Sherlock Fanfiction: Reliquary (conclusion)
Title: Reliquary (conclusion)
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock & John/Sherlock/Maria(Mary)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~10.5K total, posted in two parts as it is a little too long for one.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
A/N: The first part of Reliquary is here.
Reliquary (conclusion)
***
“Where do the ashes go?” a pale woman asked.
“This is another unusual detail,” Maria explained, grasping a small knob between the letters and pulling a drawer out completely.
“Are the sides, glass?” a man asked, leaning forward.
“Clear quartz,” Maria replied. “A further specification: like Snow White’s coffin.” There was another buzz as the reference was translated for a few listeners.
“The patron never saw the piece as you worked on it?” a bald man enquired sceptically.
“We video-conferenced many times as it progressed,” Maria replied.
“What did he look like?” a girl asked.
“The patron’s identify is confidential. In any event, the video was on my side only, so he could view the sketches. For me, he was just a voice. A very soft voice.”
John felt his pulse pick up. Sherlock appeared around the pillar at his side. John glanced up at him and inclined his head towards Maria. Sherlock’s brows drew together before he turned his attention away from John.
“Why’s the bottom of the drawer like that?” someone asked.
“A very unusual detail this,” Maria answered, holding the crystal drawer a bit higher and turning it in her hand. “You see how the ornamentation protrudes beyond the corners of the border on the front of the drawer?” she asked as she turned the drawer back in the other direction. People murmured. “At the inside corner, the bottom extends beyond the side. The same is true for the drawer at the front of the reliquary. And the side of that drawer also can do this.” Maria hooked her fingernails behind the border and one side of the drawer slid forward. “This comes all the way out and the gold decoration can be removed and fitted back in the frame to cover the gap.”
“So the ashes from the two drawers can mix together,” Sherlock said.
Maria looked up and smiled at him, while several other people muttered.
“Obsessive,” a woman with silver hair commented.
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“I think it’s romantic,” a young man countered.
“Open to interpretation, certainly,” Maria said, slipping the side back into position and the drawer back into the body of the reliquary.
“Why not have one large drawer and mingle the ashes in the first place?” a slender man asked.
“Maybe J.M. and J.W. aren’t the same person and it depended on whose ashes were in the drawers,” the purple-haired woman offered.
John felt Sherlock stiffening next to him. John took a very careful look at the woman’s face.
“A divorced man whose ex-wife has remarried and he hopes to win her back if she leaves her new husband, but will give the reliquary to her as a gift, if she doesn’t,” said the man who had spoken before of maiden and married names. John took a careful look at him, too.
“Does the spider in the web symbolise anything other than death?” the romantic young man asked.
“What?” John said aloud before he could silence himself. People tilted their heads to get a better look and murmured.
“Let me adjust the platform,” Maria said, “so everyone can see where it is.” She pushed the button again and the dais rotated; she pushed another and the platform raised. “Look under the canopy.” Heads tilted and necks bent. “It’s still not easy to spot from a distance, which is part of the effect,” Maria agreed. “However, it moves.”
John suppressed another exclamation. Others expressed the sentiment for him.
Maria turned a finial on one of the bedposts that rose above the partial canopy and a darkly gleaming thing slid along a nearly invisible wire.
The woman John was beginning to think of as the Purple Lady, leaned closer. “Is that carbonado? You often work with that gem. Is there some significance in that?”
“The spider’s body is carbonado, its legs platinum. The wires are titanium,” Maria replied, sliding the jewel back up the wire and clicking it in place.
“You often mix ordinary and precious materials. Your other piece on display combines steel and carbonado. Is that a political statement?” Purple Lady continued.
Journalist, John concluded and his shoulders hunched forward. He resisted an urge to leave; it would call more attention to him than staying put.
Maria glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly time for my talk on Icarus Clipped,” she said, turning to face the rest of the group. “If you have any final questions…”
“Is it for sale?” a man towards the back of the crowd asked.
“Not for another four years,” Maria replied. “Hopefully, the patron will come to collect it before then.”
“Does it do anything else?” the man with the spousal theories enquired.
Maria laughed lightly. “Yes, there is one more trick.” She turned both finials above the canopy at the same time.” An open-mouthed serpent slithered down another wire, reaching the bottom corner in time for the spider to lodge in its open jaws. Several people gasped.
