Sherlock Fic - The Bauble, chapter 3

[r_scribbles]

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

John passed Lestrade on the stairs, but was still able to hear muttering coming from the flat above as he approached. He found his flatmate talking nonsensically to himself, brewing a fresh pot of tea.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Hmm? Oh. Yes. Tea?’

‘Cheers.’ John opened up the already rather full fridge and tried to work out the logistics of fitting a massive goose inside. ‘Is it me, or are you making a lot more tea than you used to?’

‘I am capable of simple domestic tasks, John. Pass the milk.’

John did so, squinting at the insides of the fridge. ‘This isn’t going to work. Sherlock, I’m going to have to take your testicles out.’

‘But John, I…’

‘It’s goose or balls, Sherlock, you’re not having both. There isn’t room.’

‘Well, maybe we’d have room if you hadn’t got such an unnecessary amount of milk.’ Sherlock sloshed the 6 pint bottle at him, accusatorially. ‘The shops are only going to be shut for a day – why do the British always respond to the slightest potential change of routine by panic-buying all the milk and bread?’

‘Genetic memory,’ John replied. ‘All goes back to 1066, when the invading Normans arrived on the backs of giant Battle Hedgehogs.’

Sherlock giggled down at the teapot.

‘Ever since then, as soon as there’s the first rumblings of a potential crisis, the British stock up on everything we’ll need to appease our new, prickly overlords.’ John smiled over at Sherlock. ‘Are you all right, Sherlock?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I noticed you got Her phone out again, today. You’re not thinking about… you know?’

‘Oh, for crying out loud, that was years ago. You lot are obsessed.’ Sherlock left the teapot and stalked off to poke at an ongoing experiment on a side table in the living room. ‘Water under the bridge. A veritable torrent, under the bridge. I’m fine. Really. Stop playing with my testicles, John.’

John lowered his hand from where he had done what any ordinary bloke would do when presented with a box full of testicles – which was, to scoop two out, cup them in front of his own crotch & compare. ‘I wasn’t!’

‘I can see you in the mir-ror.’

John blinked, and frowned. There was something about the sing-song way Sherlock had just addressed him that sent a shiver up his spine.

‘What was that?’

‘I can see you in the mirror, I said,’ replied Sherlock, in more of his normal tone.

John still frowned, perturbed. ‘I know you’re back on the ciggies, Sherlock. Everyone does, and who can blame you? You’ve been through so much crap, since that bloody awful Richard Brook affair.’

‘But…?’ prompted Sherlock.

‘But nothing. I just… if there’s anything else that you’ve, y’know, slipped back into while you were away, I won’t be angry. I won’t even be disappointed. I just hope you feel like you’d be able to tell me, as a friend or as a doctor… as somebody who’d be able to help.’

‘Sally Donovan have a little chat with you downstairs, did she?’

‘Sherlock. Just. Please tell me if you’re back on the cocaine.’

Sherlock didn’t look at him.

‘Sherlock!’

The doorbell rang.

Sherlock looked up, brightly. ‘That has to be Baker. That was quick – he’s really trawling for information about his lost property, isn’t he?’ He pulled the goose that John had spent five minutes carefully fitting into the fridge back out again. ‘We could have poor Wayne exonerated by tonight, at this rate.’ He offered John a slightly manic grin. ‘If you really wanted a little do-gooder project for this Christmas, you’ll find Horner a far more needy subject than I am.’

‘Sherlock.’

‘Come along, John! Nonchalance.’

Sherlock assumed a position in his armchair that could very easily have been the illustration for the Encycolpedia Brittanica’s definition of “nonchalance”.

John sighed, and went to open the door.

-x-

Henry Baker did, as Sherlock had anticipated, have a curiously large, round head. It was decorated with ruddy, wrinkled skin, a shock of wild, white hair and a nervous expression. He flapped and flustered his way up the stairs, and suddenly stopped stock still in the living room doorway, so that John accidentally bumped into his from behind.

‘Mister Holmes?’

‘Ah,’ smiled Sherlock, pleasantly, ‘Mr Baker, I presume.’

‘Bloody Hell.’ If possible, Baker flushed even pinker. ‘I never thought… Bloody Hell.’ He shuffled over, grabbed Sherlock’s hand in both of his and pumped enthusiastically. ‘Could I have your autograph? Or a picture? My students are going to Bloody love this! We’re doing you next term! Bloody Hell!’

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. ‘You lecture in Criminology? You don’t look like you teach Chemistry, certainly.’

‘English Literature. Doing a module on biographic works – thought we could put a twist on it and take a look at some popular biographical and autobiographical blogs…’

Sherlock still hadn’t managed to free his hand. ‘You’re studying me as a literary character?’

John just laughed quietly at the evil glare his friend sent him.

‘Oh, yes!’ Baker finally released Sherlock’s hand. ‘We’re comparing Dr Watson’s blog with Belle Du Jour.’

