soledad_writes

SHERLOCK & THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Soledad

Author’s note: A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”. For visuals: Kitty Winter is ‘played’ by Georgia Moffet.

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

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

CHAPTER 06 – LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY

September 5th 2014

The day in the practice had been long and exhausting… which, on the one hand, was a good thing, John mused, after having seen the last patient of the day out and collapsing on his office chair. A numerous clientele meant a good reputation and a steady income, both of which they needed if they wanted to maintain a certain – however modest – lifestyle. Life in London was not cheap.

On the other hand, all those mundane cases could be really mind-numbing. Sometimes he thought if he had one more flu patient, or upset stomach, or imaginary tearing in a little old lady’s arthritic back, he’d scream. Yes, he loved his profession, but his current work was light years away from the rush of being a battlefield trauma surgeon, which he’d chosen to train for as a young medicine student. Being a GP, working in his own modest little practice day in, day out was boring.

He tended to understand Sherlock better on days like this.

Perhaps he wouldn't be so restless if he’d taken that job at A&E he’d been offered right after falling in love with Mary. Making split-second decisions, facing life-threatening injuries would be the closest thing to what he had been doing in Afghanistan; only without the danger of being shot. But that would have meant long, irregular hours; a job that he couldn’t push to the side whenever Sherlock needed his help.

Besides, Mary couldn’t run the practice on her own. It was a two-doctor job.

He sighed and rubbed his burning eyes tiredly. The cabin fever was getting to him again. He needed to get out, and he needed it now, or he’d be snapping at Mary for nothing again, and all the good their wonderful dinner at the Babur had done would be ruined.

Sherlock had texted last night to meet him at Simpson’s at the usual time – which was 7 p.m. – and he just had enough time left to grab a shower and change clothes. The problem was, he’d forgotten to mention it to Mary in the morning, and now dreaded her reaction to the news that he was about to leave her alone for the evening. Again.

She’d been fairly tolerant so far, but living with Sherlock’s demands wasn’t an easy thing, for either of them. Even though Sherlock was showing remarkable restraint lately, at least compared with his earlier behaviour.

Well, that couldn’t be helped. Gathering his strength, John stood to close the practice and ‘face the music’, as they say.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He was extremely relieved (and a bit ashamed over his own reaction) to find Mary in the living room, entertaining Sarah Sawyer and Molly Hooper. The latter had obviously brought a whole bag of muffins and scones and other sweets, and the three women were having tea, discussing the new financial restrictions for private clinics and the general idiocy of the Health Secretary… a topic that would never become outdated.

“Since you’ll be out with Sherlock tonight, I organised a girls’ night in for us,” Mary explained, taking his face in both hands and kissing him. “Hurry up or you’ll be late; and he’ll be huffing and puffing all the time again.”

John stared at his wife in surprise. “You know? I forgot to tell you, I’m so sorry…”

Mary grinned and showed him her phone. “Yeah, but he didn’t forget.”

Will need John tonight. Tell him to be on time. SH, said the message on the screen.

John groaned and rolled his eyes. “We’ll need another talk about privacy, it seems. If he thinks I’m his lapdog, that all he needs it to snap his fingers and I’ll come running…”

“Yes, you will; and you love it,” Mary interrupted. “Go and have a shower; you look like you need it. And wear your brown leather jacket; I don’t want you to look like somebody from Sherlock’s homeless network next to those fancy suits of him.”

“You’re very… accepting about this,” Sarah said when John vanished in the bathroom upstairs.

“About Sherlock intruding in our lives?” Mary clarified. “Yes, I am. I have no other choice if I want to keep John. I can’t compete with what they had…. what they still have. It’s unique. So I’m beating Sherlock in the one area where he won’t stand a chance against me.”

“W-what’s that?” Molly asked, mildly shocked by the mere idea of anyone beating Sherlock in anything.

“Social graces,” Mary replied smiling.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And so, shortly before 7 p.m, John was sitting with Sherlock at a small table in the front window of Simpson’s – another one of the numerous restaurants where Sherlock could dine for free, due to some past favour done to the owner – looking down at the rushing stream of life in the Strand, listening to Sherlock’s report about his visit at Vernon Lodge.

He was wearing the brown leather jacket, of course.

“I hope Johnson will find something,” Sherlock finished his story. “Some really nasty secret that we can use to discredit the Baron in Violet’s eyes.”