“That’s rather macabre kitsch,” the silver-haired woman remarked.
Just his style, John thought, glancing at Sherlock. He was lounging against the pillar, one eyebrow already raised.
“Rather suggestive,” a man behind John mumbled.
“I’m surprised it isn’t a music box as well,” another man commented.
“It was discussed,” Maria said, her smile wide.
A very slim woman in black with what appeared to be a clipboard squeezed in front of Sherlock from the other side of the column. “Ms Morstan,” she said in a stage whisper. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but people are already gathering upstairs.” She turned to the audience. “You are most welcome to join us on the upper floor.” She slipped past Sherlock again and was gone.
“Thank you all for your interest in Reliquary,” Maria said. “If you would like to discuss my other piece, I am going there directly.” She stepped forward and the crowd shifted to let her pass, the journalist right at her elbow.
“Your use of fossils was particularly intriguing,” John heard Purple Lady say before their voices were swallowed by the general swell of conversation. He caught several snippets in English as people dispersed. “I hope she got more than the cost of materials up front for that thing…rich creep…love beyond the grave…lust…rumpled bedding on a funeral urn? God!”
Contrary to their plan to stay apart to avoid being photographed together, they lingered, the heels of John’s polished boots and Sherlock’s affected slouch obviating their distinctive silhouette.
“Do you think she knows?” John whispered.
“Not according to her chat history and e-mail correspondence,” Sherlock replied. John scowled. “Flash drive. Last night. Didn’t have a chance to tell you what with your long nap this afternoon.”
“Well,” John began.
Sherlock held up a hand, still leaning against the column. “No excuses needed. We each did our part.”
John’s eyes lingered on the pale hand above the black cuff, followed it when Sherlock lowered it to his thigh. He’d raised one leg, the sole of his shoe flat against the pillar. John drew in a breath, retraced Sherlock’s lines upward until he reached his face. The blond curls startled him, even after so many months. The way they brushed Sherlock’s shoulders had a different effect. “Best piece of art here,” John murmured.
The curves showed at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m considering a change of career for us.” He pushed off the wall. “Circulate. Let’s see if we can tell who’s buying. I noted one suspect already.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile. “Icarus in an hour,” he said, glancing at John.
John nodded, turned and headed towards the stairs. When he started down, Sherlock was still by the pillar, eyes on his phone.
***
John saw Purple Lady with two other artists. He stopped nearby, flipping through his catalogue, to listen. Her style of questioning was the same as it had been with Maria. He drifted away.
Inside an installation which resembled a large, melting igloo with multiple windows and doors and bits of recycled plastic hung like wind chimes from the ceiling, John heard it. His schoolboy French was not brilliant, but it was sufficient for the simple exchange. “Young. First time exhibiting. He’s perfect. Let’s go...” A single step brought John to the nearest doorway. “…before someone else finds him.”
John followed the two men at a distance. He overheard one word, Paris. They spoke more quietly than the artist whose voice was not loud either. John couldn’t catch anything else, but the tone was soothing. After a brief conversation, one of the men left, returning soon after with the very slim woman with the clipboard. Small red stickers appeared on the placards by the sculptures moments later. The apparent buyers shook hands with the sculptor and moved on.
“I seem to be too late, Mr Magnusen,” John said as he approached, tapping his rolled catalogue lightly against his leg.
A flaxen head turned, blue eyes wide. “Yes. So it seems,” Gustav Magnusen replied, with hardly any accent John could detect. “At the opening…one dreams of such things.”
“Will you be exhibiting other works in Paris?” John asked.
Gustav shook he head slowly. “No, these. The new buyers were willing to wait for delivery.” Magnusen smiled.
“Patience is a virtue,” John agreed. “I had my eye on this.” He swept the furled catalogue towards a pair of objects on a black platform, a gleaming oval cylinder roughly John’s height, twisted in the middle, the upper portion tilted back and slightly to the side with a knot of polished wood about half a metre high before it with what looked like puddles of red glass where the gnarls joined. It reminded John of some of the things Sherlock would leave in their refrigerator, but on a larger scale. “So much emotion in that,” John hazarded.
Magnusen reached out for the cylinder, touched it with his fingertips. “Yes,” he murmured and John watched the happiness vanish from the young man’s face.
John spotted the title, “Rejected Proposal.” Christ. “Long?” he said and it could have meant several things.
