soledad_writes

SHERLOCK & THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Soledad

Author’s note: Some of the dialogue is loosely based on John’s blog entry re: The Blind Banker.

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

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

CHAPTER 07 – CONCERNING POTTERY

September 6th 2014

“All right, that is one story you never told me,” Mary Watson (née Morstan) said, sitting down with her other half at the kitchen table for a shared breakfast the next morning.

John gave her a wry smile. “You can read it up in my blog, you know.”

“I have,” Mary poured tea into both cups – in her opinion mugs were something for coffee; tea ought to be served in proper cups. She’d even brought a nice old Worchester set into the marriage, just so that she could enforce the new rule. John didn’t mind, either way. “I prefer to hear it from you.”

“All right,” John had learned not to argue with his wife over such things; besides, he liked the way she listened to his stories with wide-eyed excitement. It was quite the ego boost, and he could use that. “As you know, it all started with an e-mail Sherlock got from an old schoolmate of his.”

“That slimy floor manager guy from the Shad Sanderson Bank you introduced me to last month, right?” Mary asked with a disgusted grimace. “Was this the day when you had that row with the chip and pin machine at Tesco’s and decided to get a job?”

John stared at her with a frown. “You know about that, too?”

“I told you: I’ve read every single entry in your blog,” she replied. “I wanted to learn who you are; what makes you tick. By the way, that rant about the chip and pin machine? It was hilarious. So were the comments.”

“Well, yeah, they installed the bloody machines while I was away to Afghanistan,” John said, a bit defensively. “I still don’t see what they could possibly be good for – if anything.”

“Nobody does, love,” Mary patted his arm in an encouraging way. “Their only purpose I can see is that they enable some shady government agency to keep tab on our shopping habits.”

John laughed at that. “I’d never have taken you for one of those paranoid conspiracy theorists.”

“I wasn’t,” Mary assured him. “But then you introduced me to Mycroft Holmes. Since then, I search the flat for surveillance cameras every day.”

“Ever found any?” John grinned, his admiration for his wife getting up another notch or two.

“At first, yeah,” Mary grinned back at her. “After I’d made rude gestures at whoever might have been watching and destroyed a few of them with a sledgehammer, though, they seemed to disappear. Either he gave up, or his minions actually learned their job. Nonetheless, I still check the most obvious places each day. Better safe than sorry.”

“Why the obvious places? You say yourself that they’re… well, obvious.”

“Yeah, but they’re also within easy reach,” Mary explained. “They are the places where a patient – or somebody disguised as a patient, or a plumber, or a gas worker or whatnot – can quickly and easily plant such things.”

“True,” John conceded. “That still leaves the other places. They can get into the flat while we’re both away and work undisturbed.”

“But those places won’t give them half as good a view as the obvious ones,” Mary pointed out practically. “And I check those places, too, once a week, just in case.”

John shook his head, laughing. “That’s it, no more James Bond marathons for you, Mrs Watson. They make you grossly paranoid.”

“That’s Doctor Watson for you, Captain,” Mary said sternly.

“Nope, Doctor Watson is me,” John replied. “You’re Doctor Morstan.”

“Then call me that, will you?”

“I could; but I kinda like the sound of Mrs Watson. It means that you’re mine. And vice versa.”

“Sap,” Mary tossed the bag of scones, freshly bought from the bakery on the corner, in his direction; save for the china cups for tea, they didn’t stand on ceremony when it was just the two of them. “Well, eat up already and tell me the story. I want to know all about it, even the things that aren’t in your blog. Especially the things that aren’t in your blog.”

“I thought Sarah had told you the story long ago,” John stuffed a buttered scone, generously slathered with his favourite strawberry jam, into his face and allowed himself a moment of pure, unspoiled pleasure.

Wedded bliss had many forms, and he appreciated each and every one.

“She told me about you falling asleep on your first day in the job,” Mary followed suit, though with decidedly more elegance. “And how Sherlock kept interfering with your dates. And how she got kidnapped and nearly killed by the Chinese mafia because those idiots thought you were Sherlock.”

“Yeah, flattery isn’t all what people pretend it would be,” John agreed. “Hence the entry with both our photos on the blog. For further reference.”

