Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 3/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]
Home stretch!
[And yes, another chapter divided into two. Bit unevenly split, but that was the best place to cut it so it wasn't too jarring. Curse you, LJ size limit! Curse yooooou!]
Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
Chapter Two - Part One
Chapter Two - Part Two
three:
no use going back
But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then. - Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
“You believed me?” John asks. There is more than a little disbelief in his voice. Sherlock can understand the reaction. He can understand it, but it still irritates him.
“Everything you offered proved accurate,” he says in lieu of remembering what it had been like to question John’s…
John’s?
Friendship?
“Sherlock?” John asks, touching his hand briefly. Sherlock closes his eyes for a few seconds, then looks at John. “You looked a million miles away,” John says in concern.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. “I am, however, rather cross with you.”
John blinks rapidly.
“I told you I would lend you my aid,” Sherlock huffs. “What possessed you to think that embarking on this - this one-man mission was a good idea?”
“The fact that I didn’t have any idea how to convince you of any of this?” John says dryly. “I didn’t -”
“You didn’t what?” Sherlock prompts, perhaps a trifle sharply.
“I didn’t want to see the look on your face, all right?” John says. “Distrust. Disbelief. Whatever it would have been.” He looks away. His hands are perfectly still on the sheets. It is odd, Sherlock thinks absently, that John should be so very motionless at this moment, when he surely is under extreme stress. John fidgets all the time. He moves about constantly even when he’s reading. Sherlock is the one who lies unmoving for days, lamenting the lack of interesting cases. But come a truly trying time and it is Sherlock who can’t stop picking at things, it is John who is preternaturally still.
Sherlock tugs a little at the corner of John’s sheets. They’re not exactly soft.
“How much longer will you be locked up in this infernal place?” he complains. “You can’t be getting any sleep here.”
A moment of silence. “No,” John says, smiling just a little as he looks down. “Not much, no.”
“It was always the smell that annoyed me,” Sherlock says, then presses his lips firmly together. He hadn’t intended to say that.
“The noise, for me,” John says, without displaying any inkling of knowledge that Sherlock has just told him something he has told no one in his life. Sherlock regulates his breathing pattern. Simple enough to fake nonchalance.
“You’re a light sleeper,” Sherlock says. “But that’s not all, is it?”
John shrugs. “I keep hearing machinery and thinking it’s something I should be keeping an eye on. When I’m halfway asleep, I keep thinking it’s surely got to be time for my rounds soon and I’d best have a look at that patient’s monitor, and if I happen to hear any emergency call, I’m wide awake before I even know what’s happened.”
John presses back a little, the pillow wrinkling under the pressure he exerts. Then he relaxes. “I suppose it’s true what they say, that doctors don’t make good patients. Even when I’m trying to be one.”
Sherlock watches John, watches the shape of his mouth as he speaks. John’s not normally quite this chatty. It’s the painkillers, he knows. He thinks that probably it’s not a good thing to take advantage of John’s current state, but he wants so badly to hear John speak. It reminds him that he wasn’t too late.
And besides, he’s seen how John spoke to Mycroft, earlier, when the latter had dropped by for a visit and an update. Moriarty is dead. Moran is in critical condition still, but doctors are cautiously optimistic. Sherlock doesn’t care much, except that Moran could prove useful in taking the rest of the organisation down completely. And Sherlock does want that. He wants to rip apart everything Moriarty had so painstakingly built up. He wants to destroy the shrine Moriarty had built to his own ego. He wants to feel bone grind beneath his shoes, and if he won’t be allowed the pleasure of the literal, he’ll take the figurative.
“Sherlock?” John asks. John had been quite his normal self with Mycroft. He’s being unusually chatty with Sherlock, though. Perhaps he doesn’t mind. (Perhaps he feels safe talking to Sherlock.)
“Mrs Hudson’s absolutely distraught at your being here,” Sherlock says. “You shouldn’t be surprised if she comes for a visit once you’re allowed.”
“I don’t see why I’m not already,” John says, rolling his eyes. “Infection’s clearing up nicely, I’m all wrapped up - it’s not like I’m at death’s door. You wouldn’t - Sherlock. Sherlock!”
Sherlock tastes blood. John makes a soft sound of distress and reaches out, thumbing his lip cautiously.
“Steady, let me see,” he says, pulling very lightly at the edge of Sherlock’s lip. Sherlock parts them obediently. John inspects the bite, fingers skirting the minor wound without touching it. “Good, it’s not too deep. Don’t bite it again.”
“Accident,” Sherlock says.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had any new cases,” John says longingly. “I’d love to hear about them, if you did.”
Sherlock tilts his head and studies John for a moment. “One rather important one,” he says at last. “This.”
“Oh.” John looks confused. It probably says something that the expression on John doesn’t annoy Sherlock nearly as much as when he sees it on anyone else. “Oh.” And now his cheeks are taking on a charming pink tint.
Sherlock stretches a little, arching his back in the chair. It’s not made for prolonged use, which is absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock has been sitting in this one since the previous night, when they found John. He expects other people tend to stay even longer. He’s not one for sentiment, so surely those who are (the majority of the world) will stay days on end if allowed. Why shouldn’t the chairs be comfortable then? These were about as terrible as the chairs in the university library. He’d hated working there, had always brought his work back to his rooms wherever possible. He’d hated the university in general. It had all been so boring. And the people - the less said about most of them, the better.
“I could tell you about an earlier case of mine,” he offers. “There was one particularly intriguing one I encountered when I was, oh, I must have been twenty-two or so. An old university classmate came to me for help in solving a little family puzzle. Would you like to hear the details?”
John’s eyes brighten, though the flush does not fade from his cheeks. “Please,” he says in delight, shifting and settling more comfortably. He leans forward slightly, body bending towards Sherlock in anticipation. His fingers are twisting absently in the sheets and his left leg is twitching under the sheets. Sherlock welcomes the signs of a calmer John.
“His name was Reginald Musgrave,” Sherlock says. It takes hardly any effort at all to recall the particulars of the case. It had been one of the first where his abilities had been regarded as more than simply a parlour trick. It was easy to remember Reginald, too. He had been accused of arrogance in much the same way Sherlock had. It had stuck with Sherlock, because Reginald seemed to him all bluster. He remembered wondering what others saw in him, if he saw something very different in Reginald. If anyone would see anything else in him.
“He was from - shall we say, a well-to-do family, and could trace his lineage back a fair way,” Sherlock continues. “His family owned a bit of property, and it was bequeathed from first-born son to first-born son.”
John’s eyebrows push together, digging furrows in his forehead. He probably can’t imagine such a traditional lifestyle, Sherlock guesses. Else, he’s wondering what would have become of him if he’d been born into such a family. John would not have been a good fit for the life.
“Reginald’s father had passed away two years prior, and the estate had been bequeathed to him. Provisions had been made for Reginald’s uncle to live on the property as well. Reginald had no complaint with this. The elder Musgrave comported himself well, and though he did have a penchant for bringing home young women, he was careful not to let any scandal touch the family.”
“It’s like you’re talking about another world altogether,” John says wryly.
Sherlock ponders that for a moment. “In a way, it’s the kind of world Mycroft and I grew up in,” he confesses. “As did a number of our acquaintances. I suppose it’s a matter of choice, though. I certainly wasn’t interested in the life, and my parents didn’t protest when I moved out.”
“I guess it helps that you’re the second son, right?” John says. “If it’s all that important that it’s the first-born son who…”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock concedes. “I honestly don’t think our parents would have minded if Mycroft had decided to take up a Bohemian lifestyle, though.”
John stares at Sherlock for a moment, then giggles. “I just had the most peculiar mental image,” he says, passing his hand over his eyes. Still grinning, he leans back in the bed, sinking against the pillow with a sigh. “Go on, then.”
“Well, Reginald had most decidedly embraced the lifestyle,” Sherlock tells John. “And as such, he was rather displeased when his uncle became involved with a hired maid who came in to clean every week. This maid… one Rachel Howells, if I remember her name correctly - was quite distraught when Reginald’s uncle broke it off with her. I was told there was much screaming on the streets, and possibly the throwing of some valuable crockery.”
“And possibly some calling of the police?” John asks.
“Very possibly,” Sherlock concedes. “But no charges were laid. Reginald was quite keen on covering up any hint of scandal, you understand. But he told his uncle that if he was to persist in such behaviour, he would have to leave the family home.”
“Don’t tell me the uncle decided to kill everyone in a fit of rage,” John says. His eyes are closed, but his voice is still fairly alert. The edges of each syllable are blunted only slightly by the medication, causing a pleasant roll to John’s voice.
“Nothing so boring,” Sherlock says. He gets up, tugs his chair closer and sits back down. Then he puts his hand on John’s wrist. Heartbeat. John’s eyes are open again. His heartbeat is steady.
“Reginald’s uncle agreed to leave as soon as he’d found a place to stay,” Sherlock says. He can feel John’s pulse leaping sharp and constant against his fingers. “Ms Howells returned occasionally to try and see him, but Reginald managed to put her off both times he saw her. He told me he suspected that she’d returned other times, when he hadn’t been around. But nothing was said, and he thought he’d best leave his uncle to handle things.
“And then, a week before Reginald’s uncle was meant to leave… he vanished,” Sherlock continues. He slides his hand up, fingers grazing John’s palm, moving his thumb over the back of John’s hand. It would be a simple thing indeed to curl his fingers around. He doesn’t dare move. “A search was mounted, but the police could find no trace of him. The last thing Reginald had spoken of to his uncle was a peculiar old family ritual that had been passed down through the ages. The police, being utter incompetents, failed to note the ritual as being of any importance.”
“What sort of ritual?” John asks. He shifts slightly, then folds his hand around Sherlock’s. Sherlock stares at their hands.
“One simple enough,” he says, then frowns. “So simple that I cannot recall it. I have the paper at home - you can have a look when we get back. It was in the line of questions and answers - a script each member of the family had to recite from when they came of age. Something apparently quite incomprehensible, of course.”
