponent, and one such as Moriarty … it is best to be prepared for the worst.”
John closed his eyes and gave a sigh of relief as Sherlock finally admitted that a foe like Moriarty could not be taken on alone.
“Hmm, this is new.”
Sherlock’s statement peaked Lestrade’s interest. “What is it?”
“I can decipher everything save for this one entry: Love at Five?”
Both Lestrade and John blurted out, “Are you serious?” before glancing at Sherlock’s phone.
Sherlock looked at them. “Is this some pop culture reference?”
“No,” John answered. “It’s a popular speed dating club.”
“Speed dating?” Sherlock echoed. “Sounds … horrific.”
“No, it’s kind of fun, actually,” Lestrade said, smiling. “I did it for a laugh, and had a good time.”
“Really? I wanted to try it but always backed off at the last minute. Sounds a bit terrifying to tell the truth,” John confessed, studying Lestrade with admiration. “So, it wasn’t too bad?”
“Can we focus, please?” Sherlock snapped. “Why would a man who looks like he should be ordering his headstone bother to go dating?”
Lestrade gave a low laugh. “Damn, it’s perfect.”
“It is,” John whispered. “Clever bastard.”
“Could either of you please fill me in?!”
They turned to Sherlock. It was John who spoke first. “Love at Five is very simple. You are assigned to a group with two groups participating. Then you are given a number and told to go to a designated spot, usually a bar or a restaurant. There, you meet and chat up a person from the opposite group for five minutes. You do this until you’ve spoken with everyone who’d participated. It’s usually a group of men meeting a group of women, but I’m sure there are variations.”
Sherlock looked nonplussed by the description. “So, Winter could theoretically end up meeting twenty - thirty women?”
“Oh yeah, that’s quite possible,” Lestrade said.
“Any one of them could be the middlema … wom … person,” John finished lamely.
“That is if this meeting is for heterosexual couples,” Lestrade added.
Sherlock sat back, his fingers steepled under his chin. “This is a two patch…”
“No, it’s not!” John interrupted impatiently. “You observe while Lestrade goes undercover. It’s not even worth peeling the backing off a bloody patch!”
Sherlock grumbled under his breath but said nothing. Lestrade once more bit his tongue. He couldn’t believe how in a matter of months John Watson had not only made himself indispensible in Sherlock’s life, but also somehow managed to cram some sense into Sherlock’s hare-brained skull.
Lestrade typed up ‘Love at Five’ website and looked at the schedule. His good humor died a quick death.
“Um, this one is exclusively for homosexual men,” he said weakly.
“Why is that a problem?” Sherlock asked.
John bit back a laugh as he watched Lestrade's blush roar down his face and into his shirt collar.
Prologue * Part II
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: None
Summary: By sheer luck, Sherlock and John stumble over one of Moriarty's schemes. In order to unravel the madman's plans Lestrade all but orders them to go undercover. Unfortunately, for the consulting detective and his blogger, the ruse takes place in a speed dating event. This might not be one of Lestrade's best ideas, but Donovan hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
Nathan Garrideb was a young man with enough energy to spare. But unlike Sherlock, he seemed to have successfully channeled it to his job as a teacher and love of rugby. Broad shouldered, with a nose that had to have been broken at least twice, the client seemed intimidating at first sight with his gorilla-length arms and massive thighs.
Then he smiled and suddenly John was reminded of a Christmas elf he’d seen on the tele just last year. A big, hunkering Christmas elf, but still an elf.
“Thank you for seeing me so quickly,” Nathan said. “I honestly don’t know what to make of all this.”
Sherlock unfolded the newspaper he’d gotten from Lestrade with a dramatic flourish. And preened a little when Garrideb’s eyes widened considerably.
John gave a polite cough and gently elbowed Sherlock along.
“As you can see, your situation has also come to our attention,” Sherlock explained. “So, what can you tell us?”
“The number leads to a private answering service,” Garrideb launched without preamble. “I left a message and not two hours later I got a phone call from a man who said he was John Garrideb from the States.
“Well, to make a long story short - he had inherited a huge sum of money from an uncle of his, a man he claimed to be a brilliant sort but barmy as they come. Anyway, John Garrideb grew up never meeting another with the family name. And according to his uncle, the only other family branch was here in England. But John was told that family branch was all wiped out during the Great War. So, he didn’t bother to look any further. Then the internet happened and things got easier.”
