Sherlock 100 52/100 #89 Work
Title: Reigate²
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: ~4000
Rating: PG15
Summary: My take on the story “The Adventure of the Reigate Squire” from The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes.
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
Beta: grassle
For: wingedbandit for bidding on my auction for helpsomalia.
The message came at a bad time, really. John was stitching up a little boy’s forehead when he felt a vibration in his pocket, and he had several other patients waiting on the docket. John smiled apologetically at the boy’s parents as he checked his phone. "Could be an emergency. On call," he explained. Technically, not a lie. Knowing Sherlock Holmes meant that he was actually always on call.
Text: John. In Frnce. Cant move Come get me.
It was simple enough, which was Sherlock’s style. But, John was very concerned at the typos and decided to take the information seriously. He finished the boy’s stitches without any hesitant tremor, although he was filled with nervousness. He left the surgery, mentioning to his supervisor that he had an ill relative. He texted Sherlock for more information on his location and took the very next flight to France.
...
John was in Limoges later that evening, finding Sherlock holed up in a low-key motel. He entered a smoke-clouded room, the lock of which was broken, and finally parted the cloud enough that he could locate Sherlock in bed. Sherlock was never in bed. Not at home, not on travels, not even in his mother’s house over Christmas holidays. John rushed to his side.
"John," Sherlock croaked. "So good you could come."
John looked over him with his clinical eyes. "Sherlock you look completely done-in. You’re feverish, and you’re looking positively emaciated. Why did you do this to yourself?" John muttered, feeling Sherlock’s forehead and running his hand across sharp ribs, causing Sherlock to wince as he touched cracked bones. Sherlock was, in fact, covered in bruises, cuts, and probably much more underneath clothing and blankets.
Sherlock’s lips trembled with the cold as he began to talk. John walked over to the radiator, hitting it a few times, trying to make it work. "Two months I’ve run around this bloody continent, John. I’ve slept in trees and under cars and I’ve eaten fermented herring. And all for what? Those petty accolades...?" He gestured vaguely to a newspaper on the bedside table. Local news was gurgling in the background, giving details about the arrest of the mass murderer. "Rubbish. All of it."
John finally gave up on the radiator and tucked the blankets snugly around his ill friend. He glanced at the paper, the headline of which read, Holmes a Hero! Englishman defeats serial murderer in France. John raised his eyebrows. "You did what you came here to do. I don’t see the problem. You are a bit poorly, so I’ll want to get you home right away, but..."
Sherlock scoffed loudly. "Oh, John. Surely even you can appreciate what it is like once the excitement is over. Life is dull. Life is resplendently dull." He coughed into the duvet. "I will never find a case so challenging again."
John started to pack away the few things he identified in the room to be Sherlock’s. "Cheer up, mate. There are always plenty of bad people to keep you occupied."
"Yes, John, for a day. Possibly a week. But never again like this. Never again so intriguing and stimulating." Sherlock had been talking this way ever since Moriarty’s disappearance and assumed death. And here he was again, fresh from a tremendously long case and saying it all again.
"How long have you been in bed, by the way?" John asked.
"Long enough to know I want to die here," Sherlock remarked.
"Come on, then. I’ve packed your things. You need a shower, and then we’re going," John insisted. He went to the bedside and started uncovering Sherlock, encountering the unclean smell.
"Leave me, John," said Sherlock histrionically. "I am of no further use to the world."
John sighed, rolling his eyes. "Well, you texted me to come here, I came, and now I’m going to take care of you. Let’s go. Into the bathroom." John left his side to start running a hot bath. The motel’s pipes could only offer a slightly warm bath, so John decided to give Sherlock a sponge bath, rather than get him into the cold porcelain tub.
Sherlock looked guardedly at the basin of water and soap that John brought to him. "Can’t it wait until we’re home?" he asked.
John set the basin on the side table and wrung out the sponge. "We need to get you clean as soon as possible to fight infections. You’ve got open wounds and you’re dirty. Now, I need to get you over to the chair because your bed is filthier than you are." John hoisted Sherlock to his feet, and he swore he heard the younger man whine a bit.
Sherlock’s limbs were floppy like a scarecrow’s and he was easily pulled and situated in the dingy recliner chair. "I just need coffee," he said, his voice drained of energy. "Two coffees and I’ll walk myself out of here."
"Sure you will," said John, lightly washing the scrapes on Sherlock’s face and neck. "And we’ll both dance through the streets and swim back to London."
Sherlock made a grunting noise and then became quiet and still, allowing John to finish cleaning him in relative peace.
...
As soon as they made it back to Baker Street, John issued the command to have a lie down. Sherlock limped to the sofa, his ankle clearly sprained. It wasn’t the worst of his injuries, but it was one of the more obvious ones. John barely held himself up long enough to bring a bottle of water and a few blankets to Sherlock before he went upstairs to sleep off the impromptu excursion. He toppled into his bed, bouncing on the springs with the leftover inertia for a few moments, sound asleep by the time the bed stopped moving.
Several hours later, the sounds of shouting and coughing woke John with a fright. He tumbled out of bed, trying to get his bearings, trying to remember if he was in Kabul or London.
