"What the hell do you have in your hands?" John asked as he came into the sitting room from the stairs.
Sherlock held a piece of jewelry. Not just any piece of jewelry, but the most ostentatious piece of bling that John had ever seen. There really was no other word for it. The word bling could have been invented to describe it.
It was the type of ring that's called a knuckle-duster, fits like brass knuckles, and could probably do some serious damage if you hit someone with it.
John joined Sherlock on the couch to examine it more closely. Sherlock slipped it on his hand where it looked enormous and heavy, spanning all four of his slender fingers. Spelled out in blue and white sparkling stones was '.'
"Please tell me you didn't buy that for yourself.
"Or take it in payment."
Sherlock gave John a despairing look. "Don't be absurd, John. It was sent to me. I'm trying to deduce why."
On the coffee table was a simple cardboard box addressed to S. Holmes, 221b Baker Street, London. There was no return address.
Sherlock slid it off and passed it over. John's hand dropped, unprepared for the weight. "I didn't think cubic zirconia would be this heavy."
"It's not cubic zirconia."
"What? What is it, then?"
"Platinum, with fifty-one out of fifty-six brilliant cut sapphires surrounded by pave diamonds. You can have a look, if you like." Sherlock reached out to pass a loupe to John.
"It's REAL?"
"Yes. Not the best quality stones, but with so many of them, it's quantity over quality."
"How much do you think it's worth?"
"Oh, fifty or sixty thousand pounds, I should think."
This time John's hand fell from shock.
"Sixty thousand pounds?"
"Roughly. It might be more since it's clearly custom made."
John placed the ugly thing back in the box, almost reverentially. It had been packed in shredded newspaper with nothing to indicate its value.
"You said it had fifty-one sapphires instead of fifty-six."
"Yes, five are missing here, at the end of the first 'S.'
"They might have fallen out."
"I checked the box carefully. And it seems odd that five would be lost in the same area."
"Do you think that's the case," asked John, "to find the missing stones?"
"No," Sherlock said, "If someone wanted me to investigate, there would be a letter, and I doubt that it would be treated so carelessly in shipping. These stones were forced out. See how the prongs have been bent back at nearly ninety degrees?" Sherlock held up his magnifier for John to look through. "Platinum is a strong metal and the prongs should grip the stones tightly in a setting like this. Prying these free took some specialized jeweler's tools.
"Its owner had fat fingers, fatter than when the ring was initially sized. See how the platinum is dull across the top, but buffed on the inside and up the sides. That's from the rolls of fat. There's also what I believe to be grease in between some of the stones. I'll have to run some tests.
"I also need to test this," he indicated some dried dark spots. "I believe it's blood. There's some flattening of the prongs along the center, over the 'L,M, E, S," as though it has been slammed against a hard surface. It would take repeated blows to do that damage. Despite the fact that the owner is clearly very careless with this, indicating that its value is a negligible sum to him, I doubt that he would hit a punching bag with it on, which suggests that he's struck something else while wearing it. So what does he hit without bothering to take it off? He may have punched someone's jawbone, or several persons, so we're looking at a violent man, not in control of his temper. The blood will tell us more.
"Once we determine who owns this we'll have a better idea of why it was sent to me."
Something in Sherlock's description triggered a connection in John's mind—an obscenely rich and corpulent man with a violent temper. "I think I might have the answer to who."
John went to his laptop for a quick search. "Yes! I didn't make the connection because he pronounces it differently, but here he is. He's an American rapper, known for his violent temper. Punched a bouncer at some club in New York and has been abusive with some of his own entourage. I think he's over here waiting for the scandal to die down. There are already lawsuits against him. He calls himself S'Olmes."
Sherlock made a small moue of distaste at this information, but joined John to look at the screen.
The article showed a fat man shielding his face from photographers in a gesture of dismissal. The knuckle-duster was clearly visible on his right hand.
"That's from a month ago," Sherlock mused. "Impossible to tell from the picture if the stones are already missing."
"Wouldn't a man like that have the sapphires replaced as soon as he noticed they were gone?"
"Likely, though not certain. What else is there about him?"
"Other altercations, string of sexy girlfriends," John skimmed through more listings. "Considered something of a liability. Obviously. Last two albums were panned by the critics."
Sherlock perked up, "Oh, now that is interesting. Anything on the loss of the ring?"
"Nothing I can find. Maybe he doesn't realize that it's gone. I mean, look at him. He's got to be wearing hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of…bling in every picture."
"Bling…yes, but notice that while the rest of the jewelry changes from picture to picture, the ring is always there. Sentimental value then, as well as monetary."
Sherlock shoved John out of the way to get to the laptop. John sighed. He'd seen Sherlock be astoundingly rude, but he'd also seen him be quaintly respectful to some people. He wasn't quite sure what it meant that Sherlock was rude and considerate to him in equal measure.
"I need to check some things, but I think I know what's happened. We just need to wait for his next move."
