splix: (sherlock john mobile)
splix ([personal profile] splix) wrote2012-05-23 12:29 am

FIC: Staircase Wit [6/6] PART 1 OF 2

Title: Staircase Wit
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies; this part NC-17
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: L'esprit de l'escalier - Sherlock never suffers from it, which isn't to say he doesn't suffer for it. Five times he took a beating, and one time he got away.
Warnings: Violence, sex.
Thanks: To [livejournal.com profile] kimberlite who set me on the path to geological truth.
Notes: This is my very first Sherlock fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.

Can also be read on AO3





6. Thirty-four




They’d promised him a beating, but Sherlock was reasonably certain that if it didn’t happen within the next twenty minutes, it wasn’t going to happen at all, because in twenty minutes, give or take a few, he’d be dead.



*



“Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson? This way, please.”

Sherlock nodded briefly to the young woman who ushered them through the rear corridors of the National Gallery and walked at his own pace, allowing her and John to zoom ahead. Lacking any other sensory stimulation save the cool chemical aroma of HVAC systems working overtime to preserve the art from the perpetual London damp, he watched the young woman (heels perilously high, brand new, expensive, out of her price range judging by the rest of her clothes, difficult for her to walk, gait like a Lipizzaner) as she escorted John (hair still damp, so possibly overslept – no. A crimp in the hair at the back of her neck, a dent from a pillow. Morning shag, then, overeager partner, pre-coital shower) through the hall (Agent Provocateur seamed hosiery – stockings and too-tight garter belt, from the way she shifted uncomfortably every few moments; she dressed to please her partner, not herself, then – that explained the shoes), laughing at whatever John was saying and briefly touching his arm (bitten fingernails, but not the nails of a habitual biter; these were mercilessly chewed down to the quick, sore and red. Unhappy relationship likely) and leaning close to him (makeup applied with surgical precision, fresh lipstick at eleven in the morning, fresh perfume – Chantecaille’s Frangipane. On the make, seeking new boyfriend).

“John!”

John stopped and turned round, peering at him quizzically. “What?”

“Must you walk so fast? They’re not going to leave without us, you know.”

John gave the young woman an apologetic smile and stuffed his hands in his pockets, waiting as Sherlock ambled closer. “Well, come on. You’re usually ten steps ahead of me.”

“In more ways than one.”

“Oh, ha ha.” John pivoted on his heel and started walking again. “So, sorry – who are we meeting? My friend neglected to give me all the details.” He smiled at the young woman, provoking an answering smile.

Sherlock made certain his sigh was quite audible.

“It’s a special assembly of the board of trustees. Not all of them, naturally, but some of the most prominent. Right through that door.” She beamed at John and stood still, waiting for Sherlock to catch up and clearly relieved to stop clomping around in her silly shoes. She bared her teeth at Sherlock. “They’re very much looking forward to meeting you.”

Sherlock stifled a yawn. “I’m sure they are.”

“It’s very kind of you to escort us – Juliet, was it?” John leaned a bit closer to her to read her name tag.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock muttered, sotto voce. John glared at him, and Sherlock affected an expression of stunned innocence. “Thank you,” he said, and sailed past the young woman to open the door to a surprisingly dim and rather cavernous room. Sherlock sniffed, detecting the odours of sodium hypochloride, beeswax, and Damar resin. It was no particular surprise to see four or five Establishment types seated at a table, but it was a surprise, and not a very pleasant one, to see Mycroft seated with them. Sherlock glared at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Mycroft offered Sherlock one of his habitual narrow smiles. “I am here to impress upon you the need for your undivided attention as well as the gravity warranted by this, ah…event.”

I wonder if he knows how constipated he looks when he smiles like that. I must be sure to tell him. Possibly in just a few moments, if the need arose. “Fine. Well, you must have called me here about the Bevan Caravaggio. Let’s get on with it.”

