Sherlock & The Illustrious Client 14
Oct. 15th, 2013 07:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
soledad_writesby Soledad
Author’s note:
Some of the dialogue is loosely based on the original short story. The National Antiques Museum and its director are from the 1st Season episode “The Blind Banker”. Obviously, as everyone’s favourite consulting detective would say.
Beta read by
lindahoyland, thanks!* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 14 – EXTREME MAKEOVER AND OTHER FRIVOLITIES
September 16th 2014
The next day started early for the Watsons – well, earlier than usual, that is. As much as both liked to sleep in occasionally, that was a luxury they could rarely afford.
The practice was open from 8 a.m. to noon and from 2 p.m. to 6 p.m. respectively, not counting the house calls that could come between and after shifts… sometimes even before them. Which meant that their day work could take as long as ten to twelve hours, and when Sherlock needed John’s assistance, Mary had to deal with it on her own.
On this day, however, it was John, who’d have to deal with their prospective patients alone. Mary had important errands to run before it was time for the big action at Vernon Lodge. She had to admit that she enjoyed the opportunity; but she was also quite nervous. This was the first time that she’d take part in The Work (she’d learned to think of it with capital letters, the same way Sherlock and John did).
What was more, this time the outcome of a somewhat risky action depended entirely on her. And – despite her confident words earlier – she was worried that she might make a fatal mistake.
“If we get out of this mess unharmed, I’ll treat us to a full English breakfast each day for the rest of the week,” she said, buttering her toast.
John gave her a worried look, which was understandable. She rarely displayed any sign of concern about whatever they were doing with Sherlock.
“You can still back out of it, you know,” he said. “We can stick with Sherlock’s original plan.”
“No we can’t,” Mary replied sharply. “His plain is rubbish; we both know that. Hell, even he knows that, or he’d never have agreed to mine.”
“Which isn’t exactly safe, either,” John pointed out.
“Safer than his,” Mary snatched the small glass jar of strawberry jam right under his nose and ignored his death glare with practiced ease. “Besides, if I wanted safe, I wouldn’t have married you. You have always lived dangerously.”
“Guilty as charged,” John laughed ruefully. “Where will you start?”
“In the National Antiques Museum,” Mary replied. “I phoned Ms Acquah and she agreed to come in early and take a look at the little treasure. I won’t tell her where it came from, of course, only that it’s merely a loan and will help to set a trap for the Baron. That will ensure her cooperation; she positively loathes the man.”
“He’s not the only one,” John muttered darkly. “I don’t like the idea of you going to meet him alone.”
“I know, love; but I won’t be alone, will I?” Mary smiled at him encouragingly.” That’s the reason for the whole charade: to allow you and Sherlock to get into the house unnoticed.”
“You’ll still be alone with him; alone and unarmed,” John pointed out. “Should something go wrong, I might not have the chance to get to you in time.”
“Well, I better make sure that nothing goes wrong, then,” Mary finished her tea and rose. “Anyway, I must be off now. It wouldn’t be very polite to make Ms Acquah wait, seeing that she’d doing me a favour and all that.”
“Get a cab,” John said. “Better safe than sorry with that precious trinket in your bag. Besides, we will send the bills to Mycroft. He’s the one who got us into this mess, after all.”
“I love it when you get all petty and vengeful,” Mary kissed him on the cheek. “You’d be depressingly perfect otherwise.” She walked out of the kitchen and looked down at Queen Anne Street. “Hurry up, Dr Watson; your patients are already gathering in front of the practice. God, am I grateful to be the Sherlock sidekick today! It promises to be a very busy day here.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
She did get a cab, of course. She wouldn’t risk carrying on her a piece of centuries-old art that was more worth than their house and the practice and belonged to a foreign dignitary, while pressing through the crowd on the Tube. Besides, Mycroft would be paying in the end, wouldn’t he? She was doing this voluntarily; the least she could expect was the covering of her expenses.
Ms Acquah was already waiting for her, despite the fact that the museum wasn’t supposed to open for another two hours. The director was more excited than a kid in a sweet shop.
“I never expected to hold one of these in my hand, ever,” she enthused, after leading Mary into the restoration workshops in the basement. “They are extremely rare, you know. I only know of one in England to match your description, and it’s not likely to be on the market.”