“Flattery?” Mary raised a finely groomed eyebrow. “Let me tell you a secret, love: not every woman falls for tall, dark, and bad-mannered. Some of us actually like the good things to come in small packages.” She leaned over the table and kissed him, licking the spot of jam off the corner of his mouth in the process. “In small… brave… cuddly packages,” she added, punctuating each word with quick little kisses.

“Keep this up and there won’t be any story today,” John warned. “Not that I’d mind, under normal circumstances, but I’ll have to make a trip to the National Antiques Museum after work, and that could take some time.”

“Why would you want to go there?”

“To talk to the director about ancient Chinese pottery.” John considered things for a moment, then grinned at his wife in his most winning manner; which, considering the fabled Watson charm, was quite a feat. “Fancy coming with me? I’ll tell you the story on the way; can even show you some of the crime scenes.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The National Antiques Museum was a large, Neo-Classical building of white stone, built somewhere between the beginning of the twentieth century and the First World War. It had a quadratic layout with four parallel wings and a large, tin-covered dome above its grand, colonnaded entrance.

“You know, I haven’t been here since the Blind Banker case,” John mused as they entered the circular central hall that lay directly under the dome, with the life-sized bronze statue of Pallas Athena, the protector goddess of all cities, sitting in the exact centre of it.

Directly across the hall, opposite the main entrance, a wide marble staircase led to the upper level. Facing the entrance, in a wall niche stood another life-sized bronze statue: that of a practically naked Perseus, holding up the severed head of the Gorgon.

“Nice properties,” Mary muttered in appreciation, eyeing the statue with interest. “Although rather modest in some areas. Clearly, the Ancient Greeks didn’t think that size would matter so much.”

John felt his ears burning. It was ridiculous, really. As a soldier, he’d heard worse things. Much worse things, wherever the guys had been frustrated about their sex life (or the lack thereof), which had practically been all the time. Still, whenever Mary indulged in her own version of dirty talk, he was in equal measures embarrassed and turned on.

“Sorry, love,” Mary wasn’t Sherlock of course (nobody was), but she was a very observant person in her own way. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Not when there’s no suitable broom closet within reach anyway,” she added wickedly; then became serious again. “You were talking about the Blind Banker case, I believe.”

John nodded, forcing his mind back away from the temptation and to the old case.

“Er, yes. If you read my blog entry, you’ll remember that it was a huge smuggling operation. They were trading in stolen Chinese antiquities, using people who travelled a lot – a banker, a journalist, probably others, too – to bring them into the UK. Delivery was through this Chinese emporium on Shaftesbury Avenue, the Lucky Cat. It was a shop full of tat, so actually a very good dropping place. But it was there that we realised what all those yellow graffiti tags were.”

“Old Chinese numbers,” Mary supplied, remembering that particular detail from John’s blog, who nodded again.

“Yep. Sherlock then noticed that nobody had been in the flat above the shop for a few days… but that the window was open. So, of course, he just had to break in and have me standing outside while he explored.”

“And nearly getting himself killed again,” Mary added.

“That, too,” John agreed. “In any case, it turned out the flat belonged to Soo Lin.”

“The woman who worked in this museum,” Mary said.

“She was really brilliant, you know,” John said with a sad little smile. “What she didn’t know about those old Chinese teapots probably wasn’t even worth knowing. And hiding right here, although she had every reason to fear for her life, so she could continue looking after some of those teapots that hadn’t been fully restored yet… It was absurd; but also strangely beautiful. A real shame that they killed her, too. Imagine that: four people dead, just because a bloody hairpin! An Empress’s hairpin, granted, but still a hairpin.”

“If I remember correctly, it was a hairpin worth nine million pounds, though,” Mary pointed out. John shrugged.

“Still not worth killing for it; or getting killed.”

“Few things are,” Mary replied. “So, what does this have to do with the reason why we’re here today?”

“Cause Sherlock needs me to learn everything I can about Chinese pottery in the shortest possible time,” John grinned. “And this is the best place for that.”

Mary gave him a jaundiced look. “I see he’s taught you the wisdom of obedience.”

“Through long exposure, yeah,” John laughed. “Doing what he demands from you is easier than watching him sulk all day.”

“Hmmm,” Mary murmured thoughtfully. “I might utilise that training later.”

