soledad_writes

SHERLOCK & THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Soledad

Author’s note: For visuals: Billy is “played” by Colin Morgan (hence the surname), and Mary by Amanda Abbington.

A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”. The Babur is a really existing Indian restaurant in London.

Timeframe: After Sherlock’s return. John has been married to Mary for about a year and moved out of 221B Baker Street.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 02 – SIR JAMES MAKES AN APPEARANCE

September 4th 2014

As John had expected, Mary was not pleased by the prospective change of their plans for the next day. But – just as predictably – she couldn’t withstand the chance to dine in the Babur’s special separee; no lover of Indian kitchen would. And that without the respect that getting into the Babur in the first place would earn them among their friends.

Said friends were mostly medical professionals, including Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper (who had introduced them to each other to begin with), Sarah Sawyer and even Bill Murray. Granted, Bill was just an Army nurse, but he had saved John’s life in Afghanistan, which meant he could do no wrong in Mary’s eyes.

Besides, his wife got on fabulously with Mike’s so their little circle was a friendly and pleasant one, based on shared professional interest and on the fact that they all came from the middle class. Well, save for Bill, but he made up for that by being funny. And by having saved John’s life.

The simplest dinner at the Babur would be a costly affair for any of them. One in the special separee was well beyond what they could usually afford, unless they wanted to empty their pockets for a wedding anniversary or some other important occasion.

“Don’t worry,” John reassured Mary when she voiced her concern about that. “Mycroft must want that case solved very badly; he just sent over a bianco card for the Babur with one of his lackeys.”

“Are we accepting it?” Mary knew that John didn’t like to accept any favours; especially not from Mycroft Holmes. He was still a little mad at the man for letting him believe that Sherlock was dead.

Mary didn’t blame him. She’d seen what Sherlock’s ‘death’ had done to John and was suitably mad at Mycroft himself, for putting John through so much emotional pain. Even if John’s pain and loneliness had opened the way to his heart for her. She didn’t want him in pain. Ever.

John shrugged. “It’s his fault that Sherlock’s agreed to talk to his Sir James in the first place. It’s only fair that he should pay the price. Besides, he can afford it. What use does he have for all that money? He’s already got everything.”

“Save for friends and family,” Mary said quietly. John nodded.

“Yeah. Bad luck for him that one can’t simply buy such things for money, but why shouldn’t we allow him to try?”

Mary finally laughed at that, accepting the change of plans for their day off with minimal effort. It was the Babur, after all. They wouldn’t get a chance like that again any time soon.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And so in the next afternoon, after a very pleasurable Thames river cruise – the weather behaved for a change, and they had spontaneously decided to play tourist – John kissed his wife good-bye, with the solemn promise that he’d be home in time for their fancy dinner, and caught a cab to get to Baker Street. He arrived a little before the time Sherlock had given him and looked around with a relieved sigh. He might not have lived here for almost two years, but it still felt like home.

And it hadn’t changed much since his very first visit four… no, more than five years ago. Speedy’s was still in business, although Mr Chatterjee no longer owned it, and Mrs Hudson was still busting around in 221A, although she had become visibly older and more fragile since John had moved out.

The only difference was that 221C no longer stood empty. Billy Morgan, once a valuable member of Sherlock’s homeless network and now his lab assistant, errand boy and sometimes-nursemaid, had moved in, courtesy of Mycroft (who found coming up for the rent a small price in exchange for having someone to look after his little brother) and kept a watchful eye on both other occupants of the flat.

In his mid-twenties, he still barely looked older than seventeen, was still frightfully thin and waif-like – “pastry Irish boy”, as he described himself – with an unruly mop of ink-black hair and wide, deep blue eyes. He was devoted to Sherlock and bright enough that Sherlock would tolerate his continued presence and even be willing to teach him things.

The fact that Billy was interested in chemistry certainly helped. He was also a quick learner and had a good memory – and an affinity for computers. He was a “raw diamond”, as Sherlock put it; one that he didn’t mind to cut a bit from time to time.

For Sherlock, this was as close to showing affection towards anyone who wasn’t John as he’d ever come.

John, for his part, liked the boy who had surprisingly good manners for a former street urchin. Therefore he grinned widely when Billy came to answer the door.

“How’re you doing, Billy?”

“Fine, Doctor Watson, just fine,” Billy beamed at him. “Mr Holmes showed me a brand new method for removing blood stains today. He’s in the living room, waiting for you.”

I’m sure he is, John thought, imagining his best friend pacing in the living room like a caged tiger. Sherlock wasn’t big on patience – if he was willing to include Billy in one of his experiments, he must have been hideously bored already. And a bored Sherlock was a volatile thing.