An elderly man glanced at Mycroft in alarm. “Mr. Holmes, I thought we had agreed not to disclose –“

“He didn’t say a thing,” Sherlock interposed. “You could drop Nelson’s Column on Mycroft’s foot and he’d only give you that tightly wound little smile. No, what else could it be? No recent major acquisitions except a duplicate of the painting that belongs to Cecil Bevan, lately donated to the National Gallery by a mysterious and anonymous donor along with a letter claiming that Mr. Bevan’s Caravaggio, acquired via private sale six years ago for thirty-seven million pounds, is a fake. Loads of controversy regarding the new painting’s authenticity surrounding it already, you’re hungry for funds and publicity, so it must be something incriminating or possessing some taint of illicit or illegal behaviour, otherwise you’d be blaring the news to the press. The haste of the meeting suggests emergency, as does the presence of trustees sitting at this table. You’ve already been discussing it for two hours, judging by the drop in the level of pastries on that platter and the number of refills in your coffee cups, so it’s something that requires immediate and pressing attention.”

“Good God,” the elderly man said. He shot a nervous glance at the others seated round the table.

Mycroft rose to his feet. “My brother has a tendency toward…prolixity, Sir Neville, but he’s not indiscreet nor is he wrong-footed in his assessments, as you’ve just seen.” He stood next to Sherlock and leant close. “Stop showing off, for God’s sake,” he hissed, and straightened again, the little smile intact on his face.

“Why? Isn’t that why you summoned me?”

“I summoned you to solve this problem. Now shut up and listen.”

Sherlock looked over at John, who seemed to be biting back a laugh, and looked away quickly.

“That’s absolutely right, Mr. Holmes,” the elderly man replied. “Heavens, it really is extraordinary…oh dear, forgive me. Neville Banister, Mr. Holmes, board chair. This is Alan Carstairs, our director. A few of our trustees – Vanessa McClure, Damian Thaxter – you’ve most likely seen his work at the Tate –“

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Sherlock replied coolly. “You see one slapped-on daub, you’ve seen them all.” The artist’s falsely ingratiating cap-toothed smile turned into a scowl.

“Ah…Lady Somerset, Parminder Bose, Michael Winick, and of course, Cecil Bevan.”

Sherlock nodded shortly. “So what’s happened?”

“Well, you’re right, I’m afraid,” Banister said. “There is a crisis regarding the Caravaggio – or, rather, the challenged painting. It’s been stolen, in a rather clever and fiendish scheme, and we’d like you to retrieve it without attracting the attention of the press.”

“And why don’t you want the attention of the press?” John inquired. “Usually that’s a big deal, a theft – sells lots of papers, gets you media attention.”

“That’s true,” Banister acknowledged. “Unfortunately, media attention in this case would only prove chaotic. Support for the arts is shaky enough without some scurrilous reports on the inability of the National Gallery to protect its works. Also…well, you see, we believe that there was some assistance from…a close source, let us say.”

“An inside job?” John asked.

“Precisely.” Banister sighed. He flipped a switch, flooding the space with light, and gestured Sherlock and John toward a painting hanging on the wall. It was fairly large, about one by two metres, and depicted a fair-haired, golden-skinned young man lounging against a background of scarlet and umber, wearing the briefest of loincloths. A half-eaten bunch of dates drooped from one eloquent hand, and an overturned bottle nudged at one long, bare foot. The young man was looking directly at the viewer, his expression half-challenging, half amused contempt.

“Handsome bloke,” John murmured.

“The artist evidently thought so,” Sherlock said in an equally low voice. “Look. Damp patch strategically placed on the loincloth.”

“Sherlock!” John hissed. “Come on, the thing’s four hundred years old.”

“Sexual congress is not a recent phenomenon, John.”

John elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. “So this one’s yours, Mr. Bevan?” John asked.

Cecil Bevan got to his feet. He was a smooth, bland-looking man in his mid-forties, well-tailored suit over a gymnasium body, manicure, expensive haircut, sweat at the temples and beginning to bead his upper lip. “Yes, it’s mine.”

“Mr. Bevan is on our board as well,” Lady Somerset said with a graceful backward motion of her hand. “When the second Caravaggio was presented to us, we requested that he bring the original in for comparative study. Unfortunately, the newly donated painting was stolen the very next day – yesterday in fact – so only very cursory evaluations were made.”

Sherlock bent close to the painting. “Spectroscopic analysis?” He took out his phone to snap some photographs.