“Neither is this,” Mary unwrapped the saucer and gingerly placed it on the long table on which the museum’s restorers usually worked on old pottery. “It’s just a loan – and for today only. A bait to lure Baron Gruner into a trap. But for him to take the bait, I’ll need a certificate of the saucer’s authenticity; and a rough estimate of its worth.”
“I can tell you its monetary worth off the top of my head; although, of course, it’s priceless where its cultural importance is concerned,” Ms Acquah said. “I’ll have to examine it carefully before giving you a certificate, though. You must understand, I’ve got a reputation as an expert; a reputation I cannot afford to put at risk.”
“Sure, go on and do any tests you fell necessary,” Mary waved generously. “Just make sure that it won’t come to any harm. I’ve been told that it’s worth more than everything my husband and I own… or are likely to own till the end of our lives.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be most careful,” Ms Acquah promised, burning with desire to finally lay her hand on such a rarity.
For the next hour and a half, she was completely preoccupied with the saucer. She made every test she could think of, starting with digital photographs of both sides of the saucer, which she then transferred onto the large screen of her laptop and magnified to analyse both the pattern on the front and the signature of the long dead artist on the back, making a 3D-map of all tiny blemishes the item had suffered during its long existence.
She examined it under infrared and ultraviolet light, making further images.
She took microscopic samples of both the ground material itself and of the blue glaze – something that couldn’t be seen by the naked eye, nor electronically, unless one used an extremely strong microscope and knew in advance what to look for.
She compared the results with the museum’s extensive database, looking for matching pieces known all across the world.
“I wish we could use radiocarbon dating,” she said, typing up the results with impressive speed. “Unfortunately, C14 can only be used for organic materials. Still I’ll send in the samples for more detailed chemical analysis, just for my own pleasure. But even without that assurance, I can give the certificate with good conscience. As far as I can tell, this is a genuine piece of eggshell pottery from the Ming era...”
She printed out the document, stamped the official seal of the museum onto it, and signed it by hand. Then she folded it carefully, put it into a long, narrow envelope that also bore the logo of the museum, and handed the envelope to Mary.
“Here you are, Dr Morstan. This is the best I can do without further chemical analysis; but I’m sure it will be enough.”
“So am I,” Mary put the envelope into her handbag. “Thank you, Ms Acquah, for sacrificing your morning for this. We’re in your debt.”
“Not at all!” the museum director assured. “It was my pleasure; it’s not often that I get to examine a rare treasure like this. Tell me one thing, though: is there a chance that I’ll ever learn what this is all about?”
“Not from the press; I’m quite sure about that,” Mary said thoughtfully. “But when it’s over, I promise to sit down with you over whatever is your preferred drink and tell you as much as they’re likely to tell me – even though that probably won’t be very much.”
“That’s a deal,” Ms Acquah grinned and Mary, armed with certificate that would be her entrance into the Baron’s house, left the museum.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
She returned home for lunch, mainly because she knew that on a busy day like this John tended to forget about eating. As much as he nagged Sherlock about his eating habits – or the lack thereof – the good Doctor Watson wasn’t the epitome of a healthy lifestyle, either. Mary had been working on the problem ever since they’d got together, but it promised to be a long project with many potential setbacks.
She just got home in time to save a harried-looking John from a very insistent woman of about forty who was trying to get into the practice, in spite of the fact that the morning consulting hours were well over and John had already hung up the NOON BREAK: 12 – 14 P.M. sign.
The woman didn’t seem particularly ill – she was clearly the type that liked to misuse her doctor as an emotional dung heap – so Mary simply steered her out in a friendly yet firm manner.
“I’m sorry, madam, but as you can see, we closed half an hour ago. You can always make an appointment if you call us during consulting hours; or online, if you prefer the internet. But Doctor Watson needs his break now to be ready for the afternoon patients. Good day!”
And with that, she closed the door behind the annoying bitch. John just stood there and stared at her with naked admiration in his eyes.
“How do you do that?” he asked. I’ve been trying to get rid of her for at least twenty minutes.”