“So, he decided to drop by?” John asked. “Seems a bit touched himself.”
Nathan gave a toothy grin. “That’s a good observation to make, actually. I think the American family branch went a little crooked some time back. John is brilliant, no doubt about that. The man’s got a head for numbers. If he didn’t come from money I’m sure he would’ve made a tonne all on his own. But yes, I get the distinct feeling he’s slightly out of touch. Harmless, mind you, but a bit … well, eccentric I guess is the word.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Small, a fiery redhead from the looks of it, and ambidextrous. I get the feeling he received a good education but wasn’t very happy with it. Probably forced into his degree by his parents. His American accent is hilarious though. I’ve never heard anything like it, and I am a huge fan of American crime dramas.”
“Anything else?”
“He doesn’t like to write.”
“I beg your pardon?” John asked, confused. “What do you mean?”
“The man won’t write a scrap of word down. He memorizes whatever information is necessary. And he texts me if I need something from him. Even when I’m in the same room.”
John slid a glance at Sherlock who looked completely entranced by Nathan’s description of his distant cousin.
“That’s definitely unusual,” John prompted. “Maybe even psychological, which gives credence to your suspicions of the man being an eccentric.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Well, John wants me to find the third Garrideb because … because he’s ill, actually.”
John’s posture straightened. “How ill?”
“Cancer, second stage.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” John asked.
“He’s receiving treatments in London, and from what I can see it’s legitimate. But he wants to make sure that if he doesn’t survive the inheritance will go to the right people rather than the government. He tells me the inheritance laws in the States are just as problematic as they are here unless a family member is the heir.
“Something about taxes and all sorts of people filing rubbish lawsuits to delay the will.”
Sherlock looked at a row of books on top shelf. John, realizing the client was already losing Sherlock’s attention, quickly asked,
“Is there anything else we should know about? No matter how small or unusual?”
Nathan shook his head after a moment of consideration. “No, nothing. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” John said, even as Sherlock whirled out of the sofa and towards the shelves. “Why don’t I show you out, and we can talk about arrangements.”
John made his way back to the main room to find Sherlock nose-deep in a stack of old tomes.
“Better not drop those when you reshelve them. Looks heavy enough to crack your skull.”
Sherlock made some noises but his attention was clearly focused on his reading. John didn’t waste another minute. He sat down in front of his now Sherlock-free laptop and began once more searching for Garrideb and any related information. Even if the search took him to screens numbering in the three digits.
The thump on the side his head woke John. The man sat up violently while rubbing his eyes.
“Damn,” he muttered before squinting at the takeaway in front of him. “I’m still dreaming, aren’t I? You actually went outside and got food?”
Sherlock gave a wan smile and took off his coat. “From the distinct keyboard imprint on your left cheek, I can surmise your search went badly?”
“Try nothing,” John answered as he opened the cartons and took a whiff of the drunken noodles. “How did you do?”
“I dropped by a source in the papers. He remembered the name and pulled up some interesting history.
“Nathan Garrideb’s parents were killed May of last year. His father had chartered a private plane to fly over the Cliffs of Dover. It was his fortieth anniversary present. The plane got into trouble and crashed in the Channel. There were no survivors but all the bodies were eventually recovered.
“There was an investigation when an inquiry revealed the plane had previous problems with its fuel line. After what seemed like a legitimate investigation, the company wasn’t found at fault. Our client refused to look any further.”
“I would’ve missed it,” John said. “I was still in Afghanistan.”
“But that could be how our American friend found out about Nathan.”
“What do you mean?”
“If our John Garrideb, if that is even his name, was looking for another, more legitimate Garrideb, he could’ve found the news and tracked down our client here.”
“Did Nathan inherit a large sum of money?”
“No, his inheritance was modest, along with the flat he’d inherited after his parents’ death. He’s living there now. It’s in an up-and-coming area, but hardly worth this much deception.”
“So, why bother? The man doesn’t own much and nothing remotely valuable enough for this kind of charade.”
“It might not be what he owns, John, but what his parents owned.”
“You mean something he’d inherited? Something that’s more valuable than money?”
Sherlock nodded. “I think it’s time we met John Garrideb.”