“No, please!” Bevan cried.

Sherlock swiveled to face him. “Problem?”

“Yes, rather. You’ll never get a decent photograph without using a flash, and flash photography deteriorates paintings at a rather terrifying rate.”

“Surprised he doesn’t know that,” Thaxter mumbled, evidently still smarting from Sherlock’s remark. “Isn’t he supposed to be a genius?”

Bevan frowned at Thaxter. “I have some excellent, detailed photographs that I’m happy to give to you,” he said, plucking a package from the table and handing it to Sherlock. “Please. Those are at your disposal.”

“All right. Thank you.” Sherlock hurled a pointed smile at the artist, hunched over at the table in a deliberately unconstructed Armani suit and tinted glasses. “Flash photography tends to produce a burst of light containing both infrared heat as well as short, high-energy wavelengths of ultraviolet radiation. Both are effective at breaking chemical bonds, thus producing deterioration of the artwork.”

Thaxter blinked, then tardily recovered his composure. “In other words, you just didn’t care.”

“I wasn’t planning to use a flash, but never mind,” Sherlock replied. “Have another coffee - keep nursing your hangover. Sir Neville – analysis? Had there been any?”

“Alas, no,” Banister said. “There simply wasn’t time.”

“So what happened to the other painting?” John asked. “You said you thought it was an inside job.”

“Yes,” Banister sighed again. Very put-upon, was Sir Neville. “Two nights ago, during a routine shift change in the security centre, the outgoing guard was rendered unconscious by a taser or some other sort of paralysing…er, device, and the incoming guard….” Banister shook his head. “Disappeared.”

“Abducted?”

“Or fled with the painting. We don’t know, Mr. Holmes, hence your presence here. In addition to that debacle, the cameras were disabled until the second guard returned from his tea break. Twenty minutes, just long enough for the thief to get in and get out.”

Sherlock sat at the table and drew a photograph from the envelope. He held it close and stared at it. “You haven’t contacted the police?”

“Mr. Holmes –“ Banister indicated Mycroft – “has recommended one or two superior members of the police force. They came in and took fingerprints, that sort of thing. They understand that it’s a…a discreet investigation at the moment, of necessity.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked Mycroft, who simply nodded.

“Quite right,” Sherlock said. “Apart from him, the Met has more Daily Mail stringers than they know what to do with.”

“Can you find the painting, Mr. Holmes?” Bevan said, a pleading note in his voice. “There’s quite a lot at stake here.”

“Your reputation, for one,” Sherlock said. He gave Bevan a hard stare.

“My reputation,” Bevan agreed.

“Your –“ John frowned. “Ah. Because if the press got wind of it, they might imply you orchestrated the whole scheme.”

“Just so,” Bevan said. “You see, gentlemen, I have no doubt that mine is the authentic Caravaggio. I have the chemical analysis – all the paperwork, all of it, proving that it’s what it seems to be. There are copies in that envelope; feel free to examine them at your leisure. But if that second painting isn’t found, then –“ He folded his hands together. “Then my integrity is at stake. As an entrepreneur, I can buy and sell a dozen Caravaggios. As an art lover, my integrity is all I have.”

Sherlock made a moue of mild disgust and noticed that Mycroft was doing the same. He scowled ferociously at his brother, who returned the scowl with vigor. “I’ll need to see the security centre right away. I don’t expect you’ve roped it off since the incident occurred.”

“No,” Lady Somerset said with a withering look. “We do have to keep a sharp eye on our other work.”

“After what happened, I’ve no doubt that’s your principal interest at the moment.” Sherlock rose to his feet and moved close to John, who was still standing in front of the painting. “John?”

“Mm?”

“Developing an interest in art?”

“I’ve always liked art,” John countered mildly.

“Since when?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, you know,” John replied.

“Doubt it. Come on.” Sherlock tugged at John’s arm, and they followed Sir Neville to a lift that took them to the security section. They entered a room with banks of monitors and two uniformed guards sitting in front of them. “Get out.”

John shot Sherlock a glare.

Sherlock frowned. What?

John closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “Sorry, lads. Could we just borrow this room for a minute? We won’t be long.”

One of the guards peered at Banister, who nodded, and they made their way out of the room, glancing over their shoulders at Sherlock, who ignored them and flicked on the row of switches, brightening the room to the intensity of an operating theatre.

“Probably two dozen people have been in and out of here since the theft,” Sherlock grumbled. “We’ll be lucky if we find anything useful at all.” He stared at the banks of monitors. “You said they disabled the cameras all at once, Sir Neville?”

“That’s right.”

Sherlock bent close to the banks. “Has to be a kill switch up here, then. Some telltale sign –“

“Or they just unplugged them,” John suggested.

Sherlock straightened and stared at John for a moment. “Right. Good.” He scanned the bank quickly. “Yes, that’s possible. Let’s have a look.” He threw open a door, revealing a little room with stacks of blinking electronics, and crouched close to the floor. “They should be hoovering in here with some regularity, to keep the equipment dust-free.” Sherlock drew a finger along a panel and examined it.

“Pretty clean,” John said.

“Yes. Except….” Sherlock removed his gloves, then traced his fingers upon the tiled floor and showed John the white tips. “Noticeable amount of dust. And only in front of the power switches. Look, it’s clean on either side.”

“It’s pale. Drywall, maybe? Or they were replacing lights in the ceiling?” John glanced up at the polystyrene-board tile.

Sherlock rubbed his fingers together. “No. Chalk.”

“Chalk?” John drew a finger through the dust on the floor and smiled a little. “Are we looking for a schoolteacher?”

Sherlock inspected the power switches. “A bit here, too. Quite a lot on the floor, considering. Far more than any average teacher should be carrying about.” He pulled a sterile petri dish from his pocket and handed it to John. “Sweep a bit of that up for me, John. Try not to get too much other dust into the dish.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to have another look at your handsome bloke.”

Mycroft was alone in the conservators’ wing, standing in front of the painting and examining it. “Why are you hanging about?” Sherlock demanded.

“I remained behind to remind you of the seriousness of this assignment. I think the board is not at all convinced that you’ll be discreet. Mr. Bevan was particularly concerned.”

Sherlock bent low and examined the floor beneath the painting, brushing his fingertips against it and scrutinising them. He scowled, disappointed at their dustless surface, then leaned close to the canvas and sniffed at it. “Interesting,” he muttered. “But of course you convinced them that I would be, brother dear. Do they think I run to the tabloids with every case I get?”

“Your growing notoriety makes some of them uneasy. And frankly, insulting one of Britain’s most respected contemporary artists did little to endear you to them.”

“He’s a fraud, hasn’t done any of his own painting in fifteen years. His assistants do all the work, and he sits on his arse and collects the cheques. You can tell by the state of his hands. Make yourself useful, Mycroft – help me get this thing off the wall.”

Mycroft looked scandalised. “We can’t just heave it off the wall, Sherlock.”

“Why not? Somebody had to heave it on, didn’t they? Come on, get on the other side. Look, it’s not mounted properly at all. No wonder things get stolen. Should be a cinch.” Together they grasped the gilded wooden frame and eased it from its makeshift mounting, setting it gingerly on the floor. “Hang on to it,” Sherlock instructed, and slipped round the back of the painting. He touched the wooden framework, bent low to inspect the bottom of the piece, and grinned. “Thought so.” He whipped out his jackknife and cut a thin sliver from the lower right corner of the frame.

“What?”

John came back into the conference room. “Sherlock, I’ve got the –“ He stopped dead and stared at Sherlock and Mycroft. “Please tell me you are not defacing a thirty-seven million pound painting. Jesus. Are there cameras in here?” He stared anxiously at the upper corners of the room.

“Calm yourself, John,” Mycroft said. “He’s not harming the painting or its structural integrity. He wouldn’t dare. Would you, Sherlock?” The faintest hint of unease tinged his voice.

“Certainly not. But I doubt this is the authentic painting.” Sherlock straightened and showed John the sliver of wood. “I think it’s been treated to look as if it is, though.”

John took the sliver. “But what about the authentication – everything Bevan said?”