John reddened again and, in a hopeless effort to hide it, turned to one of the museum guards. “Excuse me, sir; can we speak with Ms Acquah, the director of this establishment?”

The guard looked at them uncertainly. “Well, I don’t know…”

“Tell her that Doctor John Watson would like to speak with her, on behalf of Sherlock Holmes,” John said in a friendly but firm manner.

After a moment of hesitation, the guard scurried away and Mary gave her husband a proud grin.

“Well done, Captain. I see you still have it in you to make people jump at your orders.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ms Acquah – or rather Doctor Acquah – turned out to be an attractive woman in her mid-forties, with mahogany skin, a head full of short, woolly hair, wearing a knee-length dress with an eye-wateringly bright pattern and a double row of fake pearls of the size of walnuts. The outfit still looked good on her somehow.

She also seemed to remember John, because she greeted him in a friendly enough fashion.

“Dr Watson, how good to see you again!” she shook John’s hand enthusiastically. “And this is…?”

“My wife, Dr Mary Morstan,” John introduced them to each other.

“Pleased to meet you,” Ms Acquah shook hands with Mary, too. “So, what can I do for you… or for Mr Holmes?”

“For Sherlock, actually,” John admitted. “He wants me to learn everything about ancient Chinese pottery; preferably yesterday, or the day before. I thought you could perhaps give me a crash course; or, at least, a list of the most useful websites.”

“I can try, although you’d be better off with Andy Galbraith, but he’s got the day off,” Ms Acquah said. “But why do you need to learn about Chinese pottery in such haste?”

“I’ve no idea,” John confessed a little sheepishly. “Only that it has something to do with Baron Gruner and his famous private collection.”

“You know the man?” Mary asked, seeing the museum director’s expression hardening upon hearing that name.

Ms Acquah nodded. “One of those obscenely rich private collectors who make sport of snatching irreplaceable antiquities from before our noses, just because they can mobilise great amounts of money a lot faster than any museum,” she looked at John. “At the time you visited us because of poor Soo Lin, Crispian had two Ming vases up for auction, from Chenghua. We badly wanted them for our collection; unfortunately, the Baron was faster. Again. I’d love to help you get him out of the equation any way I can.”

“You can begin by teaching us the basics,” John said.

Ms Acquah grinned at him. “You must understand, I’m not the expert; but I’m a good enough amateur. Sit down, both of you. We’ll have tea; and then I’ll give you everything I have on the topic.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
John and Mary accepted both offers thankfully, and in the next two hours – until the museum closed – they were given chapter and verse about Chinese ceramics. They learned about all the hallmarks of the great artist decorators, were treated to the mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the Hung-wu and the beauties of the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories of the primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. Amongst a thousand other details, really hard to remember for anyone who didn’t work in a museum. Fortunately, Mary had the presence of mind to record everything with her phone.

For somebody who considered herself an amateur, Ms Acquah was certainly well-informed.

“I’m just a nut for Chinese pottery,” she admitted, slightly embarrassed. “It has nothing to do with my actual area of expertise, which is the red-figured Corinthian amphorae, just a private passion. I even bought that dratted book of Baron Gruner’s, and I must admit – as much as it pains me – that it isn’t half bad. Surprisingly accurate, in fact, considering that it’s written by an amateur.”

“Do you think we could borrow it?” Mary asked. “We’ll bring it back unharmed, I promise; but it might help us to understand his special interests better.”

“Anything that helps getting him out of our hair,” Ms Acquah selected a few other books as well for them. “These should be helpful, too. And I’ll have Andy Galbraight email you a list of websites with more general knowledge as soon as he comes in tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” John smiled at her winningly. “You’ve been a fount of useful information, Ms Acquah.”

“My pleasure, Doctor Watson,” she replied; then she winked at Mary. “You’re a lucky woman, Doctor Morstan, you know that?”

“Oh, yes,” Mary beamed at the older woman. “I know that indeed. Well, c’mon, John, we still have a lot to learn about pottery.”

“Right, let’s go,” John took the books under his arm. “Thank you again, Ms Acquah, we’ll bring your books back as soon as the case is solved.”

“And I get the whole story told,” Ms Acquah said warningly.

John grinned. “Yeah, that, too.”

~TBC~