‘Belle Du Jour,’ repeated Sherlock, an overly friendly smile frozen on his face. ‘Well, I never.’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ Baker rubbed at his face. ‘Bloody Hell, I’m rambling now, aren’t I? I came because… well, there was an advert in Lost & Found…’

Sherlock pulled the spectacles out from behind a book. ‘Your glasses, Mr Baker’.

‘Oh, thank you!’ Baker put them on. ‘Oh, that’s better! I can see you now…’ Baker trailed off, finally spotting the goose on the kitchen counter. ‘Is that…? You didn’t find my goose, as well, did you?’

‘Yes, we did,’ replied Sherlock.

‘Oh!’ Baker beamed.

‘But, it was about to go on the turn,’ continued Sherlock, ‘so we cooked it. Took it over to a Homeless Shelter as a festive treat this afternoon – it was all very Christmassy.’

‘Oh.’ Baker deflated.

‘We got you a replacement, though,’ Sherlock added. ‘On the kitchen counter.’

‘Oh!’ Baker’s smile was back.

‘We kept the first goose’s feet and head and whatnot, if you want those too,’ said Sherlock.

‘Oh.’ Baker pulled a face. ‘Well… I suppose you do have your funny little ways – John here’s always amusing his readers with descriptions of bits and bobs turning up in the kitchen.’

‘You don’t want them, then?’

Baker laughed. ‘No, no, you keep them, if you think they’ll come in useful.’ He got to his feet. ‘May I…?’

Sherlock waved vaguely at the goose. ‘Sorry it’s not as big as the last one.’

‘Oh, no, this is fine, this is much better than I was ever expecting to get back after those bloody hooligans… well, I thought they’d run off with it. I didn’t know what I was going to tell Jean. Even if I could have afforded another one, Mike was all out – he orders them in advance, you see…’

‘Mike?’

‘At the Alpha. He runs Goose Club. That’s where I got the last one. Bloody good bloke. Looks after his regulars.’

‘You got it from the pub? I see.’

‘Yes – he’s actually the one who spotted your ad in the Chronicle – sent me packing over here as soon as I went in tonight.’ Baker hefted up the bird. ‘You know something, Sherlock? Mind if I call you Sherlock? Those papers are a bloody disgrace. Bloody hatchet job, they did on you, and for what? You’re one of the good ones – and I’m sure John here would agree with me, wouldn’t you John?’

‘One of the bloody best,’ chimed in John, with a faintly mocking grin.

‘You’ve bloody well saved my Christmas, you know that? This was my present for my wife. She’s always so embarrassed that we never host Christmas dinner, so I said to her this year, I said “don’t you worry, Jeannie, you invite your sisters over to us this year, I’ll get us a bloody feast.” Scrimped and saved to buy the stuff and then bloody well lost the main dish, bloody idiot. If it weren’t for you, my… ha! My goose would have been cooked! Haha! You can put that in your blog if you like, John!’

‘I might well do that, Henry.’ John snickered down into his tea cup.

‘Glad to have been of service,’ said Sherlock, making motions for Baker to leave. ‘Although, I can’t help thinking that no wife would choose a whole gaggle of geese over a husband who can be relied upon to come home to her after work, rather than spending all of what time and money he has at his local.’

Baker’s face crumpled a little. ‘What…?’

‘Perhaps the dinner isn’t the only reason Jean never feels that she can host for her family, and I’m not just talking about embarrassing dandruff issues during food preparation,’ added Sherlock. ‘I think John’s got some boring pamphlets about alcoholism about – it runs in his family.’ He snatched a leaflet off the fridge door. ‘Oh, there we go. Drug and alcohol dependency.’

‘But I…’

‘Happy Christmas, Mr Baker!’ Sherlock all but pushed Baker out of the door, goose and all.

‘But…’

Sherlock closed the door on him.

On the landing, Henry Baker stood shell-shocked for a moment. He uncrumpled the leaflet that had been shoved into his hand, noticing briefly that the section on cocaine addiction had been ringed in biro. He frowned up at the door.

‘But how,’ he muttered to himself, ‘did he know about Jeannie’s dandruff?’

-x-

‘Belle Du Jour,’ muttered Sherlock in distaste.

‘You can get rid of as many of those leaflets as you want, Sherlock, I’ll just keep replacing them.’

‘Belle Du Jour! I mean, Belle Du Jour. Are you happy, now? Your scribblings mean that my work is now being compared with that of a prostitute.’

‘A very high-class, educated, witty and charming prostitute.’

‘I’m the Crime-Whore, John, that’s what you’ve done to me.’

‘Does that make me your pimp?’ John smiled, brightly. ‘I’ve already got a cane – we could pop the diamond on the end, give me a fancy hat, Bob’s your uncle.’ He watched Sherlock as he irritably grabbed their coats. ‘Er, where do you think you’re going? You’re my ho, now!’

‘Pack it in.’ He flung John’s coat at him.

‘You’ll do what I tell you, Ho!’

Sherlock just glared at him. John cleared his throat.

‘Seriously though – where are we going?’

‘We are going,’ announced Sherlock, ‘to the pub.’

Chapter 4