“Yes.” Sherlock examined his fingertips. “Intriguing, though, that there are chalk deposits in the corners of this painting as well as the security centre upstairs.” He bent once more, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully dusted the lower corners of the painting, catching as much of the chalk as he could.

“A visiting lecturer?” John suggested. “Someone who gave a talk here and had access?”

“Maybe. We’ll find out. Let’s get this thing back on the wall.” Sherlock, John, and Mycroft replaced the painting, and all three stood back to examine it. “It’s a good forgery, if it is one,” Sherlock said. He took out his phone and snapped photographs. “Who needs a flash, anyway?”

“It’s beautiful,” John said quietly.

Sherlock glanced at John, but John seemed absorbed in the painting.

“Indeed it is,” Mycroft said. “Have you any theories yet, Sherlock?”

“Two or three, but as I pride myself on my discretion, I’m not letting you in on either of them. Come along, John, we’ve got to have a look at the storage room where the second Caravaggio was stolen and then find an art supply shop. Good day, Mycroft.”



*



The night was bitterly cold; sleet and rain pattered against the window in a pleasant counterpoint to the ragged snatches of the Mozart adagio (Köchel 261 – not one of his favorites, but it seemed appropriate this evening) that Sherlock played lazily as he toasted his bare feet beside the fire.

“Do you know you wriggle your toes when you play?” John asked, setting a cup of tea on the table and settling into the chair opposite Sherlock.

“Helps me think.” Sherlock coaxed soft beauty from the strings, conscious of John’s gaze upon him. It was pleasant to play for John; he listened serenely, content that he’d derive enjoyment from whatever Sherlock played. The greed of expectation never entered the equation. It was really very…restful.

When Sherlock finished, John neither applauded nor praised him nor asked for more, but his dark blue eyes shone a little brighter than before, and his posture was relaxed. “So what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’m going to have a look at that chalk and sliver of wood tomorrow. You’re not working, are you?”

“Of course I’m working. It’s Friday.” John sipped at his tea. “I only joined you today because I had a gap in my schedule.”

“Most people call that lunch.”

“Surprised you would. And most people don’t work at a surgery anyway,” John said. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand. “I’m knackered as it is. What did you need?”

“Thought you might pop over to the National Gallery library and do a bit of research for me. There’s a Caravaggio monograph by Puglisi that I’d like to get my hands on. Maybe since you’re working, you can just pick it up for me.”

“I don’t think they lend.”

“Work it out, John.” Sherlock scratched behind his ear with the bow.

John gave Sherlock one of his long-suffering looks. “Aren’t you planning to go out?”

“No, I have a few things I need to do. You don’t mind, do you?”

“You’ve already got me running other errands, so I suppose not,” John sighed, and got to his feet. “I’m all in. Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John. Sleep well.” That earned him a tired little hand-wave, and he watched John until he’d left the room. Strange, the sudden loss he felt nowadays whenever John wasn’t around, the odd, bereft silence left behind when John trudged up to bed or dashed out of the flat in the mornings. Companionship had once meant very little to him; exactly when, he wondered, had that changed?

He frowned. “Sentiment,” he whispered, and drew his bow across the strings once more, in time to the pattering rain.



*



“Right, I’m off. See you tonight.” John shrugged into his coat and pulled a woolly knitted cap down over his ears. He stood still for a moment and sighed. “Okay, see you later, John, have a good day, thanks for fetching my dry cl –“

“It’s French.”

John paused in the act of winding a scarf round the neck of his parka. “What’s French?”

“The chalk we collected. It’s Northern European, French specifically. Traces of glacial sediment, fragments of belemnite fossils – the sample is particular to northeastern France. Abundant in the Champagne region and produces grapes with a high acid content.”

“So we’re looking for a French…lecturer?”

“I wonder.” Sherlock placed the tips of his fingers together. “Inside job, missing guard, French chalk. Can you stop by MacBurney’s and pick up some scones?”

“Can I – Sherlock, it’s five tube stops in the opposite direction!” John tied his scarf. “Aren’t you going out at all today?”