Time for the cavalry to come to the rescue, John thought, amused, and hobbled up the stairs to save the world’s only consulting detective from what the man despised most – boredom.

The living room was as cluttered with Sherlock’s things as always; only the coffee table had been cleaned of any unsavoury substances. John noticed with mild surprise that Sherlock had actually brought out the good china: the bone china tea service designed by Ali Miller, each piece decorated with a stylized hand printed map of the British Isles with ships sailing around.

He could also hear that the kettle was already whistling in the kitchen. Whoever this Sir James Damery might be, Sherlock was clearly trying to make a good impression – which only made John even more curious. Anyone whom Sherlock would go such lengths to impress must have been quite the personality.

He also clearly believed in punctuality, because barely had John made himself comfortable in his old armchair – it stood ready to accept him in any hour of the day, complete with the Union Jack pillow, like in old times – when the doorbell rang again. Moments later Billy escorted their visitor up the stairs, as Mrs Hudson had to give up such small pleasantries due to the worsening of her arthritis.

“Sir James Damery for Mr Holmes,” the boy announced in a manner that he’d clearly borrowed from some period drama; Downton Abbey perhaps, which was currently running on several channels.

Unfortunately for him, the result was rather hilarious.

Well, at least he tries to fit in, John thought, suppressing a grin and turning his attention to their visitor who came in briskly, hot on Billy’s heels.

Now that he saw the man, he actually recognised the big, masterful aristocrat from the rare – surprisingly rare, considering him importance – occasions he appeared in the media. On second thought, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising after all. If he had a role similar to Mycroft’s – troubleshooting behind the scenes – it was understandable that he preferred to remain in the background.

He must have come directly from his country manor if the herringbone tweed suit he was wearing was any indication. It was olive green and of a cut not typically worn in the city as John had learned from his (not always voluntary) association with Mycroft. The brown check-pattern of his shirt matched the suit beautifully – not surprising, as he was famous for his meticulous care in dressing, at least if the gossip columns could be believed.

The pearl pin in his black satin tie had probably cost more than John and Mary made in a month together, but he didn’t appear like one of those rich and powerful men who liked to show off their wealth. He probably just liked to be well-dressed… again, like Mycroft.

At that point the similarities ended, though, because no-one could have been more different from the quiet, reserved, vaguely sinister Mycroft Holmes than this large, blunt, honest man with his broad, clean-shaven face and pleasant, mellow voice. Frank, grey Irish eyes and an easy smile hat spoke of good humour completed the altogether pleasant image of a strong personality that dominated the room – despite Sherlock’s presence, which also was a strong one.

“Mr Holmes,” he said in a heartily manner and took off his gloves to shake Sherlock’s hand. “How good of you to see me at such short a notice!”

“I’m afraid that my brother insisted,” Sherlock replied, ushering him towards the coffee table while John clambered to his feet. “Not that it would have been necessary, of course. Knowing your reputation as a mediator in delicate matters assured me that the case would be a challenging one, but my brother loves to meddle. May I introduce Doctor John Watson, a friend and sometimes colleague?”

“Of course, I was prepared to find Doctor Watson here,” Sir James shook John’s hand vigorously. “My pleasure, sir. I’ve been following that blog of yours with great interest for years. It was recommended to me by Her Majesty’s Equerry. A most interesting read. Most interesting indeed.”

John stole a look at Sherlock’s sour expression and had a hard time to suppress a giggle. Even after all those years, Sherlock could still be insulted that John’s blog – which he often criticised as childish, sensationalist, scientifically inaccurate and grammatically appalling – had so much more readers than his own website.

That didn’t keep him from reading John’s blog, of course, if only to make acerbic comments – which John then ignored with practiced ease. Like he was ignoring the trademark Sherlockian pout right now.

“Thank you, Sir James,” he said instead simply.

In the olden days he’d have offered the man tea, but he had to remind himself that this wasn’t his home anymore. The flat with the little practice in Queen Anne Street was. So he sat back in his old armchair with a pang of sadness and watched as Sherlock poured them tea with his usual grace.

It was a different blend than the cheap teabags from Tesco’s he’d used to buy for them when he’d lived here: presumably a lot more expensive, and lose leaf tea, like the sort that Mycroft served in the rare cases that his regular kidnappings would take place in his office rather than the usual empty warehouse. So much had changed since he left Baker Street.

But Sherlock still remembered how John took his tea and that, again, caused a doctor a pang of sadness. As much as he loved Mary and enjoyed his new life, he missed this. He missed Sherlock and the madness that was living at 221B Baker Street.

Being a full-time doctor was fulfilling, even challenging sometimes. But chasing criminals across the rooftops of London had been exciting, and he missed that excitement. That bloody Mycroft had been so right at their first encounter. London was a battlefield, and John Watson was missing his war.

~TBC~