soledad_writes

SHERLOCK & THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Soledad

Author’s note: Beta read by

lindahoyland, thanks!

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CHAPTER 12 – RECOVERY AND BATTLE PLANS

September 15th 2014

For the next six days John hardly ever left 221B Baker Street. The media frenzy over what had happened to Sherlock blew over after a few days, in favour of newer, even more interesting scandals, and he was grateful for that. He was wracked enough with concern for Sherlock without those damned press hyenas lurking in front of the house all the time, trying to get a statement out of him.

There were only so many times he could say No comment! Without giving in to the urge to punch somebody in the bloody nose. Giving them a literal bloody nose.

He winced mentally at his own bad pun.

The sad truth was, however, that he hadn’t been exaggerating in his blog. Sherlock wasn’t doing well. Not because of his injuries, of course – they were bad, but a lot less severe than he’d described them – but because that idiot Sir Leslie had given him a massive dose of morphine, sending him first on a manic trip, during which John and Mary practically had to lie on him, so that he couldn’t get up and reinjure himself; only to plunge immediately into deep, suicidal depressions as soon as the morphine had worn out.

He was also in considerable pain, as John didn’t dare to give him anything stronger than Paracetamol.

John intended to say a few chosen words to Mycroft about calling any doctors to Sherlock without consulting him first, as soon as the crisis was over.

Right now, Sherlock needed to be watched round the clock. Mike had ordered infusions to keep him from complete dehydration, as he refused to eat or drink anything, and he had to be restrained, or else he’d have torn the IV lines out of his arm. Even so, John wouldn’t dare to let him remain unsupervised for a moment.

Which, of course, didn’t go down well with Sherlock, who hated people – especially strangers – touching him or even being in the same room with him unless by his own choice. For somebody who so blatantly disregarded the privacy of others, he certainly protected his own most jealously.

On the third day, John finally gave in and asked for help. He wasn’t a Holmes; he couldn’t go on without sleep indefinitely, and Mary was already overworked, too, carrying the practice entirely on her own. So he called in Molly, then Sarah; in the end, even Bill Murray.

One didn’t need to be a doctor to be able to restrain a delirious patient. In fact, being an Army nurse made one even more qualified for such things.

On the fifth day, Lestrade came to do some fact-checking. John told him everything about the case, knowing that the Detective Inspector was a discreet man. Besides, since the attack on Sherlock, it was the Yard’s case, too… sort of.

“So, what are you planning to do next?” Lestrade asked. “And why did you have to learn all that nonsense about old Chinese pottery?”

“I haven’t got the faintest,” John admitted. “You know Sherlock and his secretive streak. He likes his dramatic effects, yes, but always leaves everyone guessing what his exact plans are. You know the saying that the only safe plotter is he who plots alone, don’t you?”

“Yeah, well, he seems to push it to an extreme,” Lestrade muttered. “You’re closer to him than anyone else; one would think that he’d let you into the secret, if nobody else.”

“Like he told me he was actually alive in all those three years while I was mourning him?” John returned dryly, and Lestrade didn’t have an answer to that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On the seventh day, the worst finally seemed to be over. Sherlock woke up lucid and without the latent fever he’d been running, on and off, throughout the previous days, so Mike decided that the stitches could be taken out.

“I’ll do it myself,” John said. “I may no longer be able to do emergency operations, but my hand is still steady enough for such minor things Besides, I don’t want any of Mycroft’s butchers near him ever again.”

Mike agreed with the plan, and they asked Mary to assist as well, because they both knew it was going to be a painful process. Especially, as they did not dare to give Sherlock any more painkillers. Not even those that weren’t opium-based. One could never know with his “completely fucked-up body chemistry”, as John had put it in a moment of utter frustration.

Other than that, Sherlock was recovering well enough. Better than his still waif-like frame would have entitled any ordinary man. But, of course, he was not an ordinary man. He always healed fast, which John usually explained with sheer stubbornness, but now began to think that it was probably a genetic trait.

Whatever the reason might be, he was back on his feet right after the removal of the stitches, half-lying on the couch of the sitting room with the evening papers, nursing a cup of rapidly cooling tea, refusing to eat and griping about the lack of any headway in the Gruner case. In other words, back to true form.

Until he came to an article that reported that among the passengers of the cruise ship Ruritania, starting from Liverpool on the next Friday, was the Baron Adelbert Gruner, who had some important financial business to settle in the States before his impeding wedding to Miss Violet Merville, only daughter of… etc, etc.

“Dammit!” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing the newspaper to the floor in a fit of temper. "That leaves us less than three days to make our move! Oh, he’s smart, really smart! Either he’s seen through our smokescreen, or he simply feels that England is becoming too hot for him and is trying to put himself out of danger’s way.”

“What danger?” John asked realistically. “We might have exaggerated your injuries, but let’s face it, you are still a wreck. I seriously doubt that he’d consider you a real threat.”

“Possibly,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly. “But Mycroft is a different matter.”

“He knows about Mycroft?” John asked in surprise.

“Violet does,” Sherlock replied. “She also knows Mycroft would do just about anything to please Mummy. I imagine she’d warned Gruner that my brother has a long arm, aside from having a long nose that he likes to poke into everything. And that he takes it personally when somebody of the family gets hurt. “Even if that somebody is me.”

“You can’t blame a man for caring for his brother,” John pointed out. “God knows you give him enough reason to worry.”

“I can, if he ruins my cases with his meddling,” Sherlock scowled. “Never mind him at the moment, though. We need a plan.”

“What for?” John had, quite frankly, no idea what could they possibly do to stop the Baron. “Marrying a rich heiress is not a crime, and whatever other crimes he might have committed, we have no proof for it. Not the slightest.”