“I wasn’t planning to.” Sherlock looked up from the kitchen table, laden with eggs, turpentine, containers of water, liquid and cold-pressed linseed oil, poppy oil, Venetian balsam, and a dozen miniature canvases. “Why do you bother with a scarf if you’re just going to wind it around your coat, John?”

“I like it this way.”

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock took a pair of tongs, picked up a test tube stuffed with a clear-wax cylinder, and held it over the Bunsen burner. “Some of that clotted cream they sell there would be lovely too.” He turned the flame up a bit and saw via peripheral vision that John was staring at him. Humming the first few bars of Spiegel Im Spiegel, he tilted the tube gently, watching the wax warm and liquefy.

“Fine. Fine. No sultanas.”

“Very good, you remembered.”

“Yeah – it wasn’t so much that I remembered, Sherlock, as it was the fact that I spent three days picking squashed sultanas from the rug.”

“I don’t like the texture. It’s like eating dried eyeballs.”

“I sort of worked that out, but you could have deposited them on the plate. The table, a book…anywhere but the floor, really.” John opened the refrigerator (his gaze avoiding, Sherlock noticed, the shelf that held the tray of ears – honestly, as a doctor, one would have thought he’d be less squeamish) and pulled out a brown paper sack. “Dried eyeballs…good God. Next time I’m just leaving them.”

“But as you’ve cleverly remembered that I don’t like them, there won’t be a next time. Well done. I could use a new propane tank as well.”

“Right.” John dropped the paper sack on the table. “I’ll make a list. Jesus….”

“What for? I’ve only asked you to get scones and cream and propane. I didn’t think it would be all that taxing.”

“Yeah, but lest we forget – or rather lest I forget, I’ve also got to get that monograph, your dry cleaning, some logs for the fireplace, and something to eat for tonight, unless you want to barbecue those bloody ears in the fridge.”

“We’ll get takeaway,” Sherlock murmured, pouring the liquid wax into a dish holding fifteen millilitres of turpentine. “My treat. Pad Thai?” He looked up at John and smiled. Poor man was probably overheating in his parka and hat and silly striped scarf – a gift from Harry, who had gurgled something nonsensical about Dr. Who when she’d given it to him.

John’s frown deepened. “Pad Thai. Are you trying to butter me up, you sneaky bugger?”

“Is it working?”

“Actually, yes. Found my weak spot.” John grinned wryly. “I may have to kill you now.” He moved toward the door.

“Your secret is safe with me.” Sherlock turned his attention back to the dish of wax and turpentine. He picked up an egg, broke it into a bowl, and deftly separated the yolk with his fingers, dropping it into the wax-and-turpentine dish. “Stay warm, John. Rotten weather out there.” Sherlock wiped his hands on a tea towel he’d appropriated from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen and selected a glass stirring rod from the mess on the table.

“Right. Okay. Thanks.” John paused. “See you later, then. Don’t leave those eggs out, they’ll stink.”

Sherlock didn’t look up, but he heard the smile in John’s voice, and then the soft click of the closing door. He felt a rather moronic grin breaking out on his own face and sternly applied himself to whisking the turpentine, wax, and egg into a thick yellowish soup.

For the past week or so (seventeen days, not that he was counting) he’d found himself gravitating toward the kitchen just before John left for work. Well, why not? He was up already, and John usually made enough coffee for both of them, and it was a chance to chat a bit before John left him for the day. Left for the day. Also, it was useful to catch John on the way out in the morning – he was generally groggy and ever so slightly more biddable than he was in the evening, so he was more likely to accept sundry errands. Though Sherlock could scarcely fathom why John needed to write the errands down; he seldom asked John to do more than three things in a single day.

Already the flat felt empty and dreary, but Sherlock gave himself a mental shake; he had enough to keep himself occupied for a while yet. Eventually, he’d have to get dressed and run to Bart’s if he wanted a really thorough analysis on the wood sliver he’d nicked, if only to confirm his suspicions. It was still cold outside, and the rain had turned to snow; wretched weather. The analysis could wait until tomorrow.