“Apparently,” John says. There’s a small smile on his lips. The lines on his face are relaxing and his words are now slurring slightly. Drowsiness. He’s still holding Sherlock’s hand. “I suppose you figured it out right off the bat.”
“As I said, it was a simple enough matter,” Sherlock says. “Perhaps the rest of the story should wait until you can view the wording of the ritual for yourself.”
“All right,” John says equably, and falls asleep.
Sherlock has seen John fall asleep once before. They had been working on a case, and he had set John to reading some admittedly dry papers. John had nodded off between one breath and the next, falling asleep with a ready totality that had surprised Sherlock. John had woken suddenly when Sherlock had gotten up to go to the kitchen; light sleeper, Sherlock had noted then. If he moves, will John wake up? He doesn’t want John to wake up just yet. John needs to rest if he’s to recover properly.
John’s still holding his hand. Sherlock sits very, very still, and watches him sleep.
They escape the hospital eventually. John hasn’t yet mentioned anything about Sherlock’s newfound penchant for keeping John within view at all times. Hopefully, he hasn’t noticed it. People tend to be quite unobservant, and even John (different through he might be) generally falls into that pattern (except when Sherlock most wants him to). Sherlock is certainly not about to bring up the peculiar terror that seizes him whenever he isn’t with John. Otherwise, it seems as if the events of the past week or two had been but a dream.
Moriarty’s reach had only been known through the criminal world. Even then, few had known who he was. It’s only now, with no new plans filtering down to the lower echelons, that his organisation’s beginning to realise something’s wrong. And of course, those with no reason to touch that world would have no idea anything had ever happened.
For a while, Sherlock had wondered if this would mean a drop in the crime rate. Moriarty himself had carried out only sporadic crimes to keep his organisation going - numerically insignificant (but for how interesting those crimes might have been). The bulk of the work had come from setting up crimes for ordinary folk. Perhaps the lack of someone to help might deter some of the less determined. Most of those who wanted a crime carried out, however, would likely do so in some manner or other. A drop in the quality of the crimes, perhaps. But there will still be crimes aplenty to solve, even with Moriarty dead.
Sherlock tells John the rest of the story (secret passage, hidden treasure, homicidal ex-lover, all very exciting, apparently). John is appropriately dazzled by Sherlock’s brilliance, even years removed from the incident. Sherlock basks in the open admiration. It’s very nice indeed to be acknowledged the way John acknowledges him. He’s feeling positively mellow when Lestrade contacts him for help on another case. That’s probably why Sherlock’s response is quite polite, even if it’s still in the negative. Lestrade texts him, Are you sick?
Sherlock stares at the text for a while. Is that in response to the refusal or the politeness? He ignores it and returns to his new hobby of John-watching.
“You know, it’s a little odd having you try and dissect me,” John says conversationally.
“I’m not trying to dissect you,” Sherlock says. He simply doesn’t understand why John has chosen to do a vast many of the things he has done. He doesn’t understand why John is with him. He needs more data, and so he watches John. He analyses him. Sherlock would like to cut John’s head open, slide his fingers along John’s brain, frontal lobe, parietal lobe, search out his limbic system, cerebral cortex, where how what makes you you and then put all the pieces of bone carefully back and slide the skin and hair over so there’s not a mark to be seen because he doesn’t want to hurt John, he just wants to understand him.
Perhaps he’s trying to dissect John.
“Liar,” John says, and sits down on the sofa next to Sherlock with a cup of tea. Sherlock slides downwards and lengthwise, propping his feet up on the arm of the sofa, and settling his head on John’s thigh. John huffs a breath of laughter and puts his free hand on Sherlock’s head.
It’s a comfortable sort of silence that wraps around them. Sherlock quite likes it. He closes his eyes and imagines the look of quiet contemplation John often adopts at moments like this. He wonders what John thinks of. Perhaps, the first month he had lived with John, John had been wondering how best to deal with the Moriarty problem. What would he be thinking of now?
“Ask,” John says.
“What?” Sherlock asks.
“If you want to know something, ask,” John says. “I can’t promise I’ll always answer, but the odds are in your favour.”
Sherlock thinks about that. Then he thinks about all the things he’d like to ask John. There are so many questions. He’s barely aware of what he’s mumbling. Why don’t you like lemon in your tea? Why do you complain incessantly every time you see a spider even though you’re not arachnophobic? What do you think about when you go quiet and you frown and your eyes turn down at the corners? Why are you still here?
John’s fingers are moving through Sherlock’s hair, knuckles pressing lightly against his scalp. “When I was young, my mum would always make me tea with lemon and honey when I was sick,” John says. “I suppose I began to associate the drink with illness. I never have it when I’m well, because it reminds me of being sick. Funny thing - I never want anything else when I’m ill.”
Sherlock files that fact away carefully.
“As for the spiders, look up camel spiders one day,” John says. “After encountering a couple on my first posting, I feel obliged to complain when I spot any type of spider at all.”
“What sort of a ridiculous name is that?” Sherlock complains. “Describing one animal using another is hardly the best -”
“It fits,” John says. “Trust me.” There’s a laugh in his voice, Sherlock’s almost positive. He tilts his head back a bit so he can look at John’s face. Creases in the eyes, a smile on the lips. “Apparently, they’re not hugely dangerous, but they’re still not exactly something I want to wake up to find sharing camp with me.”
“I’ll look it up,” Sherlock says.
“You do that,” John says. “If I never see one again, it will be too soon. What was the next one? Oh, yes. I don’t know which moments you’re talking about exactly. I suppose if I look somewhat - distant - I’m probably thinking of my time in service. Possibly Harry.”
“Not the Moriarty thing?” Sherlock asks, still craning his head back so he can see John’s face.
“You didn’t seem to be describing a vaguely murderous look,” John says, then winces. “That was probably not a nice thing to say.”
“Accurate,” Sherlock points out.
“Yes, well.” John takes a sip of tea. “Could have been, I suppose. Trying to figure out what to do. I’m going to try not to think about him any more though.”
That’s perfectly fine by Sherlock.
“And I’m here because you’re here, of course,” John adds. “Probably I’d be living with Harry or Clara if I hadn’t met you.”
That wasn’t what Sherlock had meant at all. He doesn’t correct John.
It’s John who eventually talks Sherlock into going back out on cases again.
I don’t want to, he’d wanted to say. I haven’t solved the most interesting case of all yet, and how am I meant to focus on anything else when I still don’t know anything about John?
But he goes in the end. John’s going to be with him, after all.
Lestrade comes down himself to let Sherlock and John through the tape. He looks somewhat tired, Sherlock thinks, and ignores the suspicious look that sweeps over him.
“Well?” Sherlock asks impatiently.
“Right,” Lestrade says. “We’re dealing with stolen gems worth a few million, and a couple of pretty important families, so try and be polite, will you?” His voice does not convey much hope for that happening. John’s hand brushes the back of Sherlock’s lightly.
“Apparently, this Richard Levington-Wright loaned a particularly expensive necklace to the Holders,” Lestrade explains as they head into the house. Sherlock studies the path as they walk, but it’s of little use; any useful markings have been thoroughly trampled over. “It was his late wife’s, a family heirloom. He agreed to let Charlotte Holder wear it to a function next week, so she brought it home the last time she and her husband visited Levington-Wright. That was two days ago.”
Part of Sherlock is busy despairing over the players in this game. The other part is busy noticing the family photographs on the wall. Alexander and Charlotte Holder appear to have aged quite well, and their children have grown up handsomely. Arthur’s choice of attire is peculiar, though. Gambling habit? But photographs are hardly conclusive; he’ll have to see Arthur in person to know for certain.
“The Holders told their children but no one else about the necklace,” Lestrade continues. “It was kept in a safe in Alexander Holder’s study. Only the four family members have the access codes. Last night, Alexander was having some trouble sleeping, so he decided to get back out of bed and get some work done. He went to his study and found his son holding the necklace and looking very surprised indeed to see his father.”
“And you need me because?” Sherlock enquires.
“The necklace was broken,” Lestrade says, and holds up a small digital camera for Sherlock to see. The necklace in the picture is gold, with rubies studded throughout. A small corner has broken off, taking at least three rubies with it. “And Arthur’s clammed up completely. Levington-Wright thinks that the necklace might be reparable if the missing piece is recovered. He’s already said he won’t be pressing charges if Arthur returns the broken bit, but the boy still won’t talk. My men have been through Arthur’s room, the study, and then the entire house, but we didn’t turn up anything. We’re working through the grounds again; the first time was only a cursory look.”
There is probably no difference between a thorough and a cursory look, for them. Sherlock glances back at John, and holds his tongue.
“Do you want to see the study first, or talk to the Holders?” Lestrade asks.
Sherlock pauses at the third window sill down the corridor. Ground floor, easy enough access. Bolted from the inside, scratches along the sill. Curious. None of the others had had even such mild damage caused to them. He retraces his steps, checking the first two windows. They both have thorny bushes directly outside. Back again. The third window doesn’t. Gravel, no chance of footprints. But there does appear to have been a disturbance. Small pebbles have been kicked up, some scattering as far as the path. How interesting. The sill is polished, the scratches minute. They appear to be incidental damage. All the same, they’re quite telling.
The bolt, the bolt. It slides open easily when Sherlock tests it, and the window swings open soundlessly. He closes the window, opens it, closes it, opens it. He tries leaning against it. Too low to be comfortable. Hullo, what’s that? Prints that the police haven’t yet destroyed? The marks are faint, but leaning out the window, he can see that there are two sets - one made by boots and the other by bare feet, embedded in the dirt trail just past the decorative gravel. He snaps a photograph with his phone and thinks about things for a moment. Boots showed a clear imprint all the way through; Bare Feet only had prints of the balls of the feet, not the heels. Boots was walking, Bare Feet was running. And there are scratches on the sill.
“John,” he says. “Lean up against this, will you?”
John does so, arms hanging over the edge casually.
Heights, heights. Still a bit low for John. Arms folded? He moves John’s arms for him. That’s much more plausible, yes. Lower? John has to bend a little. So, John’s height or shorter still. “Open it,” Sherlock says, and watches John’s hands as he opens and closes the windows a few times. The cuff of his jacket just barely brushes the sill as he moves.