John looked down at his noodles. “After dinner, right?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes but acquiesced to his friend’s request. He ate four dumplings but didn't touch the rest. He knew John constantly worried about his dietary needs, and it was endearing. But Sherlock knew himself better than anyone, Mycroft included, and his current schedule was the best for all concerned. He didn’t have such good run of luck with the Work since he started anew after the last round of rehab, and Sherlock wasn’t about to disturb something that was working in near perfect order.
Even better, now he had John who was a good doctor, and who kept a weathered eye out for Sherlock. So, Sherlock could afford to be a little careless, couldn’t he? John would take care of Sherlock if he had bit of bad luck during a case.
And it was nice, to have someone take care of him. Even if it were just few stitches here and there; some hot soup when Sherlock was too tired to properly eat solid food. Dependable, precise but gentle set of hands to herd Sherlock to bed as he crashed after days of work. Then, the same set of hands making eggy bread for breakfast along with good, hot tea to ensure that Sherlock’s appetite hadn’t totally disappeared. The same set of hands that typed those ludicrous but entertaining stories on the blog that kept a steady stream of clients with interesting, challenging cases flowing into Baker Street, and which allowed Sherlock to be on top form.
So, he missed a meal or two. And maybe should have slept a bit more here and there. At least he didn’t have craving for drugs anymore. There was an echo of want here and there, but that’s all they were. Ghosts from the past haunting him still even as they faded from memory.
A bargain really, if anyone took a hard look at the trade. Sherlock had John, and would keep John because John would stick around as long as he was needed. And even someone as blind as Anderson could see that Sherlock needed John. So, it was perfectly fine.
“I can’t figure out if that’s your contemplation face or ‘I’m Bored Enough to Harass Lestrade’ face.”
John’s quip elicited a smile from Sherlock. “It’s my thinking face.”
“Dare I ask what you’re thinking of?”
“Nathan Garrideb.”
“Too good a client?”
“No, he’s the quintessential solid, dependable Englishman. I just wonder if his parents were.”
“I did find something, but it happened before Nathan was born,” John said, pulling out a printout underneath his noodle carton. “He had an older brother, Samuel, who died in childhood.”
Sherlock read the information. “Cancer.”
“Bloody terrible even this day and age. Couldn’t even begin to think what it was like in the seventies, especially for a ten-year-old. It must have been brutal.”
Sherlock read the treatments and winced. “Brutal is the correct term. How did you get by this information?”
“You have to consider genetics in that type of cancer, especially since Samuel was so young. And since he died, I think the parents were terrified that Nathan would fall victim to the same fate. So, they meticulously documented everything. And Nathan has it in his records in case he has a child in the future.”
“What are these remarks here and here?” Sherlock pointed at the abbreviations.
“It means Samuel received treatment elsewhere. Outside of England, actually.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“Yes, but not unheard of,” John answered. “That particular clinic was and still is one of the best places in the world to get treatment for kidney cancer.”
“But NHS wouldn’t cover it.”
John gave a harsh laugh. “No. It probably bankrupted the parents to have their son treated in Stockholm.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t see the parents having that kind of money. His mother was a schoolteacher, and his father was a moderately successful artist in the seventies and the eighties. His works were noted in the local papers, but they would hardly bring in the needed funds to cover such costs.”
“Maybe he had a fan? Someone who could have lent the money, and allowed the father to pay it off with art? By the way, what kind of artist was he?”
“Metal etching and engravings,” Sherlock said. “Extremely delicate not to mention deadly work. With metal etching, you deal with acids and other corrosives on a daily basis.”
“Sounds like a hard job,” John said. “Could be someone rich hired the man to do work around the house, to pretty it up or something. And it could have been a damn dangerous one, from what you’re describing. There might not have been anyone willing to do such shite work for the long haul.”
Sherlock felt his head swim as he considered John’s words. He shuffled them like cards, laid them out in his mind’s eye before looking at each with careful consideration.
“Oh, John,” Sherlock whispered. “How did I ever manage without you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
From the worried gaze John had leveled on him, Sherlock knew he looked alarming. But he couldn’t be bothered to care. “Put the food away. We really need to see John Garrideb now.”
“All right,” John said, and slipped on his soldier mode without a fuss.
The takeaway was packed in airtight containers before being shoved onto the only shelf in the fridge that actually had food. Then John went upstairs and took his brand new gun, an automatic courtesy of Mycroft, before joining Sherlock.