He got up, stretched, and noticed the paper sack on the table. Peering into it, he saw a wrapped sandwich and a plastic bag filled with carrot sticks – John’s lunch. He’d be peevish about leaving his lunch behind. Sherlock considered texting him to let him know, then decided against it. Maybe he’d get dressed and wander down to the surgery later, bag in hand. Maybe he’d even go to the library himself. John would be delighted, positively swooning with gratitude.

Sherlock picked up the dish of wax, turpentine, and egg, and wandered to the window. The snow was coming down thick and fast now, and people walking along Baker Street hunched against it, protecting themselves with umbrellas and raised hoods. The notion of fetching and carrying John’s lunch suddenly lost most of its lustre. Maybe he’d order John a Pad Thai for lunch and have it delivered, and they could go somewhere decent for dinner.

Not bad, he congratulated himself. He went back to the table and, picking up a paintbrush, applied a layer of the yellowish soup to one of the canvases he’d covered with oil paint earlier in the morning. It would have been better to use paint that he’d prepared himself, pigment and linseed oil, but the commercial stuff would do in a pinch. The smell that had come from that canvas….

It would take a few hours for the stuff to dry. Sherlock yawned, went to the fire, poked at it desultorily, and sent John a text:

Don’t forget the logs for the fire. Hardwood preferable. SH

The reply came a few moments later.

DID I LEAVE MY LUNCH ON THE TABLE?

Sherlock smiled.

Yes. Don’t worry. SH

RIGHT.

A grin spread over Sherlock’s face. Leave it to John to imbue a single word with such resignation. He set his phone down, pulled a woolly plaid blanket from a chair, and curled up on the sofa for a nap, oddly comforted by the dark skies and falling snow.

He awoke at a sharp rap on the door, and blinked; impossible to tell how much time had passed, as the snow occluded the sun almost entirely, eliminating shadows and casting a soft grey pall over the flat. He stumbled up resentfully and rubbed at his eyes as he went to the door. He’d been deeply asleep, and loathed the sensation of a rude awakening. Before opening the door he peered into the kitchen and saw his egg mixture, still glossy, in a semi-liquid state; he’d only been asleep for a few hours at most, then.

He opened the door and flung a vicious scowl at the three men in suits and topcoats. “Yes?”

“Mr. Holmes?” One of the men smiled and extended a hand. “Mark Fellowes, with the National Gallery. Your landlady let us in.”

“Is that a fact? That was thoughtful of her.” Sherlock looked down at the extended hand and shook it. Left-handed, ring on index finger, hard callus on the heel. “The National Gallery, you say.”

“That’s right. I’m one of the conservators. A grunt, really.” The man smiled, exposing brilliant white teeth. “Sir Neville sent us by to see how you were getting on and if you needed anything.”

“He sent an entire committee?” Sherlock’s scowl deepened, and then an idea occurred to him. “Actually, you can help. I need a monograph from the archives, and –“ He stopped as his gaze fell downward and halted at the men’s shoes and trouser cuffs. Decent shoes, trousers well-made, hardly damp, so they hadn’t had to wait long for a taxi. But that fine white dust accumulating in their cuffs and the creases of their shoes wasn’t snow.

French chalk, but they didn’t come from France, they’re all English, indicated by their clothes, the man who spoke had a distinct Estuary accent, Penhaligon cologne – no, not French. But the chalk! Who would have chalk on their trousers, and so bloody much of it? Grapes, soil, Champagne OH GOD.

Bevan. Cecil Bevan, the entrepreneur, millionaire, art connoisseur, Lockheed owner, wine enthusiast. Lavish mode of living featured two years ago in the Sunday Times. Had a specially built cellar for his Champagnes – chalk blocks, painstakingly carved and fitted, imported from Epernay at tremendous and vulgar expense. Cecil Bevan, who treasured his integrity, who didn’t want the Caravaggio photographed, who’d sweated in a chilly room, who’d been particularly concerned, according to Mycroft, about Sherlock being asked to solve the case.

And come to think of it, Mrs. Hudson breakfasted and shopped with friends on Friday mornings. A little snow wouldn’t have kept her from it. Ergo, these men had forced their way inside. Hard callus on the heel of the hand, and no trace of chemical stain. Conservator, my arse.