“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and turns to Lestrade. “Was anyone outside of the family aware the necklace was here?”
“They’re certain no one else knew,” Lestrade says. He’s frowning at Sherlock, eyes darting quickly between Sherlock and John. Why? Never mind, it’s not important. “The dining room’s close to soundproof, and they’re all sure the doors were shut before they discussed it.”
“Hm. Let’s go have a look at the study,” Sherlock tells John, and ushers him forward with a hand on his back. Up the stairs, second door on the right. Sherlock scans the door and the surroundings (nothing interesting) before entering.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says from behind them. “How did you know where the study was?”
“Lestrade, we didn’t find anything - oh, did you have to bring him in?”
Anderson. Sometimes, Sherlock thinks that Lestrade likes torturing him. Why is it always Anderson whenever he works with Lestrade? He slips on a pair of gloves and heads for the open safe under the desk. Documents, documents, documents. For a moment, he sees reams of paper covered in neat handwriting - Sullivan appears in charge of three units and recruitment but final say seems to lie with Moran - and he has to blink to clear his vision. What else? He looks up at John, then back at the contents of the safe.
“He stands a better chance of finding out where those gems are than we do,” Lestrade snaps. He’s being oddly brusque today. “And I don’t want Cooper breathing down my neck any longer than I have to, all right?”
That would explain it. There is no love lost between Lestrade and his superior. Nor, for that matter, between Sherlock and Cooper. Cooper has always been openly critical of Sherlock, even though he still allows his people to work with Sherlock. Sherlock gets results and makes the department look good, after all. Yet Cooper will say that Sherlock’s an amateur and he shouldn’t be allowed to interfere, and really can you trust a man with his history. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s a hypocrite.
Even Sally Donovan is preferable to Cooper. At least she’s refreshingly honest in her dealings with Sherlock. Or Anderson, which is really saying quite a lot about Sherlock’s feelings on Cooper.
“Did we do this the last time?” Sherlock asks John in an undertone, as Anderson and Lestrade argue in the doorway.
John nods, a mischievous look in his eyes.
“Don’t tell me,” Sherlock orders him, then amends that. “Well, nothing beyond what you might have said the first time.”
“All right,” John says with a grin.
Sherlock smiles back, and returns his attention to the study. No signs of damage to the safe. Highly unlikely it was forced. Fingerprint dust all over the place, though. Anderson’s been in it already. No doubt they’ll find no prints other than that of the family members. There’s nothing of further interest in the study, but Sherlock takes careful note of the general layout and placements anyway. He might want to return after speaking to the Holders. Sherlock straightens and looks for John.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering with all this,” Anderson complains. “We already know the jewels aren’t here.”
“I suppose you know who was responsible for the theft as well,” Sherlock says.
Lestrade frowns. “Arthur was caught red-handed. Are you saying it wasn’t him?”
“I’m saying there are points in what you told me that don’t make sense,” Sherlock says. “I’d like to speak to the Holders now.”
Lestrade gestures to the stairs leading back down. “That way. What doesn’t make sense to you?”
“The location of the piece that broke off,” Sherlock says. “It is nowhere in this house, is that correct?”
“Right,” Lestrade says.
“Then do you mean to tell me that Arthur took the necklace, brought it elsewhere, broke off a piece and hid it, then brought the necklace back?” Sherlock asks impatiently. “If he had damaged it while stealing it, surely the piece would be in the room itself. He would hardly have had time to hide it. There are no windows in the study, so he could not have thrown it out. Clearly the damage did not occur in that room. But the question still remains - if he had in fact managed to escape the room with the whole necklace, why bother taking a small portion and returning the rest? It’s not as if it’s a portion of money; a broken necklace would not have gone unnoticed.”
“So what’s your answer then?” Lestrade asks. “If you think Arthur didn’t do it, who did?”
“I haven’t nearly enough information to make a claim on that,” Sherlock says. “I cannot rule anyone out at this point.”
Lestrade knocks on the door perfunctorily, then opens it and gestures for Sherlock and John to walk through. “This is the consultant I told you about,” he says. Sherlock eyes the four people seated there carefully. Mary looks distraught, he notes, even more so than her parents. Sir Richard looks deeply troubled. His wife, Sherlock recalls, has been dead for - it would be twenty-six years now. It appears he has no more forgotten her now than he had when Sherlock first met him. The distress on his face is swiftly giving way to surprise, though, and Sherlock braces himself.
“It can’t be Sherlock?” Sir Richard exclaims, standing up hurriedly. “My god, it’s been an age, child.”
“Sir Richard,” Sherlock says, bowing politely to him. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances,” Sir Richard says ruefully. “Do you know the Holders, Sherlock?”
“We met briefly when I was younger,” Sherlock says, nodding to the Holders as they also stand. “I don’t know if you’ll remember me, Mr Holder. It was almost twenty years ago.”
“Just Alexander, please. And I believe I do,” Alexander says. His voice is tired, though he’s certainly making an effort. Sherlock doesn’t dare look back to see the expressions on John’s, Lestrade’s and Anderson’s faces. No, wait - John’s been through this already. He’s been expecting it. Sherlock will have to find out what John’s original reaction had been. “Geoffrey and Victoria’s youngest, am I right? How are they?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says. “They’re both quite well.” He finally glances back to meet John’s entirely too amused eyes. “Might I introduce you to Dr John Watson? He honours me every so often by assisting on some of my cases. John, Sir Richard Levington-Wright, Alexander and Charlotte Holder, and their daughter Mary.”
There are murmurs of greetings. Sherlock takes advantage of his new position to look at Lestrade’s and Anderson’s expressions. Lestrade looks like he’s recovering from the shock. Anderson still looks like someone’s bludgeoned him in the face. Nothing new there. Sherlock looks back at the others, gauging their physical builds. Sir Richard is almost Sherlock’s height. Alexander is about John’s height, and his wife and daughter are both nearly a head shorter than him.
“And you’re a detective now?” Sir Richard asks, once the pleasantries are dispensed with.
“A consulting detective, yes,” Sherlock says.
“He’s the best we’ve ever worked with,” Lestrade puts in. “He’ll find the missing piece, you don’t need to worry about that.”
“Very well,” Sir Richard says, and nods towards the vacant seats. “Thank you, Sherlock. I don’t know that I’ll be of any help personally, but anything I can do -”
Sherlock inclines his head slightly as he takes a seat on the two-person settee opposite the Holders. His choice puts him in the best position to study everyone involved simultaneously. John sits down next to him. Lestrade sends Anderson off, closes the door, and leans up against the wall, watching them.
“I’d like to hear the story again from the beginning, if you don’t mind,” Sherlock says. “I find it helps me sort my thoughts when I hear it directly from those involved. Would one of you care to begin? Start from when you arrived here with the necklace.”
“Well, now,” Alexander says, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief. Wearing a suit, even now? Clearly puts stock in appearances. Unsurprising, given that he runs a bank. His socks are both navy, but the subtle pattern on one indicates that they’re mismatched. Clear indicator of the man’s state of mind. “That was two days ago. We’d been to lunch with Richard, and Charlotte mentioned she was looking for a nice necklace to go with her new dress, for a business function we’re attending next week. It’s quite important to us, so Richard very generously offered the loan of one of dear Alice’s necklaces.”
“I was sure,” Sir Richard puts in quietly, “from Charlotte’s description of the dress, that the necklace would go quite well with it.”
“He begged us to be careful with it,” Charlotte says. She’s really quite pale. Cream-coloured dress, no jewellery, subtle makeup, flawless manicure. Her makeup still can’t conceal the redness of her eyes, nor her manicure the effects of her nervously picking at her fingers. “I’m so very sorry, Richard. I don’t know how we’ll ever make this up to you.”
“If the missing piece can be recovered, and the necklace mended, we hardly need to mention it,” Sir Richard says. Sherlock wonders what will need to be mentioned if the necklace cannot be mended. Irrelevant - their problem to solve.
“You procured the necklace right away?” Sherlock asks.
“Yes, we were lunching at Richard’s,” Alexander explains. “He brought the necklace down and Charlotte agreed it would suit wonderfully, and so we brought it back with us that very evening when we returned home.”
“What time was this?” Sherlock asks.
“I’m not sure of the exact time,” Alexander confesses. He fidgets in his chair. “An hour or so before dinner, I suppose. Dinner was at eight, I remember that.”
“We try and have a meal together at least once a week,” Charlotte says. “That night, both Mary and Arthur were able to join us.”
“We told them about the necklace, of course,” Alexander says. “Charlotte was so excited about getting to wear it. It was already in the safe by then. That was the first thing I did when I got home - I went to the study and put it in the safe.”
“What was Arthur’s reaction when he heard of the necklace?” Sherlock prompts, when the Holders both seem lost for words.
“Mildly interested,” Alexander says. “To be honest, I’ve been turning that dinner over and over in my head, and I still can’t see anything in his behaviour that makes me think he was planning this - this audacity - back then.”
“And what did you think of the necklace, Mary?” Sherlock asks.
The girl starts. She’s dressed much more casually than her parents, in a fitted blouse and jeans. No accessories save a thick metal bracelet wrapped snugly around her wrist. She’s been playing with it the whole time, and a tan line is visible on her wrist when she moves the bracelet around. Clearly not something she often removes. Something important to her? “Oh! Nothing in particular, I suppose,” she says. “I asked Mummy if she was planning on wearing her gold earrings as well.” She glances away. “We didn’t talk about it all that long, really.”
“And after that?” Sherlock asks, returning his attention to Alexander and Charlotte. Out of the corner of his eye, he continues to watch Mary.
“Arthur stopped me after dinner,” Alexander confesses. “He asked for a loan of a thousand dollars.” His face flushes slightly. “I knew it was a gambling debt, and I’d had more than enough of bailing him out. I’ve told him time and again he needs to get help, but he just won’t listen!”
“So you turned him down,” Sherlock says.
“Of course I did!” Alexander exclaims heatedly. Then his face falls. “I suppose that’s why he decided to go after the necklace. I wish I’d just given him the bloody money, now!”