The artist looked up, one side of his lower lip clearly between his teeth and John saw everything in his eyes. He nodded at John. “Two,” he finally said quietly. He nodded again, rubbed the side of his forehead. “Two years. I thought it would be over by now.”
John let his free hand rest on the young man’s shoulder. One stumbled upon such moments with strangers. In his line of work, John had encountered more than most. Sometimes a touch helped, even a stranger’s.
Gustav took a deep breath, pressed his lips together and straightened his shoulders. John drew his hand away.
***
He spotted the two men who had bought Gustav’s work speaking to another artist. John checked her in the catalogue. She was also a first-time exhibitor.
***
Sherlock was leaning, forearms resting on the white railing edging the upper levels, and monitoring the activity on the lower floors when John approached the bay where Icarus was displayed. John stopped next to him, leaning the other way, elbows behind him.
“Too late with the blond fellow,” Sherlock said.
John nodded. “Did you see them?” he asked.
“Mm,” Sherlock replied. “And I know who they are. Well, who they say they are.” Sherlock handed a business card to John.
“You asked them for one?” he asked.
“I relieved a young artist who had already sold his work of it, after they’d stopped by. One has to act fast to have a chance at the Brazilians. They are selling very well. Of course, there are a number of collectors and curators or their agents here.”
“Are those two legitimate, then?” John asked, a note of disappointment in his voice.
“Having an established reputation doesn’t rule them out, but no. Not as far as a cursory check suggests, anyway. I didn’t have much time,” Sherlock said, taking his mobile out of his pocket and checking the screen, “being otherwise engaged. We’ll have to check all of tonight’s buyers.” Sherlock tapped something else on his screen and smiled.
“What?” John asked.
“Wireless is wonderful,” Sherlock said, nodding towards the ground floor. “I’ve got everything on her tablet so far.”
John glanced over his shoulder and noticed the black-clad gallery employee with what he had thought was just a clipboard. A young man intercepted her and she flipped open the cover and tapped another entry into her tablet and the young man scurried off. “I hope no one else is utilising it as you are,” he murmured.
“They’d need an extraordinary decryption programme to make sense of what’s on here or what’s on her tablet for that matter. We mustn’t completely rule out that someone has that. Unlikely though,” Sherlock explained, tilting the phone back and forth once before slipping it into his pocket.
“Ah, Papa, there they are,” Maria’s voice said. John and Sherlock turned towards the sound as Maria emerged from a large group coming up the stairs with an older man by the arm. He looked tired, but otherwise not quite old enough to have a daughter John’s age or a few years older, his luxuriant dark hair only lightly streaked with grey, his skin but faintly lined around the eyes and the mouth.
Maria drew up in front of John as Sherlock turned to face them. “He made it,” she announced to them both, hugging her father’s arm closer to her side. “Papa, I’d like to introduce Mr Jay Watson and Mr Johannes de Groot of Chronophage Enterprises. Jay, Johannes, I’d like you to meet my father, Mr Ferruccio Morstan de Ybarra.” Ybarra’s eyes swept over Sherlock and John while his daughter spoke, his calculating look more of a father assessing the merit of his daughter’s potential suitor than a businessman considering her latest professional contacts. Sherlock supposed that Ybarra had accurately interpreted the timbre of Maria’s voice, the colour in her cheeks. Ybarra’s gaze flicked back and forth between Sherlock and John, trying to ascertain which one of them had put the roses there.
John declared himself honoured, extending his arm first and Ybarra turned slightly to accept it with both hands, the gesture more one of control, than welcome. John met Ybarra’s gaze as their hands met and his expression changed. Sherlock cleared his throat slightly as he offered his hand as well. Ybarra looked away from John at the sound.
“It has been a privilege to meet an artist who works in one of the media in which Jay and I endeavour to restore antique pieces. Her sculpture,” Sherlock continued as John remained silent, “has altered my view of modern expressions in the medium.” Sherlock inclined his head towards the sculpture behind Maria.
“Yes,” John murmured in agreement.
“Papa would like to invite us all to dinner this evening after the exhibition,” Maria said, looking from Sherlock to John and back. “If you’re free,” she added, her smile dimming.
