Sherlock Fic - The Bauble, chapter 4

[r_scribbles]

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The Alpha Inn was a small, unassuming Old Man Pub on Wimpole St – the kind with a little telly in the corner that usually had racing or football on, with Quiz Nights on a Monday, a stock of the day’s papers and bar games at the back and a shelter in the tiny back yard where the customers would sit to quietly smoke and grumble. It was the sort of pub where, even though The Big Four-Oh had already had its way with John and was now giving Sherlock some increasingly threatening looks, John knew that they would still be addressed on entering as ‘Lads’. All the same, John was already making mental notes about coming back some time for a bit of peace and quiet, the next time his housemate was being utterly impossible.

The barman gave them a friendly nod as they approached the bar. ‘Evening, lads. What can I get you?’

‘Pint of bitter,’ breezed Sherlock, ‘and, er… what wines have you got?’

‘Nothing fancy, but I’ve got a lovely Beaujolais in.’

Sherlock smiled amiably. ‘Then, I shall have a large glass of lovely Beaujolais. Certainly hope it’s as nice as these geese you’re doing.’

‘Oh, here we go,’ sighed the barman. ‘Every year, someone shows up right before Christmas and asks if I’m still doing it. The posters are up all November. The first rule of Goose Club is, I need orders and final payment by December 7th. The second rule of Goose Club is, I need orders and final payment by December 7th. Third rule is, first deposits are non-refundable. I can’t just spirit them up out of nowhere, you know! I bulk order them early so I can pass the discount on to my customers…’

‘Yes, Mr Baker did say that you look after your regulars, Mike.’

Mike frowned for a moment, pushing their drinks in front of them. ‘Now, how did you…?’ The penny dropped. ‘Sherlock Holmes! Thought I recognised your face. Christ almighty, you gave the papers something to talk about, didn’t you? Henry was well excited when I said about your Lost & Found ad.’

‘Yes, well. It was quite a haul he’d dropped. Those were expensive specs.’

‘Yeah, and it’s not like he can afford those sorts of things any more.’

‘The drinking?’

‘I hope you’re not insinuating anything about me,’ said Mike. ‘I don’t egg him on to it, or anything. Half the time, it’s the other way round. It’s not just here he drinks – he’s always at it. At least here, I can keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t do himself too much of an injury.’

Sherlock shrugged, taking a sip of his wine. ‘I just couldn’t help but notice that he’s a drinker, that’s all. It’s sort-of what I do.’

‘Well. He’s got his problems, but he’s a good bloke, all in all. He was in a right old state when he came in here at lunchtime – not ‘coz of the lost specs, ‘coz of the goose. He’d got that for his missis, they were going to have a dinner party…’

‘And, so they shall, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

‘You found the goose as well?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘It had been out of a fridge for a while, mind, so we had to cook it ourselves. Replaced the bird for Henry, though.’

Mike exhaled. ‘Oh, that’s a relief.’

‘Good job you spotted the small ad so quickly, really.’

Mike shrugged. ‘He’s a mate. And he was so upset, his Christmas was ruined. He doesn’t really understand the internet, he’d have never thought to look online – hardly any effort for me to go through the local Lost & Found listings in the quiet period, was it, considering? If you ask me, you of all people coming across his things was the real stoke of luck – I mean, what are the chances?’

‘Well, I suppose the luck wasn’t completely one-sided. That goose – the one we had to eat… I say, “had to”…’

‘Good, aren’t they?’ grinned Mike.

‘I’ll say.’ Sherlock leaned in, conspiratorially. ‘My brother’s a bit of a coinnosseur – he’ll go absolutely green if I serve up something that good for Christmas dinner and then tell him I got it from a tip-off at a pub.’

Mike shared his sly smile. ‘I get them from Breckinridge Wholesale – down at Covent Garden. They’re a bit pricey, but it’s worth it, for Christmas. I don’t fancy your odds of getting anything from there tomorrow, though. Christmas Eve and all that.’

‘We’ll just have to take our chances.’

‘Ha! Well, good luck.’ Mike turned to another customer who had just gone up to the bar with a cheery ‘yes, mate’.

Sherlock and John slipped off into a quiet corner of the pub with their drinks.

‘So, what now?’ asked John.

‘Have our drinks,’ Sherlock told him, matter of factly. ‘Split a packet of crisps, if we’re feeling fancy. Trail’s gone cold now until Breckinridge's opens again in the morning. Neither Baker nor the landlord know anything about the loot. No lines of enquiry there.’

John took a sup of his pint.

‘We’re not really having Mycroft over for Christmas dinner, are we?’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘I can hardly see him sitting down at Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table for a Sainsburys rack of lamb.’

‘No. I suppose.’ John looked over at the juke box – the kind of juke box, this being the sort of pub that it was, that almost certainly contained no songs whatsoever written prior to 1980. ‘I might put something Christmassy on. Any requests?’

‘Oh! There’s a nice recording of Reich’s Variations for Winds, Strings & Keyboards, by Edo De Waart and…’

‘Yeah. No. I’m pretty sure the Juke Box won’t have that. I’ll just put Rockin’ Robin on instead.’