A hard wariness crept up Sherlock’s spine. He fixed a smile on his face. “Right. So I need some things from the archives. I’ll make a list if you can procure them for me.”

The man placed his hand on the door, pushing it open a bit wider. “Well, we’re not here for that sort of help, Mr. Holmes, to be strictly honest.”

“I see.” Sherlock took a step backward. “If you were to be strictly honest –“

Another man drew a Tokarev with an attached custom suppressor and pointed it at Sherlock’s chest. “If we were to be strictly honest, Mr. Holmes, we’d say it’s best to come quietly.”

“Said the actress to the bishop,” Sherlock replied coolly, taking another step backward. Nowhere to go. If he could get his hands on something, disarm them – they probably all had weapons, damn it. “Mr. Bevan wants a word with me, does he?”

“He said you were bright,” the first man said approvingly. The three men entered the flat and closed the door behind them. “Prove it and don’t do anything stupid or make any noise.”

Sherlock backed up until his backside hit the kitchen table. He grasped the edges and surreptitiously pulled the dish of egg, turpentine, and wax toward the edge with his little finger. “Why can’t he just come here and have a word with me himself? Why send you lot?”

“He’s concerned, Mr. Holmes. Very concerned indeed.”

“Concerned that I’ll figure out that he was in on this scheme from the very start and spill everything. Sort of redundant to worry about that at this point, isn’t it? Bevan showed his hand a bit too early, I think. Not very bright.” Sherlock moved his fingers, and the dish tipped over. “Damn it!” He lifted his hand from the mess in exaggerated disgust.

“Leave it. Let’s go.”

“Let me wipe my hand off, at least. This stuff pongs.” Sherlock reached for the tea towel and hastily traced three words on the cover of his laptop. The hard tip of the suppressor suddenly dug into the scant flesh below his shoulder blade. He froze. Had they seen?

“No sudden movements, Mr. Holmes. Come on now. Turn around.”

Sherlock slowly grasped the towel and pivoted on his heel. He wiped the mixture off his fingers with an air of nonchalance. “So what if I decide I don’t want to come?”

The man with the Tokarev held it close to Sherlock’s chest. “What do you think?”

Reaching behind him, his fingers desperately skittering for something to use as a weapon, Sherlock said, “I think you’ve got me outgunned, certainly, but –“ A huge, pulsing bolt of pain shuddered through his body as one of the other men drew something from his pocket and pressed it against Sherlock’s chest. He dropped to his knees, gasping, and felt himself hauled up. His head lolled backward; he saw a stain on the ceiling, the result of a months-old experiment he’d meant to clean up and then deleted.

“Let’s go. Quick, for fuck’s sake.”

Easy prey, Sherlock cursed himself. Idiot. He made an attempt to wriggle from the hands grasping at him, but it did no good at all. He opened his mouth to cry out, but a rather alarming groan emerged instead of a healthy yell. He could do no more than crumple bonelessly against the men carrying him out of the flat and down the stairs. The wet chill of snow struck the soles of his bare feet as they hauled him into the street. Snow fell into his eyes, his nose, his stupidly gaping mouth before he was propelled toward a waiting car and his head flopped forward on his neck.

Sherlock let out another guttural cry, but no-one heard him, and there wasn’t so much as a murmured remark about why three men in suits were dragging another man in t-shirt, pyjama bottoms, and a dressing gown toward a car. Baker Street was mostly empty, true, but still, someone must have seen, someone in a shop, somewhere….

They shoved him into the car, and as the vehicle pulled out into exceedingly light traffic, rough hands pulled a wide band of dark fabric over his eyes and tied it tightly. Another pair of hands shoved him forward, his forehead to his knees, and bound his wrists behind his back. Why bother? Sherlock wondered. I know where we’re headed. “Overkill,” he tried to say, but it emerged as another moan.

The hands grasped the collar of his dressing gown and pulled him upright against the seat. “Quit whinging, Mr. Holmes. It didn’t hurt you all that much.”

Really? You should try it on yourself, you ignorant clot. His angry retort came out a bit garbled.

A hand patted his thigh, accompanied by a deep, fruity chuckle. “Just relax. We’ve a way to go.”



*

Continued in part 2

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