Sherlock Fic - The Bauble, chapter 6

[r_scribbles]

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Nicholas ran from the flat, speeding down the stairs, slipped and collided with the front door momentarily before darting through and slamming it shut behind him.

John threw the poker down. ‘Sherlock!’

‘What? Did you want some of the coffee creams, too?’

‘You’re letting him go. He just stole a diamond worth millions of pounds and framed his friend, and you’re letting him go?’

‘He’s just an idiot.’

‘You think everyone’s an idiot!’

‘John. He was in way over his head, and he knew it. He saw a shiny thing, thought he’d try taking it and didn’t think it through. He’s had a short, sharp shock that’s taught him a lesson far better than prison ever will.’

‘How do you know that for sure?’

‘Oh, come on, John. What do you think would happen if he did go to prison? Pick up criminal acquaintances – competent ones, at that. Learn tricks of the trade and leave the place bitter with no real job prospects. He’d turn back to theft, you mark my words. Sometimes, that’s unavoidable, but in this case, it’s not. Same goes for his accomplice. Even if she gets through this undetected, the hunt for Ryder will terrify her into never trying anything like that again.’

‘Sherlock, you are a detective. You’re not judge and jury, you don’t have the right to make that kind of decision…’

‘Don’t talk to me about rights, John. Or about a justice system so useless that Jim Moriarty could simply prance in to use and abuse it as he pleased.’

‘But you’re turning us into the criminals, here! We’re going to have to lie to the police…’

Sherlock snapped his gaze up to meet John’s, suddenly enraged. ‘Well, the police should have done their job properly! I may not be a judge – neither am I their Nanny. This was such a simple case, John! So easy. You could have cracked it, alone. Dimmock could have cracked it, for pity’s sake. They already had Donovan trying to tell them they had the wrong man before I’d even got involved. If they weren’t complete and utter workshy, unhearing, unseeing, braindead mouthbreathers, none of this would have happened. They’d have got their man and let an innocent one go, without my help. So, now they’re just going to have to make do with letting an innocent one go. I shan’t lose any sleep over it.’

John frowned, moving towards his own armchair. ‘Are you saying you have no sympathy for the department that were holding Horner because they should have listened to Sally Donovan?’

‘She is often right.’ Sherlock snuck a sideways glance at John. ‘Never about me, obviously. But in other cases, yes.’

John sunk into his chair, throwing up his hands. ‘That’s it. That’s one Christmas Miracle too far. I give in. You want to be all Season of Goodwill? Let’s do that.’

‘Was it not Ebenezer Scrooge himself,’ said Sherlock, picking up the Quality Street tin, ‘who said “Balls to it – it’s Christmas”?’

‘I am going to make you watch A Christmas Carol, Sherlock.’

Sherlock just laughed.

-x-

It was getting late. John was still out – that awful pop singer had insisted that at least one of them be present for the photo opportunity of giving Clarence his reward. Sherlock had no time for any of it, and John had conceded that it would be best for Sherlock to avoid the press as much as he could, this time around. Wayne Horner was free, cleared of all charges, which was the main thing. Sherlock had seen a sceptical glint in Greg’s eye when he’d explained the revised sequence of events, but the police on the whole had bought the story about Ryder going missing. He still hadn’t been caught. Maybe he’d escape. Maybe not. Sherlock had given him the best chance that he could.

He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

The banging from downstairs had stopped half an hour ago – Mrs Hudson’s bedroom window was now safely boarded up until the glaziers could come on the 27th. It would be a similar wait before anything could be done about their door, not that that really mattered. Their flat was always open to Mrs Hudson anyway, and the main door to the building was secure enough to suffice for a few days.

He got out two cups and saucers, and filled the teapot. Tea for two.

It had been an unusual, whimsical little case. Not his usual calibre, perhaps, but he hadn’t reached for the needle since the 22nd, and that was something, wasn’t it? Still. It was doing nothing to silence the voice. He’d hoped that keeping busy might do it. Clearly, he wasn’t keeping busy enough, or had been keeping busy with the wrong things, because it was still there, in his head, buzzing around, desperate for lips and a tongue, desperate to escape the confines of his mind.

He took the tea to the coffee table and sat down in John’s chair. He poured the tea, and waited for a man who wasn’t there to speak.

‘So this is what it’s come to,’ came the voice, a low, mocking Irish drawl. ‘returning lost property; wild goose chases; saving Christmas. Letting your quarry go when they turn on the waterworks. This is what you survived for, is it? You must be very proud.’

‘It was singular,’ replied Sherlock, ‘and it was successful. Further to which, I made the Police look like idiots.’

‘It was childsplay,’ retorted the voice. ‘You sleepwalked through the whole case – evidence practically just fell into your lap. You have no right to take the slightest bit of pride in this.’

‘So, this is why I’ve conjured you up, is it? This is your purpose – to provide critiques and marks out of ten at the end of every case?’

‘Sherlock. You know why I’m here.’

There was a pause. Sherlock sipped at his own tea, and watched the untouched teacup on the other side of the table.

‘They don’t have any style any more, do they, Sherlock? These criminals. Not like when it was you and me. Not even like when it was you and Moran. He was the last of my lot. And now, what are you going to do? You’ve taken all the red pieces off the board, but you’re still sitting around trying to play chess. That’s why I’m here… why you pretend I’m here. Without me, there can be no you. But you try to muddle on – no focus, no aim. Making tea. Making peace. Planning your Christmas party. Inviting your brother was an interesting move. Bringing him ever closer. Testing the waters.’