-x-

Drinks at 221b, 25th Dec. 6pm onwards. Bring a bottle if you’re worried our own selection will be inferior. – SH

This is some sort of attempt at humour, I take it? – MH

I’d never dare attempt to tell you a joke. – SH

To what do I owe this alarming increase in sentimentality? – MH

It’s what Mother would have wanted? Besides, when’s the last time we spent Christmas together? – SH

The year before you took yourself on leave. The affair with Ms Adler. – MH

It wasn’t an affair. – SH

Don’t be obtuse. You know what I meant. I shall be busy until 7pm, but can take the time out of my schedule to join your soiree after that. – MH

You’d better not get me a jigsaw. – SH

And you had better not get me socks. – MH

-x-

John got up early on Christmas Eve. Sherlock had either got up before him or not gone to bed in the first place, and was sprawled on the sofa with his laptop, going over the reports that Donovan had sent over.

They were out of the flat and on their way to Covent Garden before 8. Dawn still hadn’t fully broken. Fairy lights twinkled at them through the inky half-light from shops and homes and street decorations all around. John pulled his coat a little tighter around himself as they rode in the cab.

‘There’s the Alastair Sim Christmas Carol on BBC2 this afternoon,’ he said. ‘We can iPlayer it tonight, if we get finished with this diamond case in time.’

‘I thought we were watching Die Hard tonight. We always watch Die Hard on Christmas Eve.’

‘Once. We only watched Die Hard the once.’

‘Well, we only had one Christmas Eve together.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Well, then.’

There was a pause. ‘Or,’ said John, ‘I think I’ve got the DVD of Scrooged somewhere. That’s like a modernised version of Christmas Carol.’

‘Urgh.’ Sherlock pulled a face. ‘Vulgar.’

-x-

Covent Garden Market was already bustling when they got there. Breckinridge’s wasn’t far from the West Piazza, but Sherlock insisted on going the long way around.

‘Looking to do some last minute shopping?’ John asked.

‘Hmm? Oh. No, I’m all done.’

They pushed through a gaggle of shoppers.

‘It’s the mime, isn’t it? You want to avoid the mime outside St Paul’s.’

‘Honestly, John. What are you blathering about?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with having a little phobia, Sherlock. Personally, I’m not fond of flamingos. I think their beaks are creepy.’

‘I am not Metamfiezomaiophobic.’

‘How do you just happen to know the proper term for an incredibly obscure phobia, then?’

‘Sorry – have we not met?’

John just laughed, and they fought the rest of their way to Breckinridge’s without further conversation.

-x-

‘Morning!’ Sherlock breezed through into the wholesaler’s with his usual aplomb. ‘Merry Christmas!’

A single, stressed looking cashier looked up from his stocktaking. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so. We were talking to Mike at the Alpha, last night – about his Goose Club? He said he was all sold out, but that he got the birds from you, and…’

The cashier pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Look, for the last time – we’re a wholesaler. We don’t sell to Joe Public.’

‘Please? We’d be willing to pay. It’s just that, well. Somebody…’ Sherlock put his arm around John, who sighed inwardly, all too used to this tactic, ‘forgot to tell me his sister and her family were coming tomorrow, and…’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! No. No, we sell in bulk, to tradesmen. Do you have any idea how much crap I had to put up with yesterday with the general public just marching in like this was Waitrose? And now this. Go to a bloody Supermarket like everybody else!’

Sherlock frowned. ‘You had a lot of enquiries yesterday?’

‘Yes, I…’ The cashier paused, then groaned and rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. He sent you, didn’t he?’

‘Who?’ asked John.

‘You know bloody well who! Little ratty bloke, sniffing around all day yesterday, so I couldn’t get anything done. He’s finally had enough of me sending him off with a bee in his ear and sent you two inst… OI!!!’

Sherlock and John’s attention snapped over in the direction the cashier was pointing. A stack of crates partially shielded an ajar side window, but behind it they could all see a middle aged man reaching an arm through the window to try to push it open further. The man was small and had a very particular rat-like quality – from that and the cashier’s fury, John had no doubt that this was the man they’d just been discussing.

The man looked up, wild-eyed, saw that he’d been rumbled and darted out of view.

As one, Sherlock and John turned on their heels to sprint out after him. By the time they got around the building to the alley that the side window backed out onto, their quarry had already run out and was making his escape towards the crowd that had gathered around the street performer.

‘Just don’t look at it,’ huffed John as they ran towards the performance space, ‘it’s probably more frightened of you than you are of it.’

‘I am not scared of mimes!’

The mime aped the little ratty man’s run as he scrambled past, to the delight of the audience. As John and Sherlock approached, he started making a big show of playing an officious Police Constable, gallantly pointing the pursuers in the direction of the man fleeing them.

Which would have been fine, had he not made the mistake of patting Sherlock on the shoulder as he passed.

John’s sister had been scared of wasps all her life. It was exactly the same reaction as she had if one ever landed on her. Sherlock managed a very impressive Full Body Flinch With Flaily Arms – one of which hit the mime. The mime threw himself into the air in a theatrical pratfall, causing the audience to gasp, as if Sherlock had actually thrown him to the ground. They tried to follow the ratty man through the crowd on the other side, but several members of the audience stopped them.

‘It’s all right,’ John argued, ‘he’s just taken a dive.’

‘He’s getting away, John!’ Sherlock made another attempt to get through, but was blocked again.

‘Sorry,’ added John, pointing at Sherlock. ‘He’s scared of mimes.’

‘I am not scared of mimes! This is a criminal investigation – let us pass!’

The mime got up, sheepishly, and the crowd parted to let them through. Too slow, too little, too late. Covent Garden thronged, and the ratty man was nowhere to be seen.

‘Lost him,’ said John.

‘Hmm.’

‘Unless you’ve got some brilliant way of picking up his trail that I hadn’t even thought of.’

‘Not as such,’ replied Sherlock.

‘So, what now?’

Sherlock gazed across at John. ‘Breakfast.’

Chapter 5