“But if she won’t accept what’s already known, why should any fresh discovery of yours change her mind?” John asked doubtfully. Sherlock shrugged.

“Violet is, in many things, like Mummy, They have their own, twisted view on things. Murder might be condoned or explained, yet some smaller offence might rankle. Actually, she does have a lot in common with the Baron, too. They both have an affability that’s more deadly that the violence of more primitive people. In their elegant, sophisticated ways they’re both ruthless and dangerous.”

“The Baron certainly gave you a fair warning,” John said, increasingly worried.

Sherlock nodded. “And he should be taken seriously. He’s the sort of man who says rather less than he means.”

“Must you interfere then?” John asked. “Does it matter if he marries the girl?”

“You mean despite the fact that he undoubtedly murdered his last wife?” Sherlock asked back. “I should say it matters very much – at least for Violet’s father. And then there’s Mummy, of course. We shouldn’t forget about Mummy.”

John shot him a bewildered look. “What has your mother to do with all this?”

“Violet is for Mummy the daughter she never had,” Sherlock explained dryly. “When Mycroft was born, Father was very pleased to finally have an heir. Mummy… not so much. She wanted a daughter. And when I was born, seven years later… well, let’s just say that she never got over her disappointment. She’d never forgive me if I allowed Violet to marry the Baron. She’s been her only comfort for not having a daughter of her own.”

Well, that certainly explained some of the palpable tension between Lady Holmes and her sons; not to mention Mycroft’s desperate – and ill-concealed – efforts to please her. It also explained Sherlock’s open resentment – unlike Mycroft, he didn’t address their mother as ‘Mummy’ – and his adamant refusal to attend to family gatherings, unless there was absolutely no way to avoid them.

“Well, that’s… that’s a bit not good,” John offered lamely.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s irrelevant. Anyway, if you’ve finished your coffee you should come home to Baker Street with me. Johnson should be there with his report soon.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
John agreed, eager to learn what Shinwell Johnson might have found out, and so they returned to Baker Street without delay. Mrs Hudson greeted him in delight; she still missed him, despite his frequent visits. They chatted for a few minutes before John would climb the steps to the living room upstairs.

Shinwell Johnson was already waiting for them, under the watchful eye of Billy; a huge, red-faced man, built like a brick shithouse and of a disposition that went with his looks. His small, deep-set dark eyes, however, belied that first impression, revealing a shrewd and quick mind under the rough surface.

And he was not alone. Beside him on the couch was a young woman just this side of thirty, John’s experienced eyes told him, although, by the skeletal looks of her, she could have been of any age between twenty and forty. Her straw blonde hair was pulled back into a spiky ponytail, emphasizing the hollowness of her unnaturally pale face, with parchment-thin skin stretched too tightly over the protruding cheekbones. There were dark smudges under her wide blue eyes; dark enough that not even the generously applied make-up could fully conceal them. She was positively waif-like, almost emaciated, and the needle marks on her arms spoke clearly about the reason.

“This is Miss Kitty Winter,” Shinwell Johnson waved at her with a large, tattooed paw. “She knows things of the man you’re after, Mr ‘olmes… but she’d better speak for herself. Found her within an hour of yer message.”

“I’m easy to find,” the young woman said bitterly, giving them the pale shadow of a once bright smile.

Her voice was high-pitched, almost child-like, the educated tones still audible under the overlaying street accent she must have adopted in recent years. It showed a sad contrast to her ruined looks, aged prematurely due to the drug abuse and by the methods she used to get her daily fix.

“Hell, London gets me every time,” she continued in a self-deprecating manner. “You see, we’re old mates, Porky Shinwell and me. But I never thought he’d be helping me to pay back that monster one day.”

“I assume you’re speaking of Baron Gruner,” Sherlock said.

The young woman laughed. It had an almost hysterical overtone, and John wondered if she was high or simply a bit loony – or both.

“Oh, yes, the Lügenbaron,” she said. “Everyone falls for his lies, until it’s too late. And then, they either end up dead or like me, wishing they were dead,” she leaned forward, her eyes burning with an intensity that bordered on madness. “I’ve heard of you, Sherlock Holmes. Who in England has not? I know you can see through all the lies – who if not you? And if I can help to put that beast where he belongs, I’m yours to use in any way that could lead to his downfall. Any way at all!”