Halfway down the stairs, he remembered everything and began shouting for Sherlock, guessing that he had hurt himself trying to get up too quickly, but fearing that he was under attack from one of his many enemies. He found the sofa empty, except for three tangled blankets. He ventured to Sherlock’s bedroom, which was just as junked up as ever. He found his flatmate at last when he started shouting again. Sherlock was hanging out of the window of the back balcony, yelling hoarsely at the newspaper vendor.
John listened to Sherlock’s diatribe against the newspapers printing any information about his latest exploit on the Continent for a few moments before he grabbed the collar of his dressing gown and pulled him back inside the flat. "Sherlock, really, go back to bed."
"They have no business printing anything about my case. They haven’t even spoken to me to hear what happened! It’s all pointless conjecture and I won’t have it!" Sherlock snapped as he was led back to the sofa.
"I think you need a holiday, Sherlock," John suggested. "Somewhere that all this won’t be constantly in your face."
"Rubbish," said Sherlock, flopping down on the sofa, then yelping sharply. "Damn!"
"Hurt your ribs, hmm?" John said, knowingly.
"No," Sherlock moaned. "They were already hurt."
John rolled his eyes. "I’m going to arrange a short holiday so that you can sort yourself out. And don’t think of refusing, Sherlock, or I will have your brother arrange things for us."
"Nowhere near my mother’s house in Sussex!" Sherlock insisted, as John left the room to look up a quiet area they could convalesce.
...
It was decided that they would take a couple of weeks in Reigate, at an ex-serviceman friend of John’s. John packed up clothing and a few toiletries while Sherlock updated his website to say that he would be out of touch for a few days, and to reach him via a house voicemail account. It was the best compromise John could get from him.
John hired a car for the occasion, and drove them out of the lively city and into the warm, breezy hills of the country roads. Sherlock showed how ill he was by sleeping for the hour’s drive.
When John pulled up into Avery Hayter’s drive, Sherlock came awake at the car rocking over the stone path. He drew in a sigh and smoothed down the wrinkles in his shirt and coat. "Nice area," he mentioned.
"Yes. Avery has five acres of beautiful hills and a nice B&B. He sent me a Christmas card last yard with pictures," said John. "Happy?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose if I must take a retreat, it could be worse. Could be...louder, anyway."
"Yes, loud is the opposite of what we want," agreed John. "Be nice," he added, as Avery and his wife walked down the front steps to greet them. He had warned them ahead of time that his companion was in a fitful state, but it never hurt to suggest to Sherlock that he mind his manners.
They were settled into the two adjoining rooms upstairs. Avery’s wife, Sheila, brought tea and a light supper, telling them that she understood they had had a long trip and would appreciate a quiet evening and a meal served upstairs.
John has disallowed laptops and computers on the trip, but found Sherlock sleeping in his room with his BlackBerry on his collarbone. John pilfered the phone, just in case, and turned in for the evening.
...
He awoke the next morning with Sherlock standing over him, an unamused expression on his face. "Give me the key you have in your pocket so that I may unlock your dresser drawer and get my phone back," he snarled.
John squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments in an effort to clear them. "Not before breakfast, Sherlock. Go and get dressed."
Sherlock limped away, quite annoyed, but obedient, nonetheless.
...
Sherlock got his phone back on the way to breakfast and logged into his house voicemail. "Nothing," he reported, sullenly.
"Good," said John, "you aren’t here to take on any cases."
Sherlock followed him downstairs to breakfast. John realised that he had no intentions of eating, but was thankful for the effort to show up and meet their hosts. Avery was already sitting at table and his wife was bringing in a toast rack full of toast when someone knocked at the door.
Avery went to answer as John exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Hayter and Sherlock stirred sugar into his coffee. When Avery returned, he was accompanied by two policemen.
"Sorry to interrupt your holiday, gents, but we heard that Sherlock Holmes was staying here and..." started one of the officers.
"Oh, no," said John. "No, no, no. He is not taking any cases right now. He needs rest."
"John, please, certainly I will not even be interested in a plebeian burglary," said Sherlock.
"How could you know it’s a burglary?" asked John, incredulously.
"Child’s play," answered Sherlock. "Care to prove this isn’t worth my time, Sergeant?"
The blonde-haired officer on the left looked a bit flustered. "Well, it’s just so odd, Mr. Holmes. Nothing of any real value was taken. Just some old racing form guides, some ordinary books, a coffee maker, a portrait of the owner’s son, and a stapler, of all things. It was only a few houses away, at the Bradford estate."
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "Really?"
John covered his face with his hand. "Oh, no."
...
John had to practically force Sherlock to stay on the Hayter grounds. It almost came to him locking Sherlock in a cupboard to get him to stay away from the case. But, finally the detective acquiesced, and John even talked him into sitting by the fire with a cup of hot cocoa. It seemed that the ordinariness of the burglary was enough to keep Sherlock on his leash.
...
The next morning, John opened bleary eyes to look at Sherlock standing over him, quite enthused. "John," said Sherlock. "Are you awake?"