Sherlock shook his head and addressed Ybarra. “I regret that we are not able to accept your kind invitation. We’ve had an urgent request that necessitates our being on a flight tonight. One of our oldest clients requires our view on the authenticity of several items unexpectedly offered for sale by a private collector. Unfortunately, the offer will not remain open long.” John masked any surprise at this unexpected announcement. Sherlock shifted his attention to Maria, taking her hand and raising it towards his mouth. “We hope to be in Paris during your exhibit. If your schedule allows, will you permit us to call on you there?” He finished his statement by lightly touching his lips to the back of her hand.
Sherlock straightened and extended his hand to Ybarra. “We’re sorry to take our leave so abruptly, sir, but we should just have time to collect our things from the hotel and reach the airport, if we go now.”
“Of course,” Ybarra said, taking Sherlock’s hand.
John watched Ybarra study Sherlock’s face as they shook hands and wondered whether he recognised him. The man appeared to travel frequently to Europe. He might have seen the London papers, might have a better eye for faces than most.
“Thank you again for your invitation,” John interjected, arm thrust forward. Ybarra nodded at Sherlock before releasing his hand and taking John’s.
“When you are next in Sao Paulo, then,” Ybarra said and John matched the voice despite the different accent, found a familiar expression in the dark eyes.
“It would be our pleasure,” John said and pulled his gaze away to look at Maria. She tilted her cheek and John leaned forward to kiss beside the one side and then the other. “Don’t forget us,” he said.
“I will try,” Maria said with a light laugh. John thought the tone might have been for her father.
“Jay,” Sherlock said, stepping away.
“Yes, right. Duty calls,” John said, bowing slightly to Maria and nodding to her father before he followed.
“Which one?” John heard Ybarra whisper to Maria as he turned away. John had picked up enough Portuguese to recognise the simple question. He didn’t hear her answer.
***
“You saw?” John asked in the car.
“Obviously. That’s why we’re skipping Rio and leaving for Europe tonight,” Sherlock replied. “Before we go to Paris, we need to spend some time in a good lab.”
“In Copenhagen?”
“No, I know someone there who operates a ferry to Aberdeen,” Sherlock answered.
“The long way to Bart’s. Still avoiding Mycroft?”
“For a little longer, if we can,” Sherlock said.
“Are you going to contact Bertrand?” John asked.
“Not yet.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part of the series, Revisionist, may be read
Revisionist.
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock & John/Sherlock/Maria(Mary)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~10.5K total, posted in two parts as it is a little too long for one.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
A/N: The first part of Reliquary is here.
Reliquary (conclusion)
***
“Where do the ashes go?” a pale woman asked.
“This is another unusual detail,” Maria explained, grasping a small knob between the letters and pulling a drawer out completely.
“Are the sides, glass?” a man asked, leaning forward.
“Clear quartz,” Maria replied. “A further specification: like Snow White’s coffin.” There was another buzz as the reference was translated for a few listeners.
“The patron never saw the piece as you worked on it?” a bald man enquired sceptically.
“We video-conferenced many times as it progressed,” Maria replied.
“What did he look like?” a girl asked.
“The patron’s identify is confidential. In any event, the video was on my side only, so he could view the sketches. For me, he was just a voice. A very soft voice.”
John felt his pulse pick up. Sherlock appeared around the pillar at his side. John glanced up at him and inclined his head towards Maria. Sherlock’s brows drew together before he turned his attention away from John.
“Why’s the bottom of the drawer like that?” someone asked.
“A very unusual detail this,” Maria answered, holding the crystal drawer a bit higher and turning it in her hand. “You see how the ornamentation protrudes beyond the corners of the border on the front of the drawer?” she asked as she turned the drawer back in the other direction. People murmured. “At the inside corner, the bottom extends beyond the side. The same is true for the drawer at the front of the reliquary. And the side of that drawer also can do this.” Maria hooked her fingernails behind the border and one side of the drawer slid forward. “This comes all the way out and the gold decoration can be removed and fitted back in the frame to cover the gap.”
“So the ashes from the two drawers can mix together,” Sherlock said.
Maria looked up and smiled at him, while several other people muttered.
“Obsessive,” a woman with silver hair commented.
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“I think it’s romantic,” a young man countered.
“Open to interpretation, certainly,” Maria said, slipping the side back into position and the drawer back into the body of the reliquary.
“Why not have one large drawer and mingle the ashes in the first place?” a slender man asked.
“Maybe J.M. and J.W. aren’t the same person and it depended on whose ashes were in the drawers,” the purple-haired woman offered.