"OR, and here's an interesting thought, we could notify the police, get this hideous and very expensive thing out of the flat, and have a quiet evening."
Sherlock gave John a disparaging look, "Boring."
"Yes, I thought you would say that. But this seems like too small a case for you."
"Doesn't it interest you as to why it was sent to me?"
"Not really. A nice cup of tea sounds interesting, seeing as I won't be using my laptop tonight."
"Yes. Darjeeling for me," Sherlock said distractedly and went back to his research.
The next morning found Sherlock still on the laptop. "John, look at this."
"You're on TMZ? I'd have thought it too base for—"
"If you start on that earth round the sun thing again, I will hit you."
"Fine. Just a surprise. Is this about the ring?"
"Of course. S'Olmes," Sherlock's face expressed his displeasure at the abuse of his family name, "has announced that the ring has been stolen. Look."
S'Olmes stood amidst a sea of microphones. He was still wearing sunglasses and a great deal of jewelry. A couple of very large men had their arms out to protect him from most of the crowd. John clicked play.
"Yeah, you know, it's not the money, 'cos that's like nothin', but you know, man, it was a gift, from my boy, K-Pow, may he rest in peace, and it's a piece of himself that he gave me 'fore he died, yo'. You just can't replace that. 'Cos that, that was love, right, man?
"And yeah, Ima gonna get it made up again in my boy's memory, but it'll never be the same."
The video ended.
"So, that's that then. It was stolen…but then why send it to you."
"Exactly. We still haven't figured that out. And why make a press conference out of it? Notice, he doesn't make an appeal for the criminals to come forward, just says that he's going to have it remade.
"You might be interested to know that it was insured for one hundred and thirty-five American dollars.
John stuttered, "What is that…seventy-five thousand pounds?"
"Eighty-two thousand, six hundred eighty-seven pounds, as of the last market update, to be exact.
'Did you know that S'Olmes' real name is Straker Johns and that he grew up on Staten Island?"
"Is that important?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure yet. I'm waiting for one more piece of information. Ah, and here it is!"
A very disgruntled looking Detective Inspector Dimmock came up the stairs. "You know, Mr. Holmes, I'm not really your errand boy."
Dimmock gave John a look that said why do we put up with him. "Doctor Watson."
John gave what he hoped was a sympathetic look back, "Inspector."
"I'm about to make you famous, Dimmock. That's why I asked for you especially. Perhaps you'll even become a police consultant on "Law and Order," Sherlock smiled wickedly. "Now, let's look at what you've got for me."
Dimmock laid out a set of photographs on the table. They featured a raw featured man whose nose had clearly been broken several times and set badly. In the first his left cheek was swollen, nearly shutting his eye. The others showed him in various stages of healing, from a lurid purple bruise to a greenish-yellow one.
Sherlock picked up his magnifier and peered at the pictures. "Take a look. What do you see?"
"That he's been beaten up?" offered Dimmock. John felt sorry for him, but not enough to offer his own guess for ridicule.
Sherlock squeezed his eyes together, clearly attempting to bite back a retort. "Yes, but what hit him?"
"You know that. We know that. S'Olmes hit him."
"Oh," said John, "is this the bouncer?"
"Yes, obviously. Look." Sherlock looked back and forth between the two other men. "Look!"
John sighed and took the magnifier. "He's been hit…wait, you can see the imprint of the ring."
"EXACTLY! Look even closer."
"You can actually see the outline of some of the stones…it looks like…yes! It looks like three are missing in the S!"
"Very good, John!"
"It might help if I knew what I was looking for," muttered Dimmock.
"When he hit the bouncer, three stones were already missing!"
"Wait just a minute," exclaimed Dimmock, "what stones?"
Sherlock pulled the knuckle-duster from its box and tossed it to Dimmock.
"Good God! What is this thing?"
"It's a piece of…bling that S'Olmes has reported missing.
"Tell me, Dimmock, did he file a report?"
"I believe so, not my division, but I heard that the details he provided were pretty weak, almost like he really didn't want it to be found. Said he never took it off, but then said that he'd sent it out to be cleaned, or rather someone on his staff had and he didn't know where it had been sent.
"We wanted to question the person, but it turned out they'd gone back to the United States. I can check on the progress if you like."
"No, no. It's fine. I have all I need. John, we're going to a party on Friday night. Do you have something to wear? Something…better?" Sherlock asked and snatched the ring back from Dimmock.
"Now wait just a minute!" exclaimed Dimmock. "That's evidence. How did you get it?"
"It was sent to me. It's mine now," replied Sherlock, crossly.
John and Dimmock exchanged a look.
"Fine," said Sherlock managing to be both annoyed and contrite at the same time. "Look, if you let me keep it until Friday, you'll get your name in the papers."
"What if I don't want my name in the papers? What if I'd rather do my job?"
"Boring. Just until Friday? Bring some officers to arrest the culprit on my signal.
Sherlock swallowed, "Please?"