“Alex,” Charlotte hisses reprovingly. Her husband subsides somewhat, though he still looks thoroughly unrepentant.
“Continue, if you would,” Sherlock says, pressing his fingertips together. Alexander is swinging between utter despair and fury, Charlotte looks like she’s about to cry, and Mary looks like her world has just ended.
John shifts slightly, his knee bumping against Sherlock’s briefly before moving away again.
There is something niggling at Sherlock’s brain. He looks out over the possible paths. Which one, which one?
“Well, nothing happened that night,” Alexander says. “Charlotte and I were home all of yesterday, and I spent most of the day in the study. We went to bed at around ten, but -”
“A moment, please,” Sherlock says, lifting one hand slightly. “Mary, what did you do yesterday?”
She frowns thoughtfully. “Went out with some friends,” she said. “We caught a movie, had dinner. Some of my friends were going to go get drinks, but I was just too tired. I got home around ten, myself, just as Daddy was going to sleep.”
“She reminded me to set the security and sent me off to bed,” Alexander says with a faint grin. “She looks after us all wonderfully.”
Mary looks down at her hands. There are spots of colour on her cheeks, but she doesn’t seem pleased by her father’s comment.
“And the security entails?” Sherlock asks.
“There’s a camera trained on the front and back doors,” Alexander says. “They don’t cover the whole property, though, and no one was picked up on them. There’s also an alarm set to go off if there’s an intrusion, but it was never triggered.”
“Who has the codes to set the alarm?” Sherlock asks.
“All of us who live here,” Alexander says. “No one else would have them.”
“And what was Arthur doing yesterday?” Sherlock enquires.
“Heaven knows,” Alexander says with a sigh. “He was out from morn till dusk. He still hadn’t returned home by the time I went to bed.”
“Very well,” Sherlock says. “Go on.”
“Well, I woke up after an hour and I just couldn’t get back to sleep,” Alexander says. “I tossed and turned in bed for a while, and then I finally gave it up. If I couldn’t sleep, I could at least get some work done. So I put on my dressing gown and went to the study.” His face starts turning red again. “The door was open, and when I went in, I saw Arthur standing in front of my desk, the necklace in his hands. I’m not proud to say it, but I quite - lost my temper with him. I demanded to know what he thought he was doing, if he’d been driven to stealing the heirlooms of other families to support his gambling.”
“Was he wearing shoes?” Sherlock asks.
Alexander pauses, thrown. “You know, I don’t believe he was,” he says slowly. “I can’t be certain, though. I wasn’t exactly looking at his feet.”
“You ought to,” Sherlock says. “Was there dirt on his feet?”
“Yes,” Lestrade breaks in. “I was one of the first on the scene; we had to get him some shoes, and I remember the dirt.”
And yet he hadn’t noticed anything peculiar? Sherlock resolves to force some intelligence into Lestrade’s brain, through whatever means necessary. Lestrade’s got excellent intuition (most of the time), and he’s willing to work hard; he’s just constantly let down by a lack of imagination.
“How did Arthur react when you entered?” Sherlock asks Alexander. Mary has now lost all colour in her face, and she looks dangerously close to fainting. Beside Sherlock, John shifts uncomfortably. Is something about to happen? What’s John anticipating?
“To be honest, he looked absolutely shocked at first,” Alexander says. “I suppose he never thought he’d be caught. I’m usually a sound sleeper, you see. Last night was unusual for me. Then he just became angry and refused to say anything else.”
“He did ask for five minutes to go out before we called the police,” Charlotte adds. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and she hastily adds, “I woke up because of the yelling. It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened.”
“Five minutes to go out?” Sherlock asks.
“He said we could call the police,” Alexander says. “I told him I would, you see. I told him I’d put it in their hands. He said that was fine, but he wanted to go out for five minutes and then he’d come back and I could do as I liked. Well, I told him I wasn’t that foolish. Give him five minutes and god knows where he’d be. When I told him I wasn’t letting him go anywhere, he decided to throw a tantrum and stop talking altogether.”
Sherlock turns slightly and glances at Lestrade.
“He’s in custody,” Lestrade says. “Still hasn’t spoken to anyone, as of -” He checks his watch. “An hour ago.”
“It’s that George Burnwell who’s to blame,” Alexander says darkly. “Alexander stopped gambling twice, and both times he went back to it because of Burnwell.”
Sherlock straightens in his seat. “George Burnwell,” he says. “You don’t mean the nephew of Judge Nathaniel Burnwell, do you?”
“The one and the same,” Alexander says. “Arthur loves Mary more than anything, you know, and he stopped gambling when she asked him to. But that George - well, I suppose I can see why Arthur was so enamoured of him. He’s got a slick tongue, that one, but he’s bad news all the way through.”
Is Mary - yes, she’s shaking. The suspicions that Sherlock has had have now crystallised. The only question remaining is the location of the broken piece of jewellery.
“I’ve had the displeasure of meeting him,” Sherlock reflects. “He was rather cruel to a lady I once knew.”
“Was he?” Charlotte asks.
“Not initially, of course,’ Sherlock says. “He’s quite skilled at charming them - making them believe that they’re the one person capable of changing him. I’ve seen it happen at least three times with my own eyes, and I suspect he’s done it more often. He seduces them, makes them think he’s turning over a new leaf. They lavish money and gifts on him, offer to pay his debts. He takes them up on their offers and then promptly breaks things off with them. I’ve never seen him change, though each and every woman I spoke to was initially convinced their case would be different.”
Mary sways in her chair, then falls off with an unceremonious thump. At least the floor’s got a nice, thick carpet on it. Sherlock watches as her parents panic and John hurries over. It’s quite the pleasure to watch as John deftly checks her breathing and pulse, then unbuttons the top of her shirt. “Hold her feet up,” he instructs Lestrade, who’s hovering. “Above the level of the heart. Not so high - that’s fine, yes. Keep them there.” He checks Mary’s breathing again. “No need to worry. It’s just all been a bit much for her. Shock, you know.”
He’s very efficient. Sherlock likes watching his hands, in particular. “Don’t they give you a blanket for that?” Sherlock asks, stretching his legs languidly.
“Well, shock can cause your core body temp to drop,” John says. “Mary’s not in danger of that, though. There we go, open your eyes. Thank you, Richard. Take it slow, Mary. Wait till the dizziness has passed before you try to sit up. There now.”
John’s got one arm around Mary’s back as he helps her slowly sit up and sip the glass of water Sir Richard had poured. Sherlock suddenly feels intensely jealous of her.
“Having second thoughts?” he asks.
Mary stares at her glass of water.
“Did you think you were special?” Sherlock continues. “Did he tell you he’d change for you? That you were worth it? That he’d never wanted to change before, but now things were different?”
“Dear Lord,” Charlotte says, drawing back in horror. Evidently, she’s a little quicker on the uptake than her husband is. Mary bursts into noisy tears, leaning forward to hide her face in her hands.
“What?” Alexander asks in confusion. John lets go of Mary and comes back over to Sherlock. Sherlock tilts a quizzical look at John, who simply shakes his head and slouches against the arm of the sofa, watching as Mary blubbers apologies to her parents and Sir Richard. Lestrade looks a tad flummoxed, but he rallies himself and tells Mary, quite sternly, that it’s in her best interests to confess what exactly happened.
So she does. She had been out for a movie and dinner not with her friends, but with George Burnwell, whom she’d been dating in secret. She had told him about the necklace; he had wistfully speculated that if only he had something of a similar value, he might be able to clear his debts. Then surely her parents wouldn’t protest their match, and he could openly court her. Somehow, Mary had found herself talked into stealing the necklace and giving it to him.
She’d seen her father off to bed, given it an hour, then deactivated the alarm and called George to tell him the coast was clear. He’d snuck up to the window in the cameras’ blind spots and waited while Mary retrieved the necklace and brought it to him. A simple transaction through the window, and off he’d gone.
(The disturbed gravel was from Burnwell, Sherlock adds quietly to John and Lestrade. The scratches on the window sill from Mary’s bracelet, which had scraped the sill as she opened the window.)
She didn’t know what had happened next. She’d gone to bed, and been woken another hour later by the sound of yelling. There was her brother with the necklace in his hands, and she had no idea what had happened.
“I would imagine, Mr Holder,” Sherlock says, “that you owe your son an apology. He found himself in a dreadful position last night, and you only compounded it by your accusations.”
“But what on earth did he have to do with any of this!” Alexander exclaims. He looks quite flabbergasted.
“It’s simple enough,” Sherlock says. “He returned home in time to see Mary’s little transaction with Burnwell. He hid, not willing to believe his beloved younger sister would be so cruel as to steal from not only her parents, but from a dear friend of the family. He waited until she’d gone down the hall to activate the alarm, then out he went through the window. There are faint footprints that tell the story. As Burnwell left, Arthur followed. Mary unsuspectingly reset the alarm and retired to bed. Meanwhile, a confrontation and a scuffle. Arthur snatched the necklace from Burnwell’s hands and raced back home. He had the presence of mind to deactivate the alarm before re-entering the house; all he cared about was preserving his sister’s secret. He went to his father’s study, opened the safe, reached in to return the necklace - then noticed, to his dismay, that the necklace had been damaged in the fight. Up he stands, thinking that he must return and see if the scrap can be retrieved, wondering how on earth this could be explained - and in walks his father.”
Sherlock unfolds his legs and stands up, eyeing the sobbing Mary in disdain. “And the rest you know. I have no doubt that young man has chosen to remain silent in the hopes of sparing his sister.” Sherlock turns to Lestrade. “I’d suggest you send your men off after George Burnwell. If you’re lucky, he won’t have pawned the piece off yet. If he has and you can’t locate it, let me know and I’ll see what I can do. John -”
“Yes,” John says, joining Sherlock. “I think it’s time we left.”
“Sherlock,” Sir Richard says. He’s sunk back in his chair, and he looks rather disturbed. “Thank you. And give my regards to your family.”
“It was my pleasure, Sir Richard,” Sherlock says, and gives him a courtly bow before sweeping away with John.