“Where are we going?”
“We are going to see this John Garrideb. And then we’re going to stop by Scotland Yard. I’m sure Lestrade will have genuine interest in our friend from across the pond.”
John Garrideb was indeed sickly looking. His hair was limp and thinning in places. His skin was noticeably sallow, even by streetlight, and his entire demeanor was one of an exhausted man at the end of his rope.
“Watch,” Sherlock whispered.
A girl no older then fourteen tore down the street. She collided with Garrideb but didn’t bother to stop and help the man pick himself off the ground.
Instead, she screeched, “Watch where you’re going, you tosser!” before running away.
“Fuck you, you slag!”
John frowned. “Definitely not American.”
“No, I’d say Bristol. Well educated in spite of his words. Notice…”
“I believe you, Sherlock,” John said with a grin. “So, our man’s a fake. Does this surprise you in any shape or form?”
“No,” Sherlock said as he took several pictures of the imposter. “But it does weigh in on my thinking that our client’s in danger.”
“You think this fake is going to hurt Nathan?”
“Not unless he’s driven to it. But I do think John Garrideb wouldn’t hesitate to kill to get what he wants.”
“And what might that be?”
“Access to millions of pounds.”
“Exactly how many millions of pounds are we talking about?” Lestrade asked as he downloaded the pictures from Sherlock’s phone.
“I don’t know.”
John turned to him. “How could you not know?”
“Because I don’t know how much money they printed before the scheme fell apart.”
Lestrade stopped typing and looked up. “What?”
“Are we talking about counterfeiters?” John asked, just as confused as the DI.
“This was before your time, Lestrade, but do you remember the Stratford case in 1981?”
Lestrade blinked rapidly for a moment. “Oh yeah, I read about that. Bad luck there, at least for the counterfeiters.”
“There was a fire in a small, detached house that was quickly put under control,” Sherlock explained. “At first it all looked like a normal kitchen fire until a constable found a hidden floor trap. When he pulled that up, he discovered a printing ring with millions of counterfeit pounds all stacked and ready for dispersal. Unfortunately, the people who lived there had no clue as they’d just moved in. The previous tenants couldn’t be tracked so the investigation stalled.”
“They found almost everything save for a single engraving,” Lestrade added. “The ten pound one was missing.”
“The paper was good, but what was even better was the engraving, John. It was perfect. In fact, the people in the treasury were shocked by how good it was.”
“But that wouldn’t matter now, would it?” John volunteered. “What with the special paper and all that other claptrap. Not to mention we use cards nowadays.”
“Cash is still the accepted source of payment. And In India or Pakistan? Those countries could be flooded with fake money and no one the wiser until it was too late," Sherlock said.
“And once it is electronically transferred, it’d be impossible to track,” Lestrade supplied.
John’s frown deepened. “And this American Garrideb knows about the Stratford case, how?”
Lestrade looked at his computer screen. “Nothing’s coming up. But that doesn’t mean much, especially if you consider cases that happened before everything went digital.”
“Were there any suspects?” Sherlock asked.
“Oh yeah, two suspects. One was Thomas Langham who died in a car accident in 1987. And a … woman, actually. Her name was Janice McIntyre. She died in what looked like a robbery gone wrong in 1985.”
Sherlock leaned forward. “Did either of them have children?”
“Yeah, Janice a boy named John Winter.” Lestrade didn’t need any prompting. He typed in the name and files flooded his screen. “He’s been a very busy boy.”
“That’s our Garrideb,” John said as he saw the familiar face. “Bloody hell … what is he playing at?”
Sherlock’s usual pallor worsened. “He isn’t.”
John closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Your number one fan.”
Lestrade’s demeanor soured even further. “Moriarty.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “As John noted, those of us who are financially stable enough to use cards to purchase do and pay the nominal fees without much thought. But for the poor or those even less fortunate, those who cannot afford to use such services, still use cash. And if they are specifically targeted, the end result could be catastrophic.
“Which would be exactly what Moriarty wants,” John added. “So, our Garrideb isn’t working alone.”
“No, Moriarty wouldn’t reveal himself to the likes of Garrideb. Not after Hope.”
“If there is a middle man, and this person could lead us to Moriarty, we need to nab both,” Lestrade said. “John Winter isn’t enough.”