"No," mumbled John, closing his eyes and turning over.
Sherlock climbed onto the bed, shaking him. "John, there’s been a murder!" he said, gently bouncing on the bed and jostling John.
John waited for the bouncing to stop. "Sherlock, who did you kill?"
"John, be serious!" Sherlock accused. "The postman has been murdered!"
"Really? Usually those cases are the other way round," John remarked, completely involved in continuing his sleep.
"John, we’ve been invited to help the investigating officer, DI Geoffrey Wade. Trust me, he’ll never figure this out without my help. He’s waiting downstairs!" Sherlock went on, his voice changing in speed and pitch almost randomly as he pulled at the duvet covering John.
John snatched his covers back and pulled them up over his head, holding them taut. "Leave me alone!" he barked. "It’s my holiday too, Sherlock!"
The bed sank and then settled as Sherlock got off it. John wasn’t sure what was happening, and he was certain Sherlock wouldn’t give up so easily. All of a sudden, there were hands on John’s ankle and he was being dragged off the bed. He yelped and kicked until he was on the floor and glaring up at a fully dressed and impatient-looking Sherlock.
"All right!" John snapped.
...
John had to admit that Sherlock’s colour looked greatly improved since they had first arrived to Avery’s estate. It improved further when the detective began to talk animatedly to the DI in charge of the investigations.
"Call me Geoff,: the man said, when shaking John’s hand. "So, you’re the blogger, then? Great to have you along, son."
"Tell us about the postman, please Geoff," said Sherlock eagerly. "Why was he making a delivery so late?"
Geoff looked up from his notes. "According to the post director, Martin - that’s the postman’s name - had forgotten a package that was guaranteed for yesterday. Was the post office’s policy to deliver it by 8 pm and he had just enough time to get it there. Apparently, he ran into the same man who robbed the Bradfords, same M.O., anyway, and got shot for his troubles."
"Anything stand out about the scene?" Sherlock asked.
"We have some photographs of the crime scene that you are welcome to thumb through," said Geoff, handing Sherlock a manila folder.
Sherlock looked through the folder, stopping on one page in particular. "This scrap of paper...I assume it was clutched in the postman’s hand when he was found murdered, yes?"
Geoff looked over Sherlock’s shoulder. "Yeah, that’s right. How could you tell?"”
"I could tell by comparing the photograph of the postman’s hand and the wrinkles on the paper itself. It’s obviously part of a larger paper." Sherlock stared at the small amount of writing on the scrap for a moment. John looked over his shoulder at the few numbers scribbled on the page. On one line, "20:" was written in pen, and on the line above and to the side, a "2." John thought perhaps the twenty was the time the postman was meeting someone, but the two above, seeming to direct him to square the time had him thrown. Sherlock continued, saying, "This definitely sheds light upon the whole ordeal. I would like to interview the owners of the house that was allegedly about to be robbed."
"Of course," said Geoff. "The team’s already talked to Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, but you’re welcome to interview them again."
...
John insisted that Sherlock take Avery’s car up the hill to the Cunningham’s property. No matter how well the detective was feeling, he was still showing a limp and his ribs had not had enough time to heal.
Geoff introduced them to Mal and Jennifer Cunningham, who were open to more questions.
"We would like this crime to be solved more than anyone!" exclaimed Jennifer. "To think that someone might have stolen my grandmother’s pearls or my diamonds!"
"It’s fine, dear," said Mal, soberly. "I called the security company and we’re going to have a system installed by this afternoon. I saw Martin and a man - must have been that thief - struggling together. Then he shot Martin and ran off down the hill."
"How well did you know Martin?" Sherlock asked;
"He’s been the postman here for - I don’t know, dear, 10 years?" said Mal. "We chatted every now and then, but never more than casually."
"He wasn’t married, you know," said Jennifer. "He was fifty and never married." She tutted a bit, as if thinking that was a sad fate.
"Yes, how tragic," said Sherlock. "What kind of package were you expecting?"
"Don’t know, um...something she had ordered, probably," said Mal.
"Oh, sure, blame it on me, the poor man’s death!" she exclaimed.
Geoff shot John and Sherlock an amused look. "Well, Mr. Holmes here is sure to be a big help figuring this out, my friends. In fact, he’s already said -"
At that exact moment, Sherlock made a little yelp of surprise and slight agony and fell down like a chopped tree. John was at his side two seconds after he hit the floor, the shock not affecting him like it was others in the room. Sherlock seemed to have fainted.
"Here, help me get him back to the car, would you, Geoff?" said John. "I told him he was getting back to work too soon..."
Geoff and Mr. Cunningham helped carry Sherlock out to the car as Mrs. Cunningham fretted over them, offering water and biscuits and whiskey, of all things. John laid Sherlock’s head in his lap as Geoff drove them back down the hill, Sherlock’s pulse convincing him that he was fine.
...
Sherlock sat on the front porch of Avery’s home smoking as John tried to lecture him.
"This was supposed to be a holiday, Sherlock. You can’t just avoid taking care of yourself forever! It’s going to catch up with you."