“I know,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly. “Which is why we need to get our hands on Gruner’s little book of dirty secrets.”

John stared at him in shock. “You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding. No, you’re not kidding,” he realised with a dreadful feeling of impending doom. “You’re actually serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m serious, how else are we going to persuade the police to arrest him before he can leave England?” Sherlock replied impatiently. “He won’t leave the book, the only actual proof of his criminal activities, behind. Therefore we need to get it before he leaves.”

“And I assume you already know how we should get it,” John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Which, as usual, went by Sherlock completely unnoticed.

“Of course I do; why, do you think, did I want you to learn about Chinese pottery?”

“I was wondering about that,” John confessed.

“And have you learned your lesson?” Sherlock asked.

“When have I refused to do what you demanded from me, even if it was completely insane,” John countered; then, his natural modesty taking over, he shrugged. “At least I’ve tried my best.”

“Good. Could you keep up a moderately intelligent conversation on the subject?”

“I believe I could,” John wished he’d feel half as confident as he tried to sound.

“Then hand me that little box from the mantelpiece,” Sherlock ordered, and John got on his feet with a long-suffering sigh.

Some things apparently never changed. At least he didn’t have to rummage through Sherlock’s pockets this time. Not while Sherlock was wearing the pieces of clothing said pockets belonged to. Thank God for small mercies.

Sherlock accepted the box with a distracted nod that went for thanks with him on a good day and opened the lid. There was a small object inside, carefully wrapped in bubble wrap and in fine silk. He removed the wrapping and revealed a delicate little saucer of the most beautiful deep blue colour.

John stared at it open-mouthed. His newly won knowledge of Chinese pottery was superficial at best, but even he could tell that he was looking at something infinitely precious.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, and Sherlock nodded in agreement.

“Indeed it is. This is the real eggshell pottery of the Ming dynasty. No finer piece has ever passed through Christie’s. A complete set of this would be worth millions, in the double digits, at the very least. In fact, it’s unlikely that there would be a complete set outside the National Arts and Crafts Museum in Beijing. The mere sight of this would drive any passionate collector mad with desire.”

“So, how did you come by it then?” John asked. “Cause you weren’t in any shape for a quick trip in China in the recent days, just to nick it from that museum.”

“Actually, it belongs to the Chinese ambassador,” Sherlock replied. “It’s only a loan, so you’ll have to handle it carefully. It would cost more than that pathetic little practice of yours if you managed to break it.”

“How on Earth did you manage to borrow something like his from the Chinese ambassador in the first place?” John asked in surprise; then realisation dawned. “Oh. Of course. Mycroft.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock agreed. “He does have his uses, occasionally.”

“I still don’t understand how something like this is supposed to help us,” John said. “Aside from making me deadly afraid of breaking it, that is.”

“Oh, do try to keep up, John, surely you could have figured it out by now,” Sherlock replied with a dramatic roll of his eyes; then he handed John a card that said.

Dr. H. Barton
369 Half Moon Street

John studied it for a moment, then he shook his head. “Nope, still no idea.”

“This is your name for tomorrow evening,” Sherlock explained with enforced patience. “You’ll call upon Baron Gruner. I’ve learned a bit about his habits – with the help of Shinwell’s associates, of course – and can be reasonably sure that he’ll be available at half past eight.”

“Available for what?”

“A note will tell him in advance that you’re about to call,” Sherlock continued, as if John hadn’t interrupted him at all. “And you’ll say that you’re bringing him a piece of an absolutely unique set of Ming china. You may as well be a medical man, since that’s a part you’ll be able to play convincingly, despite being a horrible actor.”

“Gee, thanks!” John said dryly.

Sherlock ignored him, as always when he was on a roll.

“You’re a collector,” he explained. “This little gem has come your way. You’ve heard of the Baron’s interest in the subject, and you’re not averse to selling it at a price.”

“What price?” John asked, slightly out of his depth. Which, considering that the small piece of pottery was apparently more worth than his practice, was understandable.

Sherlock nodded. “Good question, John. You’d certainly fall down badly if you didn’t know the value of your wares.”

“But I don’t know, do I?” John asked. “I could perhaps suggest that the saucer should be valued by an expert…”

Sherlock’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Brilliant, John! You’re outdoing yourself today. Oh, I’m so proud of you!”

“Ta,” John replied dryly. “I thought it would make me more convincing if I didn’t put a price on the thing myself, seeing that I don’t have the faintest idea what it might be worth. Who should I suggest, though?”

“Christie’s. Or Sotheby’s,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. “They are the highest authority; no-one would question their expertise in the matter, seeing as they’d been dealing with such valuable items for at least two hundred years.”

“But what if the Baron won’t see me?” John asked worriedly.

Sherlock waved off his concern.

“Oh, he will see you all right. He’s one of those obsessed collectors that couldn’t bear it if a piece of true value might be purchased by a rival – especially of a type on which he’s an acknowledged authority. Do sit down, John, and I’ll dictate the letter. No answer needed. You’ll merely say that you’re coming and why.”

John dutifully obeyed, and soon the letter was finished. He had to admit that it was a brilliant document: short, courteous, and stimulating to the curiosity of a real connoisseur. He printed it out, they found a fine enough envelope and Sherlock, who had a much neater handwriting, put the name and address on it. All they would need was to have it dispatched by a courier when Mary arrived, having closed the practice for the day, and eager to hear what plans had they forged in her absence.

~TBC~

Note: my dear, knowledgeable beta pointed out to me that morphine wouldn’t do the things I stated it to do. I stand corrected – I must admit that I followed other misinformed people in fanfiction. One day, when I’m retired and have all the time the world, I’ll rewrite that passage, I swear, but at the moment I just need to finish this story, so keep in mind that I was obviously wrong and bear with me until then. Thanks.