Chapter Three - Part Two
[And yes, another chapter divided into two. Bit unevenly split, but that was the best place to cut it so it wasn't too jarring. Curse you, LJ size limit! Curse yooooou!]
Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
Chapter Two - Part One
Chapter Two - Part Two
three:
no use going back
But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then. - Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
“You believed me?” John asks. There is more than a little disbelief in his voice. Sherlock can understand the reaction. He can understand it, but it still irritates him.
“Everything you offered proved accurate,” he says in lieu of remembering what it had been like to question John’s…
John’s?
Friendship?
“Sherlock?” John asks, touching his hand briefly. Sherlock closes his eyes for a few seconds, then looks at John. “You looked a million miles away,” John says in concern.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. “I am, however, rather cross with you.”
John blinks rapidly.
“I told you I would lend you my aid,” Sherlock huffs. “What possessed you to think that embarking on this - this one-man mission was a good idea?”
“The fact that I didn’t have any idea how to convince you of any of this?” John says dryly. “I didn’t -”
“You didn’t what?” Sherlock prompts, perhaps a trifle sharply.
“I didn’t want to see the look on your face, all right?” John says. “Distrust. Disbelief. Whatever it would have been.” He looks away. His hands are perfectly still on the sheets. It is odd, Sherlock thinks absently, that John should be so very motionless at this moment, when he surely is under extreme stress. John fidgets all the time. He moves about constantly even when he’s reading. Sherlock is the one who lies unmoving for days, lamenting the lack of interesting cases. But come a truly trying time and it is Sherlock who can’t stop picking at things, it is John who is preternaturally still.
Sherlock tugs a little at the corner of John’s sheets. They’re not exactly soft.
“How much longer will you be locked up in this infernal place?” he complains. “You can’t be getting any sleep here.”
A moment of silence. “No,” John says, smiling just a little as he looks down. “Not much, no.”
“It was always the smell that annoyed me,” Sherlock says, then presses his lips firmly together. He hadn’t intended to say that.
“The noise, for me,” John says, without displaying any inkling of knowledge that Sherlock has just told him something he has told no one in his life. Sherlock regulates his breathing pattern. Simple enough to fake nonchalance.
“You’re a light sleeper,” Sherlock says. “But that’s not all, is it?”
John shrugs. “I keep hearing machinery and thinking it’s something I should be keeping an eye on. When I’m halfway asleep, I keep thinking it’s surely got to be time for my rounds soon and I’d best have a look at that patient’s monitor, and if I happen to hear any emergency call, I’m wide awake before I even know what’s happened.”
John presses back a little, the pillow wrinkling under the pressure he exerts. Then he relaxes. “I suppose it’s true what they say, that doctors don’t make good patients. Even when I’m trying to be one.”
Sherlock watches John, watches the shape of his mouth as he speaks. John’s not normally quite this chatty. It’s the painkillers, he knows. He thinks that probably it’s not a good thing to take advantage of John’s current state, but he wants so badly to hear John speak. It reminds him that he wasn’t too late.
And besides, he’s seen how John spoke to Mycroft, earlier, when the latter had dropped by for a visit and an update. Moriarty is dead. Moran is in critical condition still, but doctors are cautiously optimistic. Sherlock doesn’t care much, except that Moran could prove useful in taking the rest of the organisation down completely. And Sherlock does want that. He wants to rip apart everything Moriarty had so painstakingly built up. He wants to destroy the shrine Moriarty had built to his own ego. He wants to feel bone grind beneath his shoes, and if he won’t be allowed the pleasure of the literal, he’ll take the figurative.
“Sherlock?” John asks. John had been quite his normal self with Mycroft. He’s being unusually chatty with Sherlock, though. Perhaps he doesn’t mind. (Perhaps he feels safe talking to Sherlock.)
“Mrs Hudson’s absolutely distraught at your being here,” Sherlock says. “You shouldn’t be surprised if she comes for a visit once you’re allowed.”
“I don’t see why I’m not already,” John says, rolling his eyes. “Infection’s clearing up nicely, I’m all wrapped up - it’s not like I’m at death’s door. You wouldn’t - Sherlock. Sherlock!”
Sherlock tastes blood. John makes a soft sound of distress and reaches out, thumbing his lip cautiously.
“Steady, let me see,” he says, pulling very lightly at the edge of Sherlock’s lip. Sherlock parts them obediently. John inspects the bite, fingers skirting the minor wound without touching it. “Good, it’s not too deep. Don’t bite it again.”
“Accident,” Sherlock says.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had any new cases,” John says longingly. “I’d love to hear about them, if you did.”
Sherlock tilts his head and studies John for a moment. “One rather important one,” he says at last. “This.”
“Oh.” John looks confused. It probably says something that the expression on John doesn’t annoy Sherlock nearly as much as when he sees it on anyone else. “Oh.” And now his cheeks are taking on a charming pink tint.
Sherlock stretches a little, arching his back in the chair. It’s not made for prolonged use, which is absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock has been sitting in this one since the previous night, when they found John. He expects other people tend to stay even longer. He’s not one for sentiment, so surely those who are (the majority of the world) will stay days on end if allowed. Why shouldn’t the chairs be comfortable then? These were about as terrible as the chairs in the university library. He’d hated working there, had always brought his work back to his rooms wherever possible. He’d hated the university in general. It had all been so boring. And the people - the less said about most of them, the better.
“I could tell you about an earlier case of mine,” he offers. “There was one particularly intriguing one I encountered when I was, oh, I must have been twenty-two or so. An old university classmate came to me for help in solving a little family puzzle. Would you like to hear the details?”
John’s eyes brighten, though the flush does not fade from his cheeks. “Please,” he says in delight, shifting and settling more comfortably. He leans forward slightly, body bending towards Sherlock in anticipation. His fingers are twisting absently in the sheets and his left leg is twitching under the sheets. Sherlock welcomes the signs of a calmer John.
“His name was Reginald Musgrave,” Sherlock says. It takes hardly any effort at all to recall the particulars of the case. It had been one of the first where his abilities had been regarded as more than simply a parlour trick. It was easy to remember Reginald, too. He had been accused of arrogance in much the same way Sherlock had. It had stuck with Sherlock, because Reginald seemed to him all bluster. He remembered wondering what others saw in him, if he saw something very different in Reginald. If anyone would see anything else in him.
“He was from - shall we say, a well-to-do family, and could trace his lineage back a fair way,” Sherlock continues. “His family owned a bit of property, and it was bequeathed from first-born son to first-born son.”
John’s eyebrows push together, digging furrows in his forehead. He probably can’t imagine such a traditional lifestyle, Sherlock guesses. Else, he’s wondering what would have become of him if he’d been born into such a family. John would not have been a good fit for the life.
“Reginald’s father had passed away two years prior, and the estate had been bequeathed to him. Provisions had been made for Reginald’s uncle to live on the property as well. Reginald had no complaint with this. The elder Musgrave comported himself well, and though he did have a penchant for bringing home young women, he was careful not to let any scandal touch the family.”
“It’s like you’re talking about another world altogether,” John says wryly.
Sherlock ponders that for a moment. “In a way, it’s the kind of world Mycroft and I grew up in,” he confesses. “As did a number of our acquaintances. I suppose it’s a matter of choice, though. I certainly wasn’t interested in the life, and my parents didn’t protest when I moved out.”
“I guess it helps that you’re the second son, right?” John says. “If it’s all that important that it’s the first-born son who…”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock concedes. “I honestly don’t think our parents would have minded if Mycroft had decided to take up a Bohemian lifestyle, though.”
John stares at Sherlock for a moment, then giggles. “I just had the most peculiar mental image,” he says, passing his hand over his eyes. Still grinning, he leans back in the bed, sinking against the pillow with a sigh. “Go on, then.”
“Well, Reginald had most decidedly embraced the lifestyle,” Sherlock tells John. “And as such, he was rather displeased when his uncle became involved with a hired maid who came in to clean every week. This maid… one Rachel Howells, if I remember her name correctly - was quite distraught when Reginald’s uncle broke it off with her. I was told there was much screaming on the streets, and possibly the throwing of some valuable crockery.”
“And possibly some calling of the police?” John asks.
“Very possibly,” Sherlock concedes. “But no charges were laid. Reginald was quite keen on covering up any hint of scandal, you understand. But he told his uncle that if he was to persist in such behaviour, he would have to leave the family home.”
“Don’t tell me the uncle decided to kill everyone in a fit of rage,” John says. His eyes are closed, but his voice is still fairly alert. The edges of each syllable are blunted only slightly by the medication, causing a pleasant roll to John’s voice.
“Nothing so boring,” Sherlock says. He gets up, tugs his chair closer and sits back down. Then he puts his hand on John’s wrist. Heartbeat. John’s eyes are open again. His heartbeat is steady.
“Reginald’s uncle agreed to leave as soon as he’d found a place to stay,” Sherlock says. He can feel John’s pulse leaping sharp and constant against his fingers. “Ms Howells returned occasionally to try and see him, but Reginald managed to put her off both times he saw her. He told me he suspected that she’d returned other times, when he hadn’t been around. But nothing was said, and he thought he’d best leave his uncle to handle things.
“And then, a week before Reginald’s uncle was meant to leave… he vanished,” Sherlock continues. He slides his hand up, fingers grazing John’s palm, moving his thumb over the back of John’s hand. It would be a simple thing indeed to curl his fingers around. He doesn’t dare move. “A search was mounted, but the police could find no trace of him. The last thing Reginald had spoken of to his uncle was a peculiar old family ritual that had been passed down through the ages. The police, being utter incompetents, failed to note the ritual as being of any importance.”
“What sort of ritual?” John asks. He shifts slightly, then folds his hand around Sherlock’s. Sherlock stares at their hands.
“One simple enough,” he says, then frowns. “So simple that I cannot recall it. I have the paper at home - you can have a look when we get back. It was in the line of questions and answers - a script each member of the family had to recite from when they came of age. Something apparently quite incomprehensible, of course.”
“Apparently,” John says. There’s a small smile on his lips. The lines on his face are relaxing and his words are now slurring slightly. Drowsiness. He’s still holding Sherlock’s hand. “I suppose you figured it out right off the bat.”