"Should I just leave a case of murder in the hands of the local police?" Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously, John, you have no sense of morality."
"I think that you attract trouble. I think that wherever you go, there are going to be murders and kidnappings and organised crime," said John.
"That’s the nature of the beast."
"Yes, well, it would be nice if ‘the beast’ honoured sick days."
Sherlock stood up from the rocking chair, stubbing out his cigarette on the shutters of the house. He limped into the house and went upstairs.
...
The next day, despite John’s pleas, Sherlock wanted to pay another visit to see Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham. He claimed that he was feeling better and wouldn’t have anymore fainting spells. There was no arguing with Sherlock when he got into one of his investigating moods, so John followed along to be sure his friend wouldn’t get himself into anymore trouble.
They pulled up to the house, escorted once again by DI Geoff Parsons. When Sherlock barged in past a surprised Mal and Jennifer Cunningham, John apologised thoroughly.
"I’m sorry, folks. He’s got a one-track mind when it comes to these things. You’re not bothered if we take a look around, are you?"
Jennifer scoffed. "The murder occurred outside, and the burglar never got in. What is there to look at inside?"
Mal put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. "Don’t worry. We have nothing to hide, love."
John hurried up the staircase to see what Sherlock had got into. The detective was eyeing a bookcase as he paced back and forth in front of it.
"Please, don’t hesitate to let us know if you need anything," said Jennifer snidely.
"I doubt you will willingly give me anything of use," said Sherlock, going to stand beside John. While Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham left to converse in private, Sherlock knocked a small stack of DVDs onto the floor.
John was incredulous, then startled when Sherlock yelled, "John, must you be so clumsy? You are ruining my concentration!"
The others in the room rushed over to pick up the DVDs and set them back on the end table. John looked over to Sherlock for an explanation and realised that he had left the room.
John shook his head in frustration and looked at the bookcase Sherlock had been so interested in, trying to discern what was significant about it.
Moments later, there was the sound of a loud thud a few rooms away, and a sharp yelp. Sherlock’s voice called out for John, who ran across the hall to see what the matter was. Sherlock was on the floor, wrestling with Mal, while Jennifer was holding a gun on them.
"Bloody hell!" John exclaimed. He nearly pulled his own gun out of his jacket, but remembered that there were police officers about. He called for one of them. Geoff came running and quickly broke up the fight. Jennifer burst into tears and dropped the gun as if it had burned her.
Sherlock slowly got back on his feet, rubbing his neck where it was red from being strangled. "I think that little display will be enough to arrest them. And this slip of paper will be enough to convict them of the murder of the postman," said Sherlock, holding up a torn paper.
Geoff handcuffed Mal and another officer picked up the gun and placed it inside an evidence bag. "Would you like to enlighten us, Mr. Holmes, or are we meant to just take your word for it?"
"You should just take my word for it, but I will explain nonetheless," said Sherlock. "Martin Steele wasn’t just the postman. He was also a well-established gambler. I could tell that by the small scrap of paper that was clutched in his hands. You might have given away this insight too soon, Mr. Wade, had I not faked a fainting spell to shut you up. In addition to the information gathered on the paper, I took in his shoddy appearance. Chronic gamblers tend to have a bit of anxiety along with their addictive characters. Mr. Steele was in debt to Mr. Bradford, who runs a bookmaking agency."
At this point, he turned to Mal and Jennifer. "As were the Cunninghams."
The married couple each had their own expression of disgust and defeat.
"Mr. Cunningham broke into the Bradford’s specifically to steal the old racing form guide and stole all the other nonsensical items to throw the police off. I suppose he thought he could use it to make safer bets or figure out what made Bradford so proficient in gambling. Mr. Steele happened to be delivering a package late that night and saw Cunningham breaking in. He hatched a plan of blackmail to gain funds to pay off his own gambling debts. He communicated with the Cunninghams by dropping letters in their letter box and picking up unmarked envelopes they left for him. The last letter he received from them involved a sum of money he could expect to be paid and a time to meet them." Sherlock produced the small scrap that had been clutched in Steele’s hand. "Here is written '20:' and above it, the beginning of the promised sum, two thousand pounds. But, all you see is the '2' sitting above the time, 8 pm, appearing as a square number. Obviously, time is not squared in any case, so the obvious conclusion was debt, gambling, blackmail. Did you all get that?" He raised one eyebrow and looked about the room, smugly.
Geoff looked gobsmacked. "We’ll have to question the Cunninghams and Bradfords, but by God, it all seems to fit. Mr. Holmes, I would like to shake your hand." He did, Sherlock giving him a stiff shake in return. "And now we’re going to get out of your hair and let you enjoy your holiday."
"Yes," John muttered. "With one night left."
"Don’t pout, John," said Sherlock. "You reached your goal. I feel totally rejuvenated. Back to London!"
John could only follow, wondering how he would ever have a relaxing holiday as long as he knew Sherlock Holmes. He had to admit, however, that he did feel fairly rejuvenated himself. Perhaps next time, he and Sherlock could visit a den of thieves for a holiday, he mused only slightly cynically.