“Yes, because you’re too nice,” Mary replied, patting him on the back. “Some people never listen, unless you’re really firm with them. You’re made of kittens, love; too soft for your own good.”
That statement was so hilarious that John laughed hysterically for several minutes, until his eyes started tearing up.
“You seem to forget that I was a soldier,” he then said, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. “I served in a war zone, you know. I killed people.”
“You had no other choice, I guess,” Mary ushered him over to the flat, right into the kitchen. “Now, make some tea while I make the sandwiches; or are you not hungry?”
“Starving, actually,” John rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed his hands and forearms, up to the elbows – an old routine left from his training as a surgeon – and went to contribute his part to the lunch preparations.
The following hour was spent in blessed domesticity – if one didn’t count the sixteen text messages from Sherlock who was clearly growing more impatient by the minute, and the one voicemail message from Baron Adelbert Gruner himself.
The latter one was for Mary, answering her note sent to Vernon Lodge last evening, telling her that the Baron would be happy to welcome her at his house at 7 p.m.
“Well, that’s settled, then,” Mary said. “Tell Sherlock that the game’s on and we’re in. Perhaps he’ll stop bombarding you with texts then.”
“Nothing stops Sherlock texting people,” John muttered, but did as he was told. Then he looked at the kitchen clock. “When is Molly coming?”
Mary grinned. “Right when you open up the practice again.”
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” John asked accusingly, and Mary nodded, without the slightest trace of remorse.
“Of course. Make-over is a girl thing; men have no business to watch it. You’ll see the results first anyway.”
That consoled John a little and they chatted about everything and nothing (everything but the case, that is) until it was 2 p.m. and John had to return to work.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Molly arrived ten minutes later and, to Mary’s surprise, she brought Sarah Sawyer with her.
“This is my extra afternoon off,” Sarah explained cheerfully, “and a make-over party is too much fun to miss. Besides, Molly needed help with that thing.”
That thing was a large, old-fashioned suitcase; quite full and, by the way they dragged it behind them, fairly heavy as well. Why they’d brought it was beyond Mary’s wildest imagination.
“These are my Aunt Tilly’s clothes,” Molly explained, blushing a little. “I mean, from the time when she was young, you know. They practically count as vintage by now, I guess, and since you said you were aiming for the Mad Spinster look, I thought… They’ve been dry cleaned, too, and are in good condition, I wouldn’t bring you something that wasn’t…”
“Molly,” Sarah hugged her briefly. “Calm down, girl, there’s no need to panic. I’m sure the clothes are great. Why don’t we hang them up to see which ones would fit Mary best?”
Suddenly Mary was grateful that Sarah had come, too. Molly was a sweet girl but lacked confidence just about everywhere outside the morgue, and as much as Mary loved her – which she really did – her nervous fluttering could sometimes drive one up the wall. Mary ruefully admitted that she was too impatient to deal with that for too long.
Sarah, on the other hand, could handle Molly wonderfully. It had nothing to do with being a doctor. It was simply nurturing nature, which Sarah had in spades, while Mary… well, not so much.
Sometimes she wondered if John wouldn’t be better off with Sarah, after all. In such moments, she was grateful for Sherlock being… well, Sherlock. Had he not alienated Sarah (or Jeanette, or Janet, or any of the other ones), John would have been married years before she’d actually met him.
The thought that she’d only found John because Sherlock had left, leaving behind a broken man, could be somewhat sobering. Rising to the challenge of having Sherlock in John’s life (and in the first place always, even though he did try to walk the tightrope between his wife and his demanding best friend) was exhausting, exhilarating, maddening, and, above all else, challenging.
Which was why she needed Molly and Sarah to support her. Because they both knew Sherlock and what he was like and his unique place in John’s life – and what it meant to compete with him for John’s affection.
“All right,” she said, sternly ordering her never-ending jealousy back to the deepest recesses of her heart where it belonged. “Let’s take a look at the clothes first. Then we’ll colour my hair. God, I haven’t been a brunette since the age of fifteen; I so hoped I’d never have to be one again!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan was not a happy woman. She never liked babysitting witnesses; especially crack whores out of their minds, having been forced to go cold turkey. They were always bothersome: either raving mad, trying to bolt at any given minute, or miserable wrecks, drowning in self-pity and whining all the time, accusing everybody but themselves for their misery.