John felt Sherlock stiffening next to him. John took a very careful look at the woman’s face.
“A divorced man whose ex-wife has remarried and he hopes to win her back if she leaves her new husband, but will give the reliquary to her as a gift, if she doesn’t,” said the man who had spoken before of maiden and married names. John took a careful look at him, too.
“Does the spider in the web symbolise anything other than death?” the romantic young man asked.
“What?” John said aloud before he could silence himself. People tilted their heads to get a better look and murmured.
“Let me adjust the platform,” Maria said, “so everyone can see where it is.” She pushed the button again and the dais rotated; she pushed another and the platform raised. “Look under the canopy.” Heads tilted and necks bent. “It’s still not easy to spot from a distance, which is part of the effect,” Maria agreed. “However, it moves.”
John suppressed another exclamation. Others expressed the sentiment for him.
Maria turned a finial on one of the bedposts that rose above the partial canopy and a darkly gleaming thing slid along a nearly invisible wire.
The woman John was beginning to think of as the Purple Lady, leaned closer. “Is that carbonado? You often work with that gem. Is there some significance in that?”
“The spider’s body is carbonado, its legs platinum. The wires are titanium,” Maria replied, sliding the jewel back up the wire and clicking it in place.
“You often mix ordinary and precious materials. Your other piece on display combines steel and carbonado. Is that a political statement?” Purple Lady continued.
Journalist, John concluded and his shoulders hunched forward. He resisted an urge to leave; it would call more attention to him than staying put.
Maria glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly time for my talk on Icarus Clipped,” she said, turning to face the rest of the group. “If you have any final questions…”
“Is it for sale?” a man towards the back of the crowd asked.
“Not for another four years,” Maria replied. “Hopefully, the patron will come to collect it before then.”
“Does it do anything else?” the man with the spousal theories enquired.
Maria laughed lightly. “Yes, there is one more trick.” She turned both finials above the canopy at the same time.” An open-mouthed serpent slithered down another wire, reaching the bottom corner in time for the spider to lodge in its open jaws. Several people gasped.
“That’s rather macabre kitsch,” the silver-haired woman remarked.
Just his style, John thought, glancing at Sherlock. He was lounging against the pillar, one eyebrow already raised.
“Rather suggestive,” a man behind John mumbled.
“I’m surprised it isn’t a music box as well,” another man commented.
“It was discussed,” Maria said, her smile wide.
A very slim woman in black with what appeared to be a clipboard squeezed in front of Sherlock from the other side of the column. “Ms Morstan,” she said in a stage whisper. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but people are already gathering upstairs.” She turned to the audience. “You are most welcome to join us on the upper floor.” She slipped past Sherlock again and was gone.
“Thank you all for your interest in Reliquary,” Maria said. “If you would like to discuss my other piece, I am going there directly.” She stepped forward and the crowd shifted to let her pass, the journalist right at her elbow.
“Your use of fossils was particularly intriguing,” John heard Purple Lady say before their voices were swallowed by the general swell of conversation. He caught several snippets in English as people dispersed. “I hope she got more than the cost of materials up front for that thing…rich creep…love beyond the grave…lust…rumpled bedding on a funeral urn? God!”
Contrary to their plan to stay apart to avoid being photographed together, they lingered, the heels of John’s polished boots and Sherlock’s affected slouch obviating their distinctive silhouette.
“Do you think she knows?” John whispered.
“Not according to her chat history and e-mail correspondence,” Sherlock replied. John scowled. “Flash drive. Last night. Didn’t have a chance to tell you what with your long nap this afternoon.”
“Well,” John began.
Sherlock held up a hand, still leaning against the column. “No excuses needed. We each did our part.”
John’s eyes lingered on the pale hand above the black cuff, followed it when Sherlock lowered it to his thigh. He’d raised one leg, the sole of his shoe flat against the pillar. John drew in a breath, retraced Sherlock’s lines upward until he reached his face. The blond curls startled him, even after so many months. The way they brushed Sherlock’s shoulders had a different effect. “Best piece of art here,” John murmured.
The curves showed at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m considering a change of career for us.” He pushed off the wall. “Circulate. Let’s see if we can tell who’s buying. I noted one suspect already.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile. “Icarus in an hour,” he said, glancing at John.