“No, and the odds are good that if we arrest him, he’ll be dead before sunset,” Sherlock said grimly.
Lestrade’s demeanor hardened immediately. “Hold on a minute…”
“He’s not questioning your people’s loyalties,” John hastily explained. “All Moriarty needs is a sniper and a single chance.”
Lestrade winced. “We’re not dealing with a Spotty, are we?”
“No, we most certainly are not,” Sherlock stated. “Moriarty is meticulous, Detective Inspector. His intelligence gathering is top rate, frighteningly so. And he spares no expense in getting what he wants.”
“Does he know we’re onto Garrideb?” John asked.
“I honestly don’t know, and I wouldn’t hazard a guess," Sherlock answered.
John leaned back. “So, how do we go about nabbing two instead of one? Without alerting the spider in the center?”
Sherlock looked at John. “We see what our Winter is up to. He has to meet his contact to report his progress with the real Garrideb.”
“What makes you think he didn’t already?” Lestrade asked.
“Winter is obviously meticulous as he is cunning. He has drastically altered his physical appearance to look the part of a cancer patient, and has gone through great lengths to convince our client that he is American. A man like that would either report very often or only as necessary.
“When you factor in that he reports to one of Moriarty’s people, I posit that he would keep contact as often as possible.”
“Thank heavens for small mercies,” John softly said.
Suddenly, Sherlock’s phone made a rude noise, attracting everyone’s attention. John smiled when he saw the name on the screen.
“That’s Mycroft’s ringtone?”
Sherlock grinned and opened the message. “Ahh, here is Winter’s personal calendar.”
“You contacted your brother about this?” Lestrade asked, surprised.
“I’ve come to respect my opponent, and one such as Moriarty … it is best to be prepared for the worst.”
John closed his eyes and gave a sigh of relief as Sherlock finally admitted that a foe like Moriarty could not be taken on alone.
“Hmm, this is new.”
Sherlock’s statement peaked Lestrade’s interest. “What is it?”
“I can decipher everything save for this one entry: Love at Five?”
Both Lestrade and John blurted out, “Are you serious?” before glancing at Sherlock’s phone.
Sherlock looked at them. “Is this some pop culture reference?”
“No,” John answered. “It’s a popular speed dating club.”
“Speed dating?” Sherlock echoed. “Sounds … horrific.”
“No, it’s kind of fun, actually,” Lestrade said, smiling. “I did it for a laugh, and had a good time.”
“Really? I wanted to try it but always backed off at the last minute. Sounds a bit terrifying to tell the truth,” John confessed, studying Lestrade with admiration. “So, it wasn’t too bad?”
“Can we focus, please?” Sherlock snapped. “Why would a man who looks like he should be ordering his headstone bother to go dating?”
Lestrade gave a low laugh. “Damn, it’s perfect.”
“It is,” John whispered. “Clever bastard.”
“Could either of you please fill me in?!”
They turned to Sherlock. It was John who spoke first. “Love at Five is very simple. You are assigned to a group with two groups participating. Then you are given a number and told to go to a designated spot, usually a bar or a restaurant. There, you meet and chat up a person from the opposite group for five minutes. You do this until you’ve spoken with everyone who’d participated. It’s usually a group of men meeting a group of women, but I’m sure there are variations.”
Sherlock looked nonplussed by the description. “So, Winter could theoretically end up meeting twenty - thirty women?”
“Oh yeah, that’s quite possible,” Lestrade said.
“Any one of them could be the middlema … wom … person,” John finished lamely.
“That is if this meeting is for heterosexual couples,” Lestrade added.
Sherlock sat back, his fingers steepled under his chin. “This is a two patch…”
“No, it’s not!” John interrupted impatiently. “You observe while Lestrade goes undercover. It’s not even worth peeling the backing off a bloody patch!”
Sherlock grumbled under his breath but said nothing. Lestrade once more bit his tongue. He couldn’t believe how in a matter of months John Watson had not only made himself indispensible in Sherlock’s life, but also somehow managed to cram some sense into Sherlock’s hare-brained skull.
Lestrade typed up ‘Love at Five’ website and looked at the schedule. His good humor died a quick death.
“Um, this one is exclusively for homosexual men,” he said weakly.
“Why is that a problem?” Sherlock asked.
John bit back a laugh as he watched Lestrade's blush roar down his face and into his shirt collar.
Prologue * Part II