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: ~4000
Rating: PG15
Summary: My take on the story “The Adventure of the Reigate Squire” from The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes.
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
Beta: grassle
For: wingedbandit for bidding on my auction for helpsomalia.
The message came at a bad time, really. John was stitching up a little boy’s forehead when he felt a vibration in his pocket, and he had several other patients waiting on the docket. John smiled apologetically at the boy’s parents as he checked his phone. "Could be an emergency. On call," he explained. Technically, not a lie. Knowing Sherlock Holmes meant that he was actually always on call.
Text: John. In Frnce. Cant move Come get me.
It was simple enough, which was Sherlock’s style. But, John was very concerned at the typos and decided to take the information seriously. He finished the boy’s stitches without any hesitant tremor, although he was filled with nervousness. He left the surgery, mentioning to his supervisor that he had an ill relative. He texted Sherlock for more information on his location and took the very next flight to France.
...
John was in Limoges later that evening, finding Sherlock holed up in a low-key motel. He entered a smoke-clouded room, the lock of which was broken, and finally parted the cloud enough that he could locate Sherlock in bed. Sherlock was never in bed. Not at home, not on travels, not even in his mother’s house over Christmas holidays. John rushed to his side.
"John," Sherlock croaked. "So good you could come."
John looked over him with his clinical eyes. "Sherlock you look completely done-in. You’re feverish, and you’re looking positively emaciated. Why did you do this to yourself?" John muttered, feeling Sherlock’s forehead and running his hand across sharp ribs, causing Sherlock to wince as he touched cracked bones. Sherlock was, in fact, covered in bruises, cuts, and probably much more underneath clothing and blankets.
Sherlock’s lips trembled with the cold as he began to talk. John walked over to the radiator, hitting it a few times, trying to make it work. "Two months I’ve run around this bloody continent, John. I’ve slept in trees and under cars and I’ve eaten fermented herring. And all for what? Those petty accolades...?" He gestured vaguely to a newspaper on the bedside table. Local news was gurgling in the background, giving details about the arrest of the mass murderer. "Rubbish. All of it."
John finally gave up on the radiator and tucked the blankets snugly around his ill friend. He glanced at the paper, the headline of which read, Holmes a Hero! Englishman defeats serial murderer in France. John raised his eyebrows. "You did what you came here to do. I don’t see the problem. You are a bit poorly, so I’ll want to get you home right away, but..."
Sherlock scoffed loudly. "Oh, John. Surely even you can appreciate what it is like once the excitement is over. Life is dull. Life is resplendently dull." He coughed into the duvet. "I will never find a case so challenging again."
John started to pack away the few things he identified in the room to be Sherlock’s. "Cheer up, mate. There are always plenty of bad people to keep you occupied."
"Yes, John, for a day. Possibly a week. But never again like this. Never again so intriguing and stimulating." Sherlock had been talking this way ever since Moriarty’s disappearance and assumed death. And here he was again, fresh from a tremendously long case and saying it all again.
"How long have you been in bed, by the way?" John asked.
"Long enough to know I want to die here," Sherlock remarked.
"Come on, then. I’ve packed your things. You need a shower, and then we’re going," John insisted. He went to the bedside and started uncovering Sherlock, encountering the unclean smell.
"Leave me, John," said Sherlock histrionically. "I am of no further use to the world."
John sighed, rolling his eyes. "Well, you texted me to come here, I came, and now I’m going to take care of you. Let’s go. Into the bathroom." John left his side to start running a hot bath. The motel’s pipes could only offer a slightly warm bath, so John decided to give Sherlock a sponge bath, rather than get him into the cold porcelain tub.
Sherlock looked guardedly at the basin of water and soap that John brought to him. "Can’t it wait until we’re home?" he asked.
John set the basin on the side table and wrung out the sponge. "We need to get you clean as soon as possible to fight infections. You’ve got open wounds and you’re dirty. Now, I need to get you over to the chair because your bed is filthier than you are." John hoisted Sherlock to his feet, and he swore he heard the younger man whine a bit.
Sherlock’s limbs were floppy like a scarecrow’s and he was easily pulled and situated in the dingy recliner chair. "I just need coffee," he said, his voice drained of energy. "Two coffees and I’ll walk myself out of here."
"Sure you will," said John, lightly washing the scrapes on Sherlock’s face and neck. "And we’ll both dance through the streets and swim back to London."
Sherlock made a grunting noise and then became quiet and still, allowing John to finish cleaning him in relative peace.
...
As soon as they made it back to Baker Street, John issued the command to have a lie down. Sherlock limped to the sofa, his ankle clearly sprained. It wasn’t the worst of his injuries, but it was one of the more obvious ones. John barely held himself up long enough to bring a bottle of water and a few blankets to Sherlock before he went upstairs to sleep off the impromptu excursion. He toppled into his bed, bouncing on the springs with the leftover inertia for a few moments, sound asleep by the time the bed stopped moving.
Several hours later, the sounds of shouting and coughing woke John with a fright. He tumbled out of bed, trying to get his bearings, trying to remember if he was in Kabul or London.