“I suppose that you, too, have some unfinished business with Mr Gruner then,” Sherlock said. She stiffened defensively.

“No need to go into my past, Mr Holmes. That’s neither here nor there. Let’s just say that Adelbert Gruner made me what I am. And I’d do anything if I could only pull him into the same abyss where he has pushed so many.”

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, John thought, seeing her white, set face, her blazing eyes, her determination to destroy the man who had destroyed her.

Not that he’d blame her for her hatred. What she’d become was all too obvious: a drug addict, surely; perhaps also a prostitute, selling herself for the next fix, if her suggestive clothing was any indication. And the small red veins marking her nose, half-heartedly concealed by powder that urgently needed refreshing, spoke of a drinking habit as well.

Just a few years ago she’d been a pretty young girl. Now he was a wreck beyond repair, and all this because she chose the wrong man. It was simply not fair!

However, both her name and her features seemed vaguely familiar to John. Not from a personal encounter; he was fairly sure they’d never met before. It was something he’d heard years ago, probably back in Afghanistan – but what?

Well, if he had heard about it in Afghanistan, Bill Murray would know. Bill had been a bottomless well of home-related gossip; even kept a record about the more interesting cases, stating that one needed to be up-to-date.

“Excuse me for a moment,” John said and left the room. He had some research to do .

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He climbed the second fling of stairs to his old bedroom. Sherlock had kept it untouched, for practical reasons as he always said, so that John could sleep there should a case ho well into the night. John rarely did so, preferring to go home to Mary, but he still kept some of his stuff there.

Like his old laptop. Despite it practically being a dinosaur by now, it was still internet-compatible. And it contained all the data for their old cases, should they ever need them and should Sherlock have deleted them from his Mind Palace.

He booted up the trusted old thing and while waiting for it to come sluggishly alive, he sent Bill Murray a text.

What do you know about a Miss Kitty Winter? JW

Bill, who hated texting, called him back as expected.

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” he said. “Not personally, at least. But if the name came up due to one of your cases… can it be about the disappearance of Major Winter’s only daughter?”

“Probably,” John felt his pulse quickening like that of a hound on the right track of the game. “When was that?”

“Some ten years ago,” Bill replied after a bit of thinking. “I was on home leave; the city was full of ‘Wanted’ posters with her picture and her father begging for a hint, should anybody see her.”

Yes, that was it! Now John could remember. He’d been in Kandahar at that time, of course, so he’d never seen the posters. But Bill had brought them a whole bunch of illustrated magazines from his leave; that must have been were he’d seen the girl’s photo.

Which reminded him of another thing about that tragic case.

“Didn’t Major Winter die shortly after her daughter’s disappearance?” he asked.

“Yep, he did, the poor sod,” Bill replied. “Some training exercise gone wrong in the Gulf or whatnot. MP never figured out how or why. But if you ask me, he used it as a chance to off himself. He loved his little girl like only a hard-arsed old soldier could. He never got over her loss.”

“Yes,” John said slowly. “Yes, that would be a very plausible answer, wouldn’t it?”

“But you don’t believe it, right?” Bill teased.

“I’m not sure,” John confessed. “I mean, Major Winter came from a wealthy family, didn’t he?”

“Son of some rich industrial, yeah,” Bill, of course, was infallible when it came to Army-intern gossip. “His father wasn’t happy about him joining the Army, but in the end paid him off in cash and left the family business to his other son, apparently. The usual thing to do in such cases.”

“Exactly,” John said. “So, if the Major is dead and his daughter is disappeared… who got all that money?”

There was a long pause on Bill’s end of the connection.

“Damned if I know,” he finally said. “But it’s a good question. A very good question indeed. Do you want me to stretch out my antennae a bit? Ask some questions? Somebody of the old Army lads might have heard something.”

“No,” John said, more sharply than intended; then he immediately apologised. “Sorry, I’m a bit tense right now. Sherlock’s on a really big case; it might hinder him if we stirred up the muddy waters before he’s ready.”

“All right,” Bill sounded a little reluctant, understandably. “But if he does solve the case I’m the first to hear the story. Deal?”

“Deal,” John hung up, sat down on his old bed, balanced the laptop on his knees and began to search for articles about Kitty Winter’s mysterious disappearance – and about the no less mysterious death of Major Samuel Winter.

~TBC~