John nodded, turned and headed towards the stairs. When he started down, Sherlock was still by the pillar, eyes on his phone.
***
John saw Purple Lady with two other artists. He stopped nearby, flipping through his catalogue, to listen. Her style of questioning was the same as it had been with Maria. He drifted away.
Inside an installation which resembled a large, melting igloo with multiple windows and doors and bits of recycled plastic hung like wind chimes from the ceiling, John heard it. His schoolboy French was not brilliant, but it was sufficient for the simple exchange. “Young. First time exhibiting. He’s perfect. Let’s go...” A single step brought John to the nearest doorway. “…before someone else finds him.”
John followed the two men at a distance. He overheard one word, Paris. They spoke more quietly than the artist whose voice was not loud either. John couldn’t catch anything else, but the tone was soothing. After a brief conversation, one of the men left, returning soon after with the very slim woman with the clipboard. Small red stickers appeared on the placards by the sculptures moments later. The apparent buyers shook hands with the sculptor and moved on.
“I seem to be too late, Mr Magnusen,” John said as he approached, tapping his rolled catalogue lightly against his leg.
A flaxen head turned, blue eyes wide. “Yes. So it seems,” Gustav Magnusen replied, with hardly any accent John could detect. “At the opening…one dreams of such things.”
“Will you be exhibiting other works in Paris?” John asked.
Gustav shook he head slowly. “No, these. The new buyers were willing to wait for delivery.” Magnusen smiled.
“Patience is a virtue,” John agreed. “I had my eye on this.” He swept the furled catalogue towards a pair of objects on a black platform, a gleaming oval cylinder roughly John’s height, twisted in the middle, the upper portion tilted back and slightly to the side with a knot of polished wood about half a metre high before it with what looked like puddles of red glass where the gnarls joined. It reminded John of some of the things Sherlock would leave in their refrigerator, but on a larger scale. “So much emotion in that,” John hazarded.
Magnusen reached out for the cylinder, touched it with his fingertips. “Yes,” he murmured and John watched the happiness vanish from the young man’s face.
John spotted the title, “Rejected Proposal.” Christ. “Long?” he said and it could have meant several things.
The artist looked up, one side of his lower lip clearly between his teeth and John saw everything in his eyes. He nodded at John. “Two,” he finally said quietly. He nodded again, rubbed the side of his forehead. “Two years. I thought it would be over by now.”
John let his free hand rest on the young man’s shoulder. One stumbled upon such moments with strangers. In his line of work, John had encountered more than most. Sometimes a touch helped, even a stranger’s.
Gustav took a deep breath, pressed his lips together and straightened his shoulders. John drew his hand away.
***
He spotted the two men who had bought Gustav’s work speaking to another artist. John checked her in the catalogue. She was also a first-time exhibitor.
***
Sherlock was leaning, forearms resting on the white railing edging the upper levels, and monitoring the activity on the lower floors when John approached the bay where Icarus was displayed. John stopped next to him, leaning the other way, elbows behind him.
“Too late with the blond fellow,” Sherlock said.
John nodded. “Did you see them?” he asked.
“Mm,” Sherlock replied. “And I know who they are. Well, who they say they are.” Sherlock handed a business card to John.
“You asked them for one?” he asked.
“I relieved a young artist who had already sold his work of it, after they’d stopped by. One has to act fast to have a chance at the Brazilians. They are selling very well. Of course, there are a number of collectors and curators or their agents here.”
“Are those two legitimate, then?” John asked, a note of disappointment in his voice.
“Having an established reputation doesn’t rule them out, but no. Not as far as a cursory check suggests, anyway. I didn’t have much time,” Sherlock said, taking his mobile out of his pocket and checking the screen, “being otherwise engaged. We’ll have to check all of tonight’s buyers.” Sherlock tapped something else on his screen and smiled.
“What?” John asked.
“Wireless is wonderful,” Sherlock said, nodding towards the ground floor. “I’ve got everything on her tablet so far.”
John glanced over his shoulder and noticed the black-clad gallery employee with what he had thought was just a clipboard. A young man intercepted her and she flipped open the cover and tapped another entry into her tablet and the young man scurried off. “I hope no one else is utilising it as you are,” he murmured.
“They’d need an extraordinary decryption programme to make sense of what’s on here or what’s on her tablet for that matter. We mustn’t completely rule out that someone has that. Unlikely though,” Sherlock explained, tilting the phone back and forth once before slipping it into his pocket.
