Summary: Part 3 of the Wood Work series. John's new hobby comes in handy when he and Sherlock are asked to go undercover at a Craft Show. Which of his fellow craftsmen is a smuggler? And how will the officers from Scotland Yard react to John's surprisingly profitable hobby?

As always, I own nothing but my own plot. The rest belongs to the world created by Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I just like to play here. (Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors are obviously my own.)

John looked up as Detective Inspector Lestrade came up the stairs, Sally Donovan trailing behind, an enigmatic look on her face.

He lowered his newspaper. "Greg?" he asked, trying to figure out why the man looked so uncomfortable. He'd come to the flat to beg Sherlock's services countless times, after all. What was different this time?

"I'm not interested," Sherlock called in from his bedroom, and John tried to look apologetic. His flatmate had been in a mood all day, and John was just as happy not to be in the same room as him for a while. Frankly, a distraction was welcome and he guiltily hoped Lestrade would take him off his hands for the afternoon.

"That's okay, Sherlock," Lestrade said, voice raised just enough to carry down the hallway. "I'm not here to see you anyway."

Now John dropped the paper. "What? Me?"

"John?" Sherlock was at the doorway, pulled as if by magic. The magic of not being wanted, thought John. It always worked on Sherlock. He looked again at Sally, who was looking like a child who had tattled on a mate. Curious now, he just waited.

"Look," Lestrade said, hands stuffed far into his pockets. "I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but Sally said I should ask, even though she won't tell me why."

"Ask what?" Without conscious thought, John was on his feet. He wasn't sure why, but something about this conversation made him want to be as mobile as possible.

"We've found evidence of a smuggling ring, but haven't been able to get anything concrete," Lestrade started to explain as Sally idly examined a paperweight on the desk, but Sherlock (of course) interrupted.

"Of course you haven't," Sherlock said with a snap, "But why do you need John?"

Lestrade just gave him a look that was almost amused at his childish insistence at being the center of attention. "Because Sally seems to think that John can provide us with cover for an undercover op. There's some kind of show coming up next weekend…"

"John can't make it," Sherlock said. "He's busy."

Lestrade reached up to rub the back of his neck and John felt a twinge of sympathy. He knew exactly how hard it was to deal with Sherlock on a normal day, let alone when he was in this kind of mood. Trying to make it easier for the poor man, he asked "What kind of show?" He was already turning his schedule over in his mind, wondering if he'd be able to work things out so he could help.

"It's a craft show, of all things," Lestrade said and John blinked, glancing at Sally who was still silently studying the paperweight and pretending to be deaf. "We were trying to figure out how we could infiltrate, but, well, it's not like policemen are going to be sitting around knitting, or whatever people do at these things." He gave a chuckle, not noticing Sally's small flinch. "But Sally said I should ask you, though she wouldn't say why."

John leaned forward to rummage in the papers on his desk. "Next weekend. That's the one at The Daley Center?" Lestrade's face went blank and at his stunned nod, John said, "Yeah, I'm at booth 36A. How can I help?"

"Booth …"

"Thirty-six-A," John repeated patiently, trying not to laugh at the flummoxed look on the man's face. "I'll be going over to set up on Thursday afternoon. What do you need?"

"Set up?"

Sherlock smirked as Lestrade visibly floundered in the middle of the room. "Haven't you noticed, Lestrade? John has quite the side business. I mean, even Sally knows about it."

John glared at his flatmate. "Be nice, Sherlock. It's not his fault it hasn't come up before."

"Not to discuss, perhaps, but is the man blind? The flat is full of your handiwork, John."

"That may be so, Sherlock, but it's all covered with piles of your stuff. He could be the most observant man in the world, but he's not Clark Kent."

"Clark Kent?"

John just sighed. "Superman, Sherlock, with X-ray vision." He looked over at Lestrade with a long-suffering smile. "I swear, he deletes every possible pop-culture reference as soon as it passes his ear drums."

Lestrade was looking around the flat, still bewildered, as if he was looking for homemade pot-holders, trying to figure out what John might be selling at a craft show. After watching for a moment, John took pity on the inspector's total confusion and said, "Anyway, yes, Greg. Mrs. Hudson convinced me to start doing shows, so as luck would have it, I've already got a spot at this one—which means you're lucky. This one sells out fast. You might have had trouble getting a spot otherwise." He gave the detective a smile and asked again, gently, "So, what do you need?"

Lestrade just shook his head, looking almost unsteady on his feet to Sherlock's ill-disguised glee. "I need an explanation. What the hell are you selling at craft shows, John?"

There was a collective sigh around the room, then John reached for his keys and said, "Follow me," before leading Lestrade (and the others) down to 221C.

John couldn't help but smile at the look of awe on Lestrade's face as he stepped into 221C and saw all the hand-crafted furniture in various stages of completion. He hadn't invited many people down here—mostly just customers picking up finished pieces. Of his friends, only Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had been here. And Sally, he supposed, though she didn't really count as a friend.

And so he watched with a hint of trepidation as Lestrade looked around, gently reaching out to stroke an end table stationed near the door. John watched him glance at the equipment, the workbench, and the amount of sawdust on the floor (not even Mrs. Hudson could keep up with it). Sally was looking around with interest, noting the changes since the last time she'd been here, while Sherlock stood with a malicious gleam in his eye, as if convinced Lestrade would say something insulting or misunderstand.