“As I said, it was a simple enough matter,” Sherlock says. “Perhaps the rest of the story should wait until you can view the wording of the ritual for yourself.”
“All right,” John says equably, and falls asleep.
Sherlock has seen John fall asleep once before. They had been working on a case, and he had set John to reading some admittedly dry papers. John had nodded off between one breath and the next, falling asleep with a ready totality that had surprised Sherlock. John had woken suddenly when Sherlock had gotten up to go to the kitchen; light sleeper, Sherlock had noted then. If he moves, will John wake up? He doesn’t want John to wake up just yet. John needs to rest if he’s to recover properly.
John’s still holding his hand. Sherlock sits very, very still, and watches him sleep.
They escape the hospital eventually. John hasn’t yet mentioned anything about Sherlock’s newfound penchant for keeping John within view at all times. Hopefully, he hasn’t noticed it. People tend to be quite unobservant, and even John (different through he might be) generally falls into that pattern (except when Sherlock most wants him to). Sherlock is certainly not about to bring up the peculiar terror that seizes him whenever he isn’t with John. Otherwise, it seems as if the events of the past week or two had been but a dream.
Moriarty’s reach had only been known through the criminal world. Even then, few had known who he was. It’s only now, with no new plans filtering down to the lower echelons, that his organisation’s beginning to realise something’s wrong. And of course, those with no reason to touch that world would have no idea anything had ever happened.
For a while, Sherlock had wondered if this would mean a drop in the crime rate. Moriarty himself had carried out only sporadic crimes to keep his organisation going - numerically insignificant (but for how interesting those crimes might have been). The bulk of the work had come from setting up crimes for ordinary folk. Perhaps the lack of someone to help might deter some of the less determined. Most of those who wanted a crime carried out, however, would likely do so in some manner or other. A drop in the quality of the crimes, perhaps. But there will still be crimes aplenty to solve, even with Moriarty dead.
Sherlock tells John the rest of the story (secret passage, hidden treasure, homicidal ex-lover, all very exciting, apparently). John is appropriately dazzled by Sherlock’s brilliance, even years removed from the incident. Sherlock basks in the open admiration. It’s very nice indeed to be acknowledged the way John acknowledges him. He’s feeling positively mellow when Lestrade contacts him for help on another case. That’s probably why Sherlock’s response is quite polite, even if it’s still in the negative. Lestrade texts him, Are you sick?
Sherlock stares at the text for a while. Is that in response to the refusal or the politeness? He ignores it and returns to his new hobby of John-watching.
“You know, it’s a little odd having you try and dissect me,” John says conversationally.
“I’m not trying to dissect you,” Sherlock says. He simply doesn’t understand why John has chosen to do a vast many of the things he has done. He doesn’t understand why John is with him. He needs more data, and so he watches John. He analyses him. Sherlock would like to cut John’s head open, slide his fingers along John’s brain, frontal lobe, parietal lobe, search out his limbic system, cerebral cortex, where how what makes you you and then put all the pieces of bone carefully back and slide the skin and hair over so there’s not a mark to be seen because he doesn’t want to hurt John, he just wants to understand him.
Perhaps he’s trying to dissect John.
“Liar,” John says, and sits down on the sofa next to Sherlock with a cup of tea. Sherlock slides downwards and lengthwise, propping his feet up on the arm of the sofa, and settling his head on John’s thigh. John huffs a breath of laughter and puts his free hand on Sherlock’s head.
It’s a comfortable sort of silence that wraps around them. Sherlock quite likes it. He closes his eyes and imagines the look of quiet contemplation John often adopts at moments like this. He wonders what John thinks of. Perhaps, the first month he had lived with John, John had been wondering how best to deal with the Moriarty problem. What would he be thinking of now?
“Ask,” John says.
“What?” Sherlock asks.
“If you want to know something, ask,” John says. “I can’t promise I’ll always answer, but the odds are in your favour.”
Sherlock thinks about that. Then he thinks about all the things he’d like to ask John. There are so many questions. He’s barely aware of what he’s mumbling. Why don’t you like lemon in your tea? Why do you complain incessantly every time you see a spider even though you’re not arachnophobic? What do you think about when you go quiet and you frown and your eyes turn down at the corners? Why are you still here?
John’s fingers are moving through Sherlock’s hair, knuckles pressing lightly against his scalp. “When I was young, my mum would always make me tea with lemon and honey when I was sick,” John says. “I suppose I began to associate the drink with illness. I never have it when I’m well, because it reminds me of being sick. Funny thing - I never want anything else when I’m ill.”
Sherlock files that fact away carefully.
“As for the spiders, look up camel spiders one day,” John says. “After encountering a couple on my first posting, I feel obliged to complain when I spot any type of spider at all.”
“What sort of a ridiculous name is that?” Sherlock complains. “Describing one animal using another is hardly the best -”
“It fits,” John says. “Trust me.” There’s a laugh in his voice, Sherlock’s almost positive. He tilts his head back a bit so he can look at John’s face. Creases in the eyes, a smile on the lips. “Apparently, they’re not hugely dangerous, but they’re still not exactly something I want to wake up to find sharing camp with me.”
“I’ll look it up,” Sherlock says.
“You do that,” John says. “If I never see one again, it will be too soon. What was the next one? Oh, yes. I don’t know which moments you’re talking about exactly. I suppose if I look somewhat - distant - I’m probably thinking of my time in service. Possibly Harry.”
“Not the Moriarty thing?” Sherlock asks, still craning his head back so he can see John’s face.
“You didn’t seem to be describing a vaguely murderous look,” John says, then winces. “That was probably not a nice thing to say.”
“Accurate,” Sherlock points out.
“Yes, well.” John takes a sip of tea. “Could have been, I suppose. Trying to figure out what to do. I’m going to try not to think about him any more though.”
That’s perfectly fine by Sherlock.
“And I’m here because you’re here, of course,” John adds. “Probably I’d be living with Harry or Clara if I hadn’t met you.”
That wasn’t what Sherlock had meant at all. He doesn’t correct John.
It’s John who eventually talks Sherlock into going back out on cases again.
I don’t want to, he’d wanted to say. I haven’t solved the most interesting case of all yet, and how am I meant to focus on anything else when I still don’t know anything about John?
But he goes in the end. John’s going to be with him, after all.
Lestrade comes down himself to let Sherlock and John through the tape. He looks somewhat tired, Sherlock thinks, and ignores the suspicious look that sweeps over him.
“Well?” Sherlock asks impatiently.
“Right,” Lestrade says. “We’re dealing with stolen gems worth a few million, and a couple of pretty important families, so try and be polite, will you?” His voice does not convey much hope for that happening. John’s hand brushes the back of Sherlock’s lightly.
“Apparently, this Richard Levington-Wright loaned a particularly expensive necklace to the Holders,” Lestrade explains as they head into the house. Sherlock studies the path as they walk, but it’s of little use; any useful markings have been thoroughly trampled over. “It was his late wife’s, a family heirloom. He agreed to let Charlotte Holder wear it to a function next week, so she brought it home the last time she and her husband visited Levington-Wright. That was two days ago.”
Part of Sherlock is busy despairing over the players in this game. The other part is busy noticing the family photographs on the wall. Alexander and Charlotte Holder appear to have aged quite well, and their children have grown up handsomely. Arthur’s choice of attire is peculiar, though. Gambling habit? But photographs are hardly conclusive; he’ll have to see Arthur in person to know for certain.
“The Holders told their children but no one else about the necklace,” Lestrade continues. “It was kept in a safe in Alexander Holder’s study. Only the four family members have the access codes. Last night, Alexander was having some trouble sleeping, so he decided to get back out of bed and get some work done. He went to his study and found his son holding the necklace and looking very surprised indeed to see his father.”
“And you need me because?” Sherlock enquires.
“The necklace was broken,” Lestrade says, and holds up a small digital camera for Sherlock to see. The necklace in the picture is gold, with rubies studded throughout. A small corner has broken off, taking at least three rubies with it. “And Arthur’s clammed up completely. Levington-Wright thinks that the necklace might be reparable if the missing piece is recovered. He’s already said he won’t be pressing charges if Arthur returns the broken bit, but the boy still won’t talk. My men have been through Arthur’s room, the study, and then the entire house, but we didn’t turn up anything. We’re working through the grounds again; the first time was only a cursory look.”
There is probably no difference between a thorough and a cursory look, for them. Sherlock glances back at John, and holds his tongue.
“Do you want to see the study first, or talk to the Holders?” Lestrade asks.
Sherlock pauses at the third window sill down the corridor. Ground floor, easy enough access. Bolted from the inside, scratches along the sill. Curious. None of the others had had even such mild damage caused to them. He retraces his steps, checking the first two windows. They both have thorny bushes directly outside. Back again. The third window doesn’t. Gravel, no chance of footprints. But there does appear to have been a disturbance. Small pebbles have been kicked up, some scattering as far as the path. How interesting. The sill is polished, the scratches minute. They appear to be incidental damage. All the same, they’re quite telling.
The bolt, the bolt. It slides open easily when Sherlock tests it, and the window swings open soundlessly. He closes the window, opens it, closes it, opens it. He tries leaning against it. Too low to be comfortable. Hullo, what’s that? Prints that the police haven’t yet destroyed? The marks are faint, but leaning out the window, he can see that there are two sets - one made by boots and the other by bare feet, embedded in the dirt trail just past the decorative gravel. He snaps a photograph with his phone and thinks about things for a moment. Boots showed a clear imprint all the way through; Bare Feet only had prints of the balls of the feet, not the heels. Boots was walking, Bare Feet was running. And there are scratches on the sill.
“John,” he says. “Lean up against this, will you?”
John does so, arms hanging over the edge casually.
Heights, heights. Still a bit low for John. Arms folded? He moves John’s arms for him. That’s much more plausible, yes. Lower? John has to bend a little. So, John’s height or shorter still. “Open it,” Sherlock says, and watches John’s hands as he opens and closes the windows a few times. The cuff of his jacket just barely brushes the sill as he moves.