Kitty Winter, presumably the key witness in the case against Baron Adelbert Gruner, was the second type – with a twist. Instead of whining and complaining, she was raving and cursing and muttering vile threats against the Baron and swearing to made him pay. Pathetic, really; but also unnerving.
Donovan had been given the file of the Baron, of course. Including what Doctor Watson had found out about the highly suspicious death of Major Winter and the mysterious disappearance of his only daughter. She also knew that the Freak had been after the Baron – until he got beaten to bloody pulp by some thugs hired by Gruner.
At least that was what Lestrade thought. Which meant that Miss Winter might be the next target and therefore needed to be protected.
Donovan understood that. It was standard police procedure, after all. She even understood why she had been chosen for the unpleasant task. Any woman determined enough to bolt could fool a man trying to keep her from doing so. They would have a much harder job with another woman. Especially with her; she was a resolute, no-nonsense officer, immune against tearful scenes and begging. She would protect addicted witnesses – despite themselves, if she had to do.
Which still didn’t mean that she had to like it. She emphatically didn’t. She had no patience – or compassion, for that matter – for spoiled, posh girls who spent Daddy’s money on the wrong man and then whined about the general unfairness of life.
If she allowed herself to be honest, she admitted that this was the reason why she hated the Freak so much.
Not because of his arrogance. Not because of the way he made them all look like idiots most of the time. Not even because of his scathing deductions and complete tactlessness with which he blurted out his observations, without ever thinking about the consequences. She had come to understand that his brutal honesty was just a symptom for his lack of social skills. The price he had to pay for being a genius.
No, what she truly hated him for was his privileged background. The fact that he could afford stunts that would land other people in an arrest cell. That no matter what shit he’d come up with, that annoying brother of his would appear and haul him out unharmed.
That he’d been put into an expensive rehab clinic, with all the other posh gits, to get therapy, while the less privileged addicts ended up in some filthy public toilet, setting the golden shot when they couldn’t bear the horrors of their addiction any longer. Like that poor Ashton.
She clenched her teeth, forcing the tears back. This wasn’t the time to break down; she had a job to do. Ashton has been dead for over six years, beyond anyone’s help. Allowing the past to distract her from her current task could prove fatal.
She stood with a heartfelt groan and began her hourly patrol tour. Windows and front door closed and safely locked – check. Bathroom empty and dark, barely illuminated by the dim emergency light – check.
Apparently, her charge has already finished the evening routine of sobbing, cursing, throwing up, brushing her teeth and showering for the sixth time during the day. It seemed a bit early at half pas eight, but as the drugs began to wear off, Miss Winter did become more sleepy between manic bouts. Perhaps she’d managed to exhaust herself enough to turn in early.
Or so Donovan hoped. She could use an early night, too. Even if it meant resting with one eye open.
She checked Miss Winter’s bedroom next. The door stood half-ajar, so that the light of the front room fell into it a little. She could see the closed blinds on the windows and the human-shaped lump on the bed, facing away from her.
Good. Perhaps the stupid git would stay put for the rest of the night.
Donovan turned back to the bathroom, intending to grab a quick shower; a small luxury that she felt she deserved, considering that she’d have to sleep fully clothed and clinging to her gun. Witness protection wasn’t an easy job, which was why Lestrade assigned her to such tasks fairly often. Especially if the witness they had to protect was… complicated, to put it mildly.
She just reached the bathroom door when she heard the soft footsteps behind her. She whirled around on instinct, gun in the hand and ready, when white-hot pain exploded in her head – and then everything went black.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Her phone on the kitchen table rang several times during the next three hours before switching to voice mail that went unheard. Half a dozen text messages arrived with the usual ping sound during the same interval of time and remained unanswered, leaving the callers puzzled.
Lying on the floor, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound, Sally Donovan knew nothing about these events.
~TBC~
no subject
Date: 2013-10-15 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-16 06:38 pm (UTC)Unlike most people, I actually like Sally Donovan. Well, save for her rather unlikely affair with that Anderson character. She has spunk. And actually, she right in many things - just not when it is really important. Hence Reichenbach.