‘I’m not looking for a replacement enemy in Mycroft.’

‘Aren’t you? You know he’ll put you away again if he sees you like this. Talking to oneself can be excused as an eccentricity. Projecting the personality of a dead psychotic to do so and making it cups of tea – that is actually mad, you do realise that. Maybe you actually want putting away – or the threat of it, at least. Something to fight. A cry for an aim – a cry for attention. Always so dramatic, Sherlock.’

‘It’s not that bad. I can keep this hidden. I will keep it hidden. I’m simply adjusting. All of this will fade, in time. It always does.’

‘You’ll never keep this hidden. It’s not just Mycroft watching you now, is it? No, you had to go and get yourself some friends. How novel. I think it’s rather sweet how they’ve all managed to get everything round the wrong way – don’t you? The way they all assume it’s The Woman haunting you this Christmas, instead of little old me. The way they all assume you’re back on the coke, when it’s morphine you can’t stop dosing yourself up with. Just to take the edge off, eh? Just to take the edge of Sherlock Holmes when your mind starts spinning and sparking all over the place, with nothing now – nothing to work towards. No long game. No focus. Everything’s going fuzzy, now I’m not here. The lens has shifted. And you’ve gone fuzzy with it. You’ve gone soft.’

‘Not soft. It’s not that. I’m opening doors to the world. New doors. Seeing new things.’

You have gone. Soft.

A key in the lock. John. Sherlock took a moment to collect his self, by which time, John was already at the kicked-down door to the living room.

‘Evening, John.’

John nodded a greeting, frowning at the coffee table. ‘Another visitor?’

‘No.’

‘Sherlock. Why do you keep making two cups of tea?’

Sherlock smiled, brightly. ‘The other one’s for you.’

‘You’re in my chair.’

‘Hasn’t got your name on it.’

‘No, but it’s got my cushion on it.’

Sherlock switched chairs. ‘I didn’t think you’d be quite so precious about seating arrangements, but there you go. I take it the publicity stunt over handing back the diamond was suitably awful.’

‘Clarence was as pleased as punch,’ John told him, ‘so I’m not sure how pleased that made his daughter. Whatever one up from being pleased as punch is. He’s insisting on paying us. I wasn’t exactly quick to turn it down, this is the first paid case you’ll have had in…’ John stopped, and scratched at his neck, awkwardly. ‘Well, funds aren’t what they could be at the moment. Still, we’re two grand up, now. Not bad for a day’s work.’

‘Any word about Horner?’

‘Donovan turned up towards the end of the photo op. She’d driven him home. She said, the looks on his kids’ faces was… well, I suppose that’s the best reward, isn’t it? Oh. And.’ John pulled a small red envelope from his pocket. ‘She gave us this.’ He opened it up. Inside was a card with a picture of a sprig of holly on it. ‘”To John & Sherlock. Season’s Greetings. Sally D”.’

‘People keep writing your name first in cards, these days,’ grumbled Sherlock, quietly.

‘Took us a while, but we finally made Sally Donovan’s Christmas Card List,’ continued John, over him. ‘The miracles just don’t end.’ He stuck the card up along with the others. ‘I think, all in all, you’ve done pretty good today.’

Sherlock glared up at him. ‘I know I have, John!’

John cleared his throat. ‘Of course. Of course. So! Christmas Carol. Or Scrooged. Your choice.’

Sherlock pulled a face. ‘Two films in one day?’

‘Why not? It’s Christmas! Besides, it’s coming up to midnight now, so technically it’ll only be one film per day.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Sherlock checked his watch. ‘Nearly Christmas Day. Let’s do presents!’

John grinned, sitting down. ‘What is it with you and Christmas? You got some clever, Sherlocky reason for it exciting you, or do you just store up your peace and goodwill throughout the year and then have to vent it all every 25th of December?’

Sherlock got up. ‘I don’t have in-depth reasoning for all of the things that I like.’ He shrugged. ‘I just enjoy Christmas, and it’s good to be able to spend it at home, again. For two years, I didn’t think that that would be possible. Is that all right with you?’

‘Of course it’s all right.’ John blinked as Sherlock picked up his violin. ‘Sherlock, tell me you’re not giving me your violin as a present, because that would be getting into “the old man who sold his watch to buy his wife a hair comb” territory.’

‘Decided not to buy presents, this year,’ Sherlock explained. ‘I missed my violin, while I was away. Missed being able to play while I thought, so I played in my head. Composed. Painted London. Couldn’t write any of it down, but then Mycroft and Mrs Hudson are the only ones of you who can read sheet music competently, anyway…’

‘You wrote us all songs?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘One for each of you. Amongst other things… people… places. It was over two years. I missed my violin a lot.’

John gazed across at him. ‘That’s why you wanted everyone to come over tomorrow.’

‘These would be difficult presents to post, I’ll admit.’ Sherlock smiled. ‘Want to hear yours?’

‘Oh, yes. Please. God, this is probably the nicest present…’

‘You haven’t heard it yet, John. It might be rubbish.’ Sherlock readied his bow. ‘That was a joke. Obviously it won’t be rubbish. I wrote it, after all.’

John laughed. ‘It’s good to have you home.’

‘Shut up and listen to your present.’

THE END