Dimmock shook his head in resignation, "Fine, but if this goes wrong…" Dimmock paused, unsure of what he could possibly threaten Sherlock with that would matter. "I won't involve you in any more cases."
"Yes, yes. Just be there. The club is called Outré. Better bring several large policemen. We know Mr. Johns has a temper."
Dimmock shut his eyes for a moment. "Fine. Until Friday then."
After Dimmock had gone, John asked, "What do you mean wear something nice?"
Sherlock turned and stared at him coolly. "No jumpers, no cardis, no plaid shirts and no knit ties. I suppose a simple black t-shirt and black jeans will have to do."
John let the bizarre insult to his wardrobe pass. "Sorry, my clubbing days are long past. Didn't know I'd be needing them again. How are we getting into this party exactly?"
Sherlock waved his hand, "I know the owner of the club. I broke up a drugs ring that a bartender was running out of his last club. He's agreed to put our names on the guest list."
"So, let me get this straight. We're crashing the party of a man who's known to have a temper, who will be surrounded by bodyguards, to do what?"
Sherlock smiled enigmatically. "That would spoil the surprise, John. The party is to celebrate the unveiling of his replacement ring."
"He's throwing a party to celebrate the fact he bought…how did he get it so fast? He can't have gotten the insurance money that quickly."
"Precisely. You're learning to ask the right questions, John."
"Sherlock...should I bring my gun?"
"No. For one thing, you'll be patted down at the door, and for another, the police will be there at the conclusion. Better not give them a reason to arrest you for possessing a firearm, especially as they might decide to test it against bullets recovered from other bodies."
John nodded. It wasn't the strangest thing Sherlock had ever asked him to do.
Friday night arrived and John found himself crushed into a crowd in a dark nightclub. I'm getting old, he thought. This music is horrible, and much too loud.
To his surprise a number of women (some he suspected were young enough to be his daughter), chatted with him. He had just managed to start a conversation with a woman who at least looked like she might be in her late twenties, well, as much of a conversation as one could have when one's ears are ringing and one is screaming just to be heard, when Sherlock slipped up beside him. Sherlock was dressed exactly as he always was, black suit, purple shirt, although he had inexplicably produced a pair of silver sequined shoes to wear.
"Follow me, John. It's starting."
The young woman seemed to think he was gay if her parting comment of "I like to watch too" was any indication.
"Dammit, Sherlock, do you always have to do that?"
But Sherlock was already working his way through the crowd to where S'Holmes was holding court. The music stopped abruptly. The relative silence was so startling John reached for a gun that wasn't there.
"Friends!" boomed an American voice, S'Olmes, "you know that some fucker stole the beautiful ring that my boy K-Pow gave me a week before he got shot—rest in peace, bro—and if I ever catch the fucker, I'm gonna mess him up, but for now, K-Pow, you're gonna live on."
He held up a ring identical to the one that Sherlock had been sent. The stones sparkled in the coloured spotlights.
"It's a fake!" Sherlock's full voice rang out.
There was a scuffling in the crowd and Sherlock emerged holding his ring. "It's a fake," he repeated.
S'Olmes looked furious and two very large men, each a good five inches taller than Sherlock and twice as wide, started towards Sherlock.
Instantly Dimmock's men materialized out of the crowd and blocked their way.
Sherlock strode to the podium calmly. "It's a fake and you are guilty of insurance fraud. And the abuse of good taste and the English language."
Dimmock walked up to clap handcuffs on a very surprised and enraged S'Olmes.
S'Olmes was led away, yelling a string of profanities at Sherlock. Surprisingly, the party seemed to take his arrest in stride. The music resumed, free drinks were offered and the party swung on.
"Alright, Sherlock," said John once they had returned to Baker Street. "I have questions."
"Very simple, John. Straker Johns was deeply in debt. As you pointed out, his last two albums were failures. His label has dropped him and no other label will pick him up because of the lawsuits. His lifestyle is certainly not cheap with the drugs and the gambling.
"He'd been selling the sapphires one by one, and I suspect other pieces of his…bling, to try and keep up appearances."
John smiled at how Sherlock had trouble saying the word bling every time, but seemed to be unable to actually call S'Olmes' adornments jewelry.
"But with his last altercation he was facing an investigation into his finances. He was afraid that the slow removal of the stones would be revealed so he declared it stolen for the insurance money. He'd had a fake made up because in his vanity he couldn't bear to be without it. Merely cheap silver and paste."
"But how did it come to be sent to you?"
"Johns—S'Olmes—grew up on Barker Street on Staten Island. By odd coincidence, in apartment 221b. His mother still lives there. He boxed the ring up and scribbled the address on a card for a lackey to send to his mother for future retrieval, presumably to continue selling the stones in addition to the insurance money. The lackey misread his deplorable handwriting and sent it here.
Sherlock smirked. "Well, he'll have a nice set of bracelets now."
"That was extraordinary."
Sherlock smiled to himself in acknowledgement.