“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and turns to Lestrade. “Was anyone outside of the family aware the necklace was here?”
“They’re certain no one else knew,” Lestrade says. He’s frowning at Sherlock, eyes darting quickly between Sherlock and John. Why? Never mind, it’s not important. “The dining room’s close to soundproof, and they’re all sure the doors were shut before they discussed it.”
“Hm. Let’s go have a look at the study,” Sherlock tells John, and ushers him forward with a hand on his back. Up the stairs, second door on the right. Sherlock scans the door and the surroundings (nothing interesting) before entering.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says from behind them. “How did you know where the study was?”
“Lestrade, we didn’t find anything - oh, did you have to bring him in?”
Anderson. Sometimes, Sherlock thinks that Lestrade likes torturing him. Why is it always Anderson whenever he works with Lestrade? He slips on a pair of gloves and heads for the open safe under the desk. Documents, documents, documents. For a moment, he sees reams of paper covered in neat handwriting - Sullivan appears in charge of three units and recruitment but final say seems to lie with Moran - and he has to blink to clear his vision. What else? He looks up at John, then back at the contents of the safe.
“He stands a better chance of finding out where those gems are than we do,” Lestrade snaps. He’s being oddly brusque today. “And I don’t want Cooper breathing down my neck any longer than I have to, all right?”
That would explain it. There is no love lost between Lestrade and his superior. Nor, for that matter, between Sherlock and Cooper. Cooper has always been openly critical of Sherlock, even though he still allows his people to work with Sherlock. Sherlock gets results and makes the department look good, after all. Yet Cooper will say that Sherlock’s an amateur and he shouldn’t be allowed to interfere, and really can you trust a man with his history. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s a hypocrite.
Even Sally Donovan is preferable to Cooper. At least she’s refreshingly honest in her dealings with Sherlock. Or Anderson, which is really saying quite a lot about Sherlock’s feelings on Cooper.
“Did we do this the last time?” Sherlock asks John in an undertone, as Anderson and Lestrade argue in the doorway.
John nods, a mischievous look in his eyes.
“Don’t tell me,” Sherlock orders him, then amends that. “Well, nothing beyond what you might have said the first time.”
“All right,” John says with a grin.
Sherlock smiles back, and returns his attention to the study. No signs of damage to the safe. Highly unlikely it was forced. Fingerprint dust all over the place, though. Anderson’s been in it already. No doubt they’ll find no prints other than that of the family members. There’s nothing of further interest in the study, but Sherlock takes careful note of the general layout and placements anyway. He might want to return after speaking to the Holders. Sherlock straightens and looks for John.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering with all this,” Anderson complains. “We already know the jewels aren’t here.”
“I suppose you know who was responsible for the theft as well,” Sherlock says.
Lestrade frowns. “Arthur was caught red-handed. Are you saying it wasn’t him?”
“I’m saying there are points in what you told me that don’t make sense,” Sherlock says. “I’d like to speak to the Holders now.”
Lestrade gestures to the stairs leading back down. “That way. What doesn’t make sense to you?”
“The location of the piece that broke off,” Sherlock says. “It is nowhere in this house, is that correct?”
“Right,” Lestrade says.
“Then do you mean to tell me that Arthur took the necklace, brought it elsewhere, broke off a piece and hid it, then brought the necklace back?” Sherlock asks impatiently. “If he had damaged it while stealing it, surely the piece would be in the room itself. He would hardly have had time to hide it. There are no windows in the study, so he could not have thrown it out. Clearly the damage did not occur in that room. But the question still remains - if he had in fact managed to escape the room with the whole necklace, why bother taking a small portion and returning the rest? It’s not as if it’s a portion of money; a broken necklace would not have gone unnoticed.”
“So what’s your answer then?” Lestrade asks. “If you think Arthur didn’t do it, who did?”
“I haven’t nearly enough information to make a claim on that,” Sherlock says. “I cannot rule anyone out at this point.”
Lestrade knocks on the door perfunctorily, then opens it and gestures for Sherlock and John to walk through. “This is the consultant I told you about,” he says. Sherlock eyes the four people seated there carefully. Mary looks distraught, he notes, even more so than her parents. Sir Richard looks deeply troubled. His wife, Sherlock recalls, has been dead for - it would be twenty-six years now. It appears he has no more forgotten her now than he had when Sherlock first met him. The distress on his face is swiftly giving way to surprise, though, and Sherlock braces himself.
“It can’t be Sherlock?” Sir Richard exclaims, standing up hurriedly. “My god, it’s been an age, child.”
“Sir Richard,” Sherlock says, bowing politely to him. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances,” Sir Richard says ruefully. “Do you know the Holders, Sherlock?”
“We met briefly when I was younger,” Sherlock says, nodding to the Holders as they also stand. “I don’t know if you’ll remember me, Mr Holder. It was almost twenty years ago.”
“Just Alexander, please. And I believe I do,” Alexander says. His voice is tired, though he’s certainly making an effort. Sherlock doesn’t dare look back to see the expressions on John’s, Lestrade’s and Anderson’s faces. No, wait - John’s been through this already. He’s been expecting it. Sherlock will have to find out what John’s original reaction had been. “Geoffrey and Victoria’s youngest, am I right? How are they?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says. “They’re both quite well.” He finally glances back to meet John’s entirely too amused eyes. “Might I introduce you to Dr John Watson? He honours me every so often by assisting on some of my cases. John, Sir Richard Levington-Wright, Alexander and Charlotte Holder, and their daughter Mary.”
There are murmurs of greetings. Sherlock takes advantage of his new position to look at Lestrade’s and Anderson’s expressions. Lestrade looks like he’s recovering from the shock. Anderson still looks like someone’s bludgeoned him in the face. Nothing new there. Sherlock looks back at the others, gauging their physical builds. Sir Richard is almost Sherlock’s height. Alexander is about John’s height, and his wife and daughter are both nearly a head shorter than him.
“And you’re a detective now?” Sir Richard asks, once the pleasantries are dispensed with.
“A consulting detective, yes,” Sherlock says.
“He’s the best we’ve ever worked with,” Lestrade puts in. “He’ll find the missing piece, you don’t need to worry about that.”
“Very well,” Sir Richard says, and nods towards the vacant seats. “Thank you, Sherlock. I don’t know that I’ll be of any help personally, but anything I can do -”
Sherlock inclines his head slightly as he takes a seat on the two-person settee opposite the Holders. His choice puts him in the best position to study everyone involved simultaneously. John sits down next to him. Lestrade sends Anderson off, closes the door, and leans up against the wall, watching them.
“I’d like to hear the story again from the beginning, if you don’t mind,” Sherlock says. “I find it helps me sort my thoughts when I hear it directly from those involved. Would one of you care to begin? Start from when you arrived here with the necklace.”
“Well, now,” Alexander says, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief. Wearing a suit, even now? Clearly puts stock in appearances. Unsurprising, given that he runs a bank. His socks are both navy, but the subtle pattern on one indicates that they’re mismatched. Clear indicator of the man’s state of mind. “That was two days ago. We’d been to lunch with Richard, and Charlotte mentioned she was looking for a nice necklace to go with her new dress, for a business function we’re attending next week. It’s quite important to us, so Richard very generously offered the loan of one of dear Alice’s necklaces.”
“I was sure,” Sir Richard puts in quietly, “from Charlotte’s description of the dress, that the necklace would go quite well with it.”
“He begged us to be careful with it,” Charlotte says. She’s really quite pale. Cream-coloured dress, no jewellery, subtle makeup, flawless manicure. Her makeup still can’t conceal the redness of her eyes, nor her manicure the effects of her nervously picking at her fingers. “I’m so very sorry, Richard. I don’t know how we’ll ever make this up to you.”
“If the missing piece can be recovered, and the necklace mended, we hardly need to mention it,” Sir Richard says. Sherlock wonders what will need to be mentioned if the necklace cannot be mended. Irrelevant - their problem to solve.
“You procured the necklace right away?” Sherlock asks.
“Yes, we were lunching at Richard’s,” Alexander explains. “He brought the necklace down and Charlotte agreed it would suit wonderfully, and so we brought it back with us that very evening when we returned home.”
“What time was this?” Sherlock asks.
“I’m not sure of the exact time,” Alexander confesses. He fidgets in his chair. “An hour or so before dinner, I suppose. Dinner was at eight, I remember that.”
“We try and have a meal together at least once a week,” Charlotte says. “That night, both Mary and Arthur were able to join us.”
“We told them about the necklace, of course,” Alexander says. “Charlotte was so excited about getting to wear it. It was already in the safe by then. That was the first thing I did when I got home - I went to the study and put it in the safe.”
“What was Arthur’s reaction when he heard of the necklace?” Sherlock prompts, when the Holders both seem lost for words.
“Mildly interested,” Alexander says. “To be honest, I’ve been turning that dinner over and over in my head, and I still can’t see anything in his behaviour that makes me think he was planning this - this audacity - back then.”
“And what did you think of the necklace, Mary?” Sherlock asks.
The girl starts. She’s dressed much more casually than her parents, in a fitted blouse and jeans. No accessories save a thick metal bracelet wrapped snugly around her wrist. She’s been playing with it the whole time, and a tan line is visible on her wrist when she moves the bracelet around. Clearly not something she often removes. Something important to her? “Oh! Nothing in particular, I suppose,” she says. “I asked Mummy if she was planning on wearing her gold earrings as well.” She glances away. “We didn’t talk about it all that long, really.”
“And after that?” Sherlock asks, returning his attention to Alexander and Charlotte. Out of the corner of his eye, he continues to watch Mary.
“Arthur stopped me after dinner,” Alexander confesses. “He asked for a loan of a thousand dollars.” His face flushes slightly. “I knew it was a gambling debt, and I’d had more than enough of bailing him out. I’ve told him time and again he needs to get help, but he just won’t listen!”
“So you turned him down,” Sherlock says.
“Of course I did!” Alexander exclaims heatedly. Then his face falls. “I suppose that’s why he decided to go after the necklace. I wish I’d just given him the bloody money, now!”