Halfway down the stairs, he remembered everything and began shouting for Sherlock, guessing that he had hurt himself trying to get up too quickly, but fearing that he was under attack from one of his many enemies. He found the sofa empty, except for three tangled blankets. He ventured to Sherlock’s bedroom, which was just as junked up as ever. He found his flatmate at last when he started shouting again. Sherlock was hanging out of the window of the back balcony, yelling hoarsely at the newspaper vendor.
John listened to Sherlock’s diatribe against the newspapers printing any information about his latest exploit on the Continent for a few moments before he grabbed the collar of his dressing gown and pulled him back inside the flat. "Sherlock, really, go back to bed."
"They have no business printing anything about my case. They haven’t even spoken to me to hear what happened! It’s all pointless conjecture and I won’t have it!" Sherlock snapped as he was led back to the sofa.
"I think you need a holiday, Sherlock," John suggested. "Somewhere that all this won’t be constantly in your face."
"Rubbish," said Sherlock, flopping down on the sofa, then yelping sharply. "Damn!"
"Hurt your ribs, hmm?" John said, knowingly.
"No," Sherlock moaned. "They were already hurt."
John rolled his eyes. "I’m going to arrange a short holiday so that you can sort yourself out. And don’t think of refusing, Sherlock, or I will have your brother arrange things for us."
"Nowhere near my mother’s house in Sussex!" Sherlock insisted, as John left the room to look up a quiet area they could convalesce.
...
It was decided that they would take a couple of weeks in Reigate, at an ex-serviceman friend of John’s. John packed up clothing and a few toiletries while Sherlock updated his website to say that he would be out of touch for a few days, and to reach him via a house voicemail account. It was the best compromise John could get from him.
John hired a car for the occasion, and drove them out of the lively city and into the warm, breezy hills of the country roads. Sherlock showed how ill he was by sleeping for the hour’s drive.
When John pulled up into Avery Hayter’s drive, Sherlock came awake at the car rocking over the stone path. He drew in a sigh and smoothed down the wrinkles in his shirt and coat. "Nice area," he mentioned.
"Yes. Avery has five acres of beautiful hills and a nice B&B. He sent me a Christmas card last yard with pictures," said John. "Happy?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose if I must take a retreat, it could be worse. Could be...louder, anyway."
"Yes, loud is the opposite of what we want," agreed John. "Be nice," he added, as Avery and his wife walked down the front steps to greet them. He had warned them ahead of time that his companion was in a fitful state, but it never hurt to suggest to Sherlock that he mind his manners.
They were settled into the two adjoining rooms upstairs. Avery’s wife, Sheila, brought tea and a light supper, telling them that she understood they had had a long trip and would appreciate a quiet evening and a meal served upstairs.
John has disallowed laptops and computers on the trip, but found Sherlock sleeping in his room with his BlackBerry on his collarbone. John pilfered the phone, just in case, and turned in for the evening.
...
He awoke the next morning with Sherlock standing over him, an unamused expression on his face. "Give me the key you have in your pocket so that I may unlock your dresser drawer and get my phone back," he snarled.
John squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments in an effort to clear them. "Not before breakfast, Sherlock. Go and get dressed."
Sherlock limped away, quite annoyed, but obedient, nonetheless.
...
Sherlock got his phone back on the way to breakfast and logged into his house voicemail. "Nothing," he reported, sullenly.
"Good," said John, "you aren’t here to take on any cases."
Sherlock followed him downstairs to breakfast. John realised that he had no intentions of eating, but was thankful for the effort to show up and meet their hosts. Avery was already sitting at table and his wife was bringing in a toast rack full of toast when someone knocked at the door.
Avery went to answer as John exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Hayter and Sherlock stirred sugar into his coffee. When Avery returned, he was accompanied by two policemen.
"Sorry to interrupt your holiday, gents, but we heard that Sherlock Holmes was staying here and..." started one of the officers.
"Oh, no," said John. "No, no, no. He is not taking any cases right now. He needs rest."
"John, please, certainly I will not even be interested in a plebeian burglary," said Sherlock.
"How could you know it’s a burglary?" asked John, incredulously.
"Child’s play," answered Sherlock. "Care to prove this isn’t worth my time, Sergeant?"
The blonde-haired officer on the left looked a bit flustered. "Well, it’s just so odd, Mr. Holmes. Nothing of any real value was taken. Just some old racing form guides, some ordinary books, a coffee maker, a portrait of the owner’s son, and a stapler, of all things. It was only a few houses away, at the Bradford estate."
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "Really?"
John covered his face with his hand. "Oh, no."
...
John had to practically force Sherlock to stay on the Hayter grounds. It almost came to him locking Sherlock in a cupboard to get him to stay away from the case. But, finally the detective acquiesced, and John even talked him into sitting by the fire with a cup of hot cocoa. It seemed that the ordinariness of the burglary was enough to keep Sherlock on his leash.
...
The next morning, John opened bleary eyes to look at Sherlock standing over him, quite enthused. "John," said Sherlock. "Are you awake?"