"Christ, John," the inspector finally breathed. "I had no idea. This …" His hand still stroked the glossy surface of the table. "This is incredible."

John ran a hand through his hair as he surveyed his shop. "It looks more impressive than it is, really. I don't usually have this much stuff, but with the show …"

"Right, the show," Lestrade said with a visible shake as he pulled his attention back where it belonged. "Now I know why Sally told me to talk to you, but why? Why keep all this a secret, John?"

John jerked his shoulders in a half-shrug. "It's not a secret, exactly, just … a hobby that gained a life of its own. It was something I did as a kid and when I started up again … it wasn't really something that mixed with murder investigations. Not something I was going to chat about at a crime scene, you know?"

"But you told Sally?" John could almost hear a twinge of hurt in Lestrade's voice.

"Not exactly," John said hastily. "More like we bumped into each other when I was looking for wool to test the spinning wheel I was making for Mrs. Hudson." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the slight wince Sally made and he realized no-one knew of her hobby, either. For a moment he wanted to "out" her just like she had him, but his better nature exerted itself and he changed the topic. "So, since I'm going to be at the show, how can I help?"

Lestrade nodded, looking relieved to be back on familiar ground. "We have information that someone is using the show—this one and others—as a way of smuggling drugs, but we don't know who or how. Frankly, I was just hoping to find a vendor who'd let one of ours work undercover, but this is much better if you're willing, John. If you can help…."

John frowned. "Well, I'm happy to help, you know that, but I'll be tied up for most of the time, dealing with customers. Unless you want to provide sales help?"

"I could do that."

John and Lestrade both blinked as they looked at Sally and Sherlock, who were staring at each other.

"You, Freak? Dealing with the public? We'll have a homicide on our hands!"

Sherlock sniffed. "As if your interpersonal skills are so much better? Calling John's customers names, for example, would not be helpful."

"Neither would spouting all their secrets and embarrassing them," she retorted.

As one, John and Lestrade moved forward. "Now, kids, that's enough," Lestrade said. "We can find a use for both of you."

For just a moment, as they made eye contact, John had the feeling he knew exactly how his parents had felt when he and Harry used to fight.

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In the end, it was both simple and not simple at all, getting everything arranged.

From John's end, he already had about nine thousand and three things that needed to get done before the show—making sure everything that he hoped to sell was in salable condition, making sure he had plenty of business cards and glossy handouts, making sure the breakable things were packed and ready to transport—the to-do list seemed endless.

Luckily, the added pressure of helping the Yard didn't actually make his job (right now) any harder. He just let Lestrade and Sherlock work out what else needed to be done for the sting, or whatever they were calling their operation. He just focused on making his booth look as good as possible because, (1) it needed to look convincing and (2) he really was here to make money. Furniture-grade wood was costly and he had expenses to cover.

His biggest concern was that Sherlock really was going to work as his sales assistant. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Conducting sales. With the innocent public.

That alone could go badly so, so easily. John would actually have preferred Sally for this—she might be abrasive (especially with Sherlock), but she at least had some manners when she needed them. Lestrade had decided, though, that she would be more convincing as a customer roaming the aisles than Sherlock and, well, it was hard to argue with that.

Rolling a carved paperweight in bubble wrap, John eyed his flatmate and tried not to feel uneasy about this. All Sherlock had to do was pretend to be a normal person for a day (or two). He could do that, right?

Except John was never sure where Sherlock's priorities lay. He knew without a doubt that Sherlock would not do anything to endanger John (or anybody else if it could be reasonably helped). He knew that Sherlock supported his hobby-slash-side-business because John enjoyed it and it gave him something to do when he needed to distract himself from Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. (John also liked the fact that it meant he had a sharp knife about his person at all times—and made sure Sherlock knew it. He sometimes suspected Sherlock was calculating exactly how long it would be before John took out a suspect with a chisel.) The point, though, was that he wasn't worried Sherlock would deliberately do anything to hurt his chances at actually selling things.

It was Sherlock inadvertently doing something to hurt his chances that worried him.

Still, Sherlock looked actually … enthusiastic. That couldn't be a bad thing … could it? He had never come to a craft show with John before and, other than 'allowing' John to spend some of his time in 221C, had never shown much interest in his business before. He was supportive, but in his own, unique way.

If John didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock was looking forward to seeing people admire John's work.

He just hoped Sherlock wouldn't be disappointed. Most people attended craft shows to buy smallish items—jewelry, pottery, photographs. Large-ticket items like paintings or large-as-in-bulky items were often skimmed past. Buying a hand-crafted desk wasn't the same kind of impulse buy as a glass bauble, after all, and in the handful of shows John had attended, he had spent a large part of his time sitting by himself.

He was fine with that, really. Wood-working was his hobby, not his primary source of income. He found he was happy just to chat with people who stopped to admire his work. He had even had a sale or two later on, from someone who'd taken one of his cards home. Really, it was relaxing—a welcome change from his usual. There were certainly worse ways to spend a day.

Adding a bored Sherlock Holmes to the mix, though, along with a team of the Yard's finest?

This show could be very interesting indeed.

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