“Alex,” Charlotte hisses reprovingly. Her husband subsides somewhat, though he still looks thoroughly unrepentant.
“Continue, if you would,” Sherlock says, pressing his fingertips together. Alexander is swinging between utter despair and fury, Charlotte looks like she’s about to cry, and Mary looks like her world has just ended.
John shifts slightly, his knee bumping against Sherlock’s briefly before moving away again.
There is something niggling at Sherlock’s brain. He looks out over the possible paths. Which one, which one?
“Well, nothing happened that night,” Alexander says. “Charlotte and I were home all of yesterday, and I spent most of the day in the study. We went to bed at around ten, but -”
“A moment, please,” Sherlock says, lifting one hand slightly. “Mary, what did you do yesterday?”
She frowns thoughtfully. “Went out with some friends,” she said. “We caught a movie, had dinner. Some of my friends were going to go get drinks, but I was just too tired. I got home around ten, myself, just as Daddy was going to sleep.”
“She reminded me to set the security and sent me off to bed,” Alexander says with a faint grin. “She looks after us all wonderfully.”
Mary looks down at her hands. There are spots of colour on her cheeks, but she doesn’t seem pleased by her father’s comment.
“And the security entails?” Sherlock asks.
“There’s a camera trained on the front and back doors,” Alexander says. “They don’t cover the whole property, though, and no one was picked up on them. There’s also an alarm set to go off if there’s an intrusion, but it was never triggered.”
“Who has the codes to set the alarm?” Sherlock asks.
“All of us who live here,” Alexander says. “No one else would have them.”
“And what was Arthur doing yesterday?” Sherlock enquires.
“Heaven knows,” Alexander says with a sigh. “He was out from morn till dusk. He still hadn’t returned home by the time I went to bed.”
“Very well,” Sherlock says. “Go on.”
“Well, I woke up after an hour and I just couldn’t get back to sleep,” Alexander says. “I tossed and turned in bed for a while, and then I finally gave it up. If I couldn’t sleep, I could at least get some work done. So I put on my dressing gown and went to the study.” His face starts turning red again. “The door was open, and when I went in, I saw Arthur standing in front of my desk, the necklace in his hands. I’m not proud to say it, but I quite - lost my temper with him. I demanded to know what he thought he was doing, if he’d been driven to stealing the heirlooms of other families to support his gambling.”
“Was he wearing shoes?” Sherlock asks.
Alexander pauses, thrown. “You know, I don’t believe he was,” he says slowly. “I can’t be certain, though. I wasn’t exactly looking at his feet.”
“You ought to,” Sherlock says. “Was there dirt on his feet?”
“Yes,” Lestrade breaks in. “I was one of the first on the scene; we had to get him some shoes, and I remember the dirt.”
And yet he hadn’t noticed anything peculiar? Sherlock resolves to force some intelligence into Lestrade’s brain, through whatever means necessary. Lestrade’s got excellent intuition (most of the time), and he’s willing to work hard; he’s just constantly let down by a lack of imagination.
“How did Arthur react when you entered?” Sherlock asks Alexander. Mary has now lost all colour in her face, and she looks dangerously close to fainting. Beside Sherlock, John shifts uncomfortably. Is something about to happen? What’s John anticipating?
“To be honest, he looked absolutely shocked at first,” Alexander says. “I suppose he never thought he’d be caught. I’m usually a sound sleeper, you see. Last night was unusual for me. Then he just became angry and refused to say anything else.”
“He did ask for five minutes to go out before we called the police,” Charlotte adds. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and she hastily adds, “I woke up because of the yelling. It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened.”
“Five minutes to go out?” Sherlock asks.
“He said we could call the police,” Alexander says. “I told him I would, you see. I told him I’d put it in their hands. He said that was fine, but he wanted to go out for five minutes and then he’d come back and I could do as I liked. Well, I told him I wasn’t that foolish. Give him five minutes and god knows where he’d be. When I told him I wasn’t letting him go anywhere, he decided to throw a tantrum and stop talking altogether.”
Sherlock turns slightly and glances at Lestrade.
“He’s in custody,” Lestrade says. “Still hasn’t spoken to anyone, as of -” He checks his watch. “An hour ago.”
“It’s that George Burnwell who’s to blame,” Alexander says darkly. “Alexander stopped gambling twice, and both times he went back to it because of Burnwell.”
Sherlock straightens in his seat. “George Burnwell,” he says. “You don’t mean the nephew of Judge Nathaniel Burnwell, do you?”
“The one and the same,” Alexander says. “Arthur loves Mary more than anything, you know, and he stopped gambling when she asked him to. But that George - well, I suppose I can see why Arthur was so enamoured of him. He’s got a slick tongue, that one, but he’s bad news all the way through.”
Is Mary - yes, she’s shaking. The suspicions that Sherlock has had have now crystallised. The only question remaining is the location of the broken piece of jewellery.
“I’ve had the displeasure of meeting him,” Sherlock reflects. “He was rather cruel to a lady I once knew.”
“Was he?” Charlotte asks.
“Not initially, of course,’ Sherlock says. “He’s quite skilled at charming them - making them believe that they’re the one person capable of changing him. I’ve seen it happen at least three times with my own eyes, and I suspect he’s done it more often. He seduces them, makes them think he’s turning over a new leaf. They lavish money and gifts on him, offer to pay his debts. He takes them up on their offers and then promptly breaks things off with them. I’ve never seen him change, though each and every woman I spoke to was initially convinced their case would be different.”
Mary sways in her chair, then falls off with an unceremonious thump. At least the floor’s got a nice, thick carpet on it. Sherlock watches as her parents panic and John hurries over. It’s quite the pleasure to watch as John deftly checks her breathing and pulse, then unbuttons the top of her shirt. “Hold her feet up,” he instructs Lestrade, who’s hovering. “Above the level of the heart. Not so high - that’s fine, yes. Keep them there.” He checks Mary’s breathing again. “No need to worry. It’s just all been a bit much for her. Shock, you know.”
He’s very efficient. Sherlock likes watching his hands, in particular. “Don’t they give you a blanket for that?” Sherlock asks, stretching his legs languidly.
“Well, shock can cause your core body temp to drop,” John says. “Mary’s not in danger of that, though. There we go, open your eyes. Thank you, Richard. Take it slow, Mary. Wait till the dizziness has passed before you try to sit up. There now.”
John’s got one arm around Mary’s back as he helps her slowly sit up and sip the glass of water Sir Richard had poured. Sherlock suddenly feels intensely jealous of her.
“Having second thoughts?” he asks.
Mary stares at her glass of water.
“Did you think you were special?” Sherlock continues. “Did he tell you he’d change for you? That you were worth it? That he’d never wanted to change before, but now things were different?”
“Dear Lord,” Charlotte says, drawing back in horror. Evidently, she’s a little quicker on the uptake than her husband is. Mary bursts into noisy tears, leaning forward to hide her face in her hands.
“What?” Alexander asks in confusion. John lets go of Mary and comes back over to Sherlock. Sherlock tilts a quizzical look at John, who simply shakes his head and slouches against the arm of the sofa, watching as Mary blubbers apologies to her parents and Sir Richard. Lestrade looks a tad flummoxed, but he rallies himself and tells Mary, quite sternly, that it’s in her best interests to confess what exactly happened.
So she does. She had been out for a movie and dinner not with her friends, but with George Burnwell, whom she’d been dating in secret. She had told him about the necklace; he had wistfully speculated that if only he had something of a similar value, he might be able to clear his debts. Then surely her parents wouldn’t protest their match, and he could openly court her. Somehow, Mary had found herself talked into stealing the necklace and giving it to him.
She’d seen her father off to bed, given it an hour, then deactivated the alarm and called George to tell him the coast was clear. He’d snuck up to the window in the cameras’ blind spots and waited while Mary retrieved the necklace and brought it to him. A simple transaction through the window, and off he’d gone.
(The disturbed gravel was from Burnwell, Sherlock adds quietly to John and Lestrade. The scratches on the window sill from Mary’s bracelet, which had scraped the sill as she opened the window.)
She didn’t know what had happened next. She’d gone to bed, and been woken another hour later by the sound of yelling. There was her brother with the necklace in his hands, and she had no idea what had happened.
“I would imagine, Mr Holder,” Sherlock says, “that you owe your son an apology. He found himself in a dreadful position last night, and you only compounded it by your accusations.”
“But what on earth did he have to do with any of this!” Alexander exclaims. He looks quite flabbergasted.
“It’s simple enough,” Sherlock says. “He returned home in time to see Mary’s little transaction with Burnwell. He hid, not willing to believe his beloved younger sister would be so cruel as to steal from not only her parents, but from a dear friend of the family. He waited until she’d gone down the hall to activate the alarm, then out he went through the window. There are faint footprints that tell the story. As Burnwell left, Arthur followed. Mary unsuspectingly reset the alarm and retired to bed. Meanwhile, a confrontation and a scuffle. Arthur snatched the necklace from Burnwell’s hands and raced back home. He had the presence of mind to deactivate the alarm before re-entering the house; all he cared about was preserving his sister’s secret. He went to his father’s study, opened the safe, reached in to return the necklace - then noticed, to his dismay, that the necklace had been damaged in the fight. Up he stands, thinking that he must return and see if the scrap can be retrieved, wondering how on earth this could be explained - and in walks his father.”
Sherlock unfolds his legs and stands up, eyeing the sobbing Mary in disdain. “And the rest you know. I have no doubt that young man has chosen to remain silent in the hopes of sparing his sister.” Sherlock turns to Lestrade. “I’d suggest you send your men off after George Burnwell. If you’re lucky, he won’t have pawned the piece off yet. If he has and you can’t locate it, let me know and I’ll see what I can do. John -”
“Yes,” John says, joining Sherlock. “I think it’s time we left.”
“Sherlock,” Sir Richard says. He’s sunk back in his chair, and he looks rather disturbed. “Thank you. And give my regards to your family.”
“It was my pleasure, Sir Richard,” Sherlock says, and gives him a courtly bow before sweeping away with John.
Chapter Three - Part Two