"No," mumbled John, closing his eyes and turning over.
Sherlock climbed onto the bed, shaking him. "John, there’s been a murder!" he said, gently bouncing on the bed and jostling John.
John waited for the bouncing to stop. "Sherlock, who did you kill?"
"John, be serious!" Sherlock accused. "The postman has been murdered!"
"Really? Usually those cases are the other way round," John remarked, completely involved in continuing his sleep.
"John, we’ve been invited to help the investigating officer, DI Geoffrey Wade. Trust me, he’ll never figure this out without my help. He’s waiting downstairs!" Sherlock went on, his voice changing in speed and pitch almost randomly as he pulled at the duvet covering John.
John snatched his covers back and pulled them up over his head, holding them taut. "Leave me alone!" he barked. "It’s my holiday too, Sherlock!"
The bed sank and then settled as Sherlock got off it. John wasn’t sure what was happening, and he was certain Sherlock wouldn’t give up so easily. All of a sudden, there were hands on John’s ankle and he was being dragged off the bed. He yelped and kicked until he was on the floor and glaring up at a fully dressed and impatient-looking Sherlock.
"All right!" John snapped.
...
John had to admit that Sherlock’s colour looked greatly improved since they had first arrived to Avery’s estate. It improved further when the detective began to talk animatedly to the DI in charge of the investigations.
"Call me Geoff,: the man said, when shaking John’s hand. "So, you’re the blogger, then? Great to have you along, son."
"Tell us about the postman, please Geoff," said Sherlock eagerly. "Why was he making a delivery so late?"
Geoff looked up from his notes. "According to the post director, Martin - that’s the postman’s name - had forgotten a package that was guaranteed for yesterday. Was the post office’s policy to deliver it by 8 pm and he had just enough time to get it there. Apparently, he ran into the same man who robbed the Bradfords, same M.O., anyway, and got shot for his troubles."
"Anything stand out about the scene?" Sherlock asked.
"We have some photographs of the crime scene that you are welcome to thumb through," said Geoff, handing Sherlock a manila folder.
Sherlock looked through the folder, stopping on one page in particular. "This scrap of paper...I assume it was clutched in the postman’s hand when he was found murdered, yes?"
Geoff looked over Sherlock’s shoulder. "Yeah, that’s right. How could you tell?"”
"I could tell by comparing the photograph of the postman’s hand and the wrinkles on the paper itself. It’s obviously part of a larger paper." Sherlock stared at the small amount of writing on the scrap for a moment. John looked over his shoulder at the few numbers scribbled on the page. On one line, "20:" was written in pen, and on the line above and to the side, a "2." John thought perhaps the twenty was the time the postman was meeting someone, but the two above, seeming to direct him to square the time had him thrown. Sherlock continued, saying, "This definitely sheds light upon the whole ordeal. I would like to interview the owners of the house that was allegedly about to be robbed."
"Of course," said Geoff. "The team’s already talked to Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, but you’re welcome to interview them again."
...
John insisted that Sherlock take Avery’s car up the hill to the Cunningham’s property. No matter how well the detective was feeling, he was still showing a limp and his ribs had not had enough time to heal.
Geoff introduced them to Mal and Jennifer Cunningham, who were open to more questions.
"We would like this crime to be solved more than anyone!" exclaimed Jennifer. "To think that someone might have stolen my grandmother’s pearls or my diamonds!"
"It’s fine, dear," said Mal, soberly. "I called the security company and we’re going to have a system installed by this afternoon. I saw Martin and a man - must have been that thief - struggling together. Then he shot Martin and ran off down the hill."
"How well did you know Martin?" Sherlock asked;
"He’s been the postman here for - I don’t know, dear, 10 years?" said Mal. "We chatted every now and then, but never more than casually."
"He wasn’t married, you know," said Jennifer. "He was fifty and never married." She tutted a bit, as if thinking that was a sad fate.
"Yes, how tragic," said Sherlock. "What kind of package were you expecting?"
"Don’t know, um...something she had ordered, probably," said Mal.
"Oh, sure, blame it on me, the poor man’s death!" she exclaimed.
Geoff shot John and Sherlock an amused look. "Well, Mr. Holmes here is sure to be a big help figuring this out, my friends. In fact, he’s already said -"
At that exact moment, Sherlock made a little yelp of surprise and slight agony and fell down like a chopped tree. John was at his side two seconds after he hit the floor, the shock not affecting him like it was others in the room. Sherlock seemed to have fainted.
"Here, help me get him back to the car, would you, Geoff?" said John. "I told him he was getting back to work too soon..."
Geoff and Mr. Cunningham helped carry Sherlock out to the car as Mrs. Cunningham fretted over them, offering water and biscuits and whiskey, of all things. John laid Sherlock’s head in his lap as Geoff drove them back down the hill, Sherlock’s pulse convincing him that he was fine.
...
Sherlock sat on the front porch of Avery’s home smoking as John tried to lecture him.
"This was supposed to be a holiday, Sherlock. You can’t just avoid taking care of yourself forever! It’s going to catch up with you."