“Ah, Papa, there they are,” Maria’s voice said. John and Sherlock turned towards the sound as Maria emerged from a large group coming up the stairs with an older man by the arm. He looked tired, but otherwise not quite old enough to have a daughter John’s age or a few years older, his luxuriant dark hair only lightly streaked with grey, his skin but faintly lined around the eyes and the mouth.
Maria drew up in front of John as Sherlock turned to face them. “He made it,” she announced to them both, hugging her father’s arm closer to her side. “Papa, I’d like to introduce Mr Jay Watson and Mr Johannes de Groot of Chronophage Enterprises. Jay, Johannes, I’d like you to meet my father, Mr Ferruccio Morstan de Ybarra.” Ybarra’s eyes swept over Sherlock and John while his daughter spoke, his calculating look more of a father assessing the merit of his daughter’s potential suitor than a businessman considering her latest professional contacts. Sherlock supposed that Ybarra had accurately interpreted the timbre of Maria’s voice, the colour in her cheeks. Ybarra’s gaze flicked back and forth between Sherlock and John, trying to ascertain which one of them had put the roses there.
John declared himself honoured, extending his arm first and Ybarra turned slightly to accept it with both hands, the gesture more one of control, than welcome. John met Ybarra’s gaze as their hands met and his expression changed. Sherlock cleared his throat slightly as he offered his hand as well. Ybarra looked away from John at the sound.
“It has been a privilege to meet an artist who works in one of the media in which Jay and I endeavour to restore antique pieces. Her sculpture,” Sherlock continued as John remained silent, “has altered my view of modern expressions in the medium.” Sherlock inclined his head towards the sculpture behind Maria.
“Yes,” John murmured in agreement.
“Papa would like to invite us all to dinner this evening after the exhibition,” Maria said, looking from Sherlock to John and back. “If you’re free,” she added, her smile dimming.
Sherlock shook his head and addressed Ybarra. “I regret that we are not able to accept your kind invitation. We’ve had an urgent request that necessitates our being on a flight tonight. One of our oldest clients requires our view on the authenticity of several items unexpectedly offered for sale by a private collector. Unfortunately, the offer will not remain open long.” John masked any surprise at this unexpected announcement. Sherlock shifted his attention to Maria, taking her hand and raising it towards his mouth. “We hope to be in Paris during your exhibit. If your schedule allows, will you permit us to call on you there?” He finished his statement by lightly touching his lips to the back of her hand.
Sherlock straightened and extended his hand to Ybarra. “We’re sorry to take our leave so abruptly, sir, but we should just have time to collect our things from the hotel and reach the airport, if we go now.”
“Of course,” Ybarra said, taking Sherlock’s hand.
John watched Ybarra study Sherlock’s face as they shook hands and wondered whether he recognised him. The man appeared to travel frequently to Europe. He might have seen the London papers, might have a better eye for faces than most.
“Thank you again for your invitation,” John interjected, arm thrust forward. Ybarra nodded at Sherlock before releasing his hand and taking John’s.
“When you are next in Sao Paulo, then,” Ybarra said and John matched the voice despite the different accent, found a familiar expression in the dark eyes.
“It would be our pleasure,” John said and pulled his gaze away to look at Maria. She tilted her cheek and John leaned forward to kiss beside the one side and then the other. “Don’t forget us,” he said.
“I will try,” Maria said with a light laugh. John thought the tone might have been for her father.
“Jay,” Sherlock said, stepping away.
“Yes, right. Duty calls,” John said, bowing slightly to Maria and nodding to her father before he followed.
“Which one?” John heard Ybarra whisper to Maria as he turned away. John had picked up enough Portuguese to recognise the simple question. He didn’t hear her answer.
***
“You saw?” John asked in the car.
“Obviously. That’s why we’re skipping Rio and leaving for Europe tonight,” Sherlock replied. “Before we go to Paris, we need to spend some time in a good lab.”
“In Copenhagen?”
“No, I know someone there who operates a ferry to Aberdeen,” Sherlock answered.
“The long way to Bart’s. Still avoiding Mycroft?”
“For a little longer, if we can,” Sherlock said.
“Are you going to contact Bertrand?” John asked.
“Not yet.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part of the series, Revisionist, may be read
Revisionist.