"Should I just leave a case of murder in the hands of the local police?" Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously, John, you have no sense of morality."
"I think that you attract trouble. I think that wherever you go, there are going to be murders and kidnappings and organised crime," said John.
"That’s the nature of the beast."
"Yes, well, it would be nice if ‘the beast’ honoured sick days."
Sherlock stood up from the rocking chair, stubbing out his cigarette on the shutters of the house. He limped into the house and went upstairs.
...
The next day, despite John’s pleas, Sherlock wanted to pay another visit to see Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham. He claimed that he was feeling better and wouldn’t have anymore fainting spells. There was no arguing with Sherlock when he got into one of his investigating moods, so John followed along to be sure his friend wouldn’t get himself into anymore trouble.
They pulled up to the house, escorted once again by DI Geoff Parsons. When Sherlock barged in past a surprised Mal and Jennifer Cunningham, John apologised thoroughly.
"I’m sorry, folks. He’s got a one-track mind when it comes to these things. You’re not bothered if we take a look around, are you?"
Jennifer scoffed. "The murder occurred outside, and the burglar never got in. What is there to look at inside?"
Mal put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. "Don’t worry. We have nothing to hide, love."
John hurried up the staircase to see what Sherlock had got into. The detective was eyeing a bookcase as he paced back and forth in front of it.
"Please, don’t hesitate to let us know if you need anything," said Jennifer snidely.
"I doubt you will willingly give me anything of use," said Sherlock, going to stand beside John. While Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham left to converse in private, Sherlock knocked a small stack of DVDs onto the floor.
John was incredulous, then startled when Sherlock yelled, "John, must you be so clumsy? You are ruining my concentration!"
The others in the room rushed over to pick up the DVDs and set them back on the end table. John looked over to Sherlock for an explanation and realised that he had left the room.
John shook his head in frustration and looked at the bookcase Sherlock had been so interested in, trying to discern what was significant about it.
Moments later, there was the sound of a loud thud a few rooms away, and a sharp yelp. Sherlock’s voice called out for John, who ran across the hall to see what the matter was. Sherlock was on the floor, wrestling with Mal, while Jennifer was holding a gun on them.
"Bloody hell!" John exclaimed. He nearly pulled his own gun out of his jacket, but remembered that there were police officers about. He called for one of them. Geoff came running and quickly broke up the fight. Jennifer burst into tears and dropped the gun as if it had burned her.
Sherlock slowly got back on his feet, rubbing his neck where it was red from being strangled. "I think that little display will be enough to arrest them. And this slip of paper will be enough to convict them of the murder of the postman," said Sherlock, holding up a torn paper.
Geoff handcuffed Mal and another officer picked up the gun and placed it inside an evidence bag. "Would you like to enlighten us, Mr. Holmes, or are we meant to just take your word for it?"
"You should just take my word for it, but I will explain nonetheless," said Sherlock. "Martin Steele wasn’t just the postman. He was also a well-established gambler. I could tell that by the small scrap of paper that was clutched in his hands. You might have given away this insight too soon, Mr. Wade, had I not faked a fainting spell to shut you up. In addition to the information gathered on the paper, I took in his shoddy appearance. Chronic gamblers tend to have a bit of anxiety along with their addictive characters. Mr. Steele was in debt to Mr. Bradford, who runs a bookmaking agency."
At this point, he turned to Mal and Jennifer. "As were the Cunninghams."
The married couple each had their own expression of disgust and defeat.
"Mr. Cunningham broke into the Bradford’s specifically to steal the old racing form guide and stole all the other nonsensical items to throw the police off. I suppose he thought he could use it to make safer bets or figure out what made Bradford so proficient in gambling. Mr. Steele happened to be delivering a package late that night and saw Cunningham breaking in. He hatched a plan of blackmail to gain funds to pay off his own gambling debts. He communicated with the Cunninghams by dropping letters in their letter box and picking up unmarked envelopes they left for him. The last letter he received from them involved a sum of money he could expect to be paid and a time to meet them." Sherlock produced the small scrap that had been clutched in Steele’s hand. "Here is written '20:' and above it, the beginning of the promised sum, two thousand pounds. But, all you see is the '2' sitting above the time, 8 pm, appearing as a square number. Obviously, time is not squared in any case, so the obvious conclusion was debt, gambling, blackmail. Did you all get that?" He raised one eyebrow and looked about the room, smugly.
Geoff looked gobsmacked. "We’ll have to question the Cunninghams and Bradfords, but by God, it all seems to fit. Mr. Holmes, I would like to shake your hand." He did, Sherlock giving him a stiff shake in return. "And now we’re going to get out of your hair and let you enjoy your holiday."
"Yes," John muttered. "With one night left."
"Don’t pout, John," said Sherlock. "You reached your goal. I feel totally rejuvenated. Back to London!"
John could only follow, wondering how he would ever have a relaxing holiday as long as he knew Sherlock Holmes. He had to admit, however, that he did feel fairly rejuvenated himself. Perhaps next time, he and Sherlock could visit a den of thieves for a holiday, he mused only slightly cynically.