I am not entirely sure of the time line for this story, but I'm thinking it is probably pre-Reichenbach.
It goes without saying that I own neither the Arthur Conan Doyle characters nor the BBC show characters, though I have tried to stay relatively faithful to both.
This is as close to straight up mystery as I can get, and has no, I repeat, No slash. Thank you.
The Secret Admirer
Chapter 1
"O for the love of Pete! What is that awful reek?"
John Watson, wasn't unused to bad smells, but the fume boiling in a yellow green cloud from the kitchen of the Baker Street flat, would have knocked a warthog on its back. Gagging, he lunged for the window and fumbled it open to drag a breath of, only slightly polluted London air into his lungs.
"Sherlock, what the heck were you combining?"
A figure straight out of some B-rate mad scientist movie, aside from the blue bathrobe, of course, waved its way out of the cloud and threw open the room's other window. The hacking coughs emanating from his flat mate made explanation impossible, so John grabbed a handful of newspaper and worked on fanning the stench out of the flat for a few minutes.
"Well, I think I shall really have to speak to Mrs. Hudson about putting sugar in the sugar bowl." Sherlock's voice was hoarse, and both his eyes and nose were running, as he sagged against the window, obviously trying to get his breath back. John felt his forehead furrow in familiar bewilderment.
"Where else would she put it? Hang on…!"
"She's completely ruined my study of soluble …"
"Sherlock, what have you been putting in the sugar bowl?" John fixed his friend with a stern glance.
"I knew there was no danger; you don't even take sugar." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.
"Sherlock, there is a reason why people call things sugar bowls, and salt cellars and the like. It's because they are supposed to hold sugar or salt, not Arsenic, or powdered wax or whatever other gosh awful substance can fit into them. You're not supposed to have to do a chemical analysis on everything before you season your food." John felt his volume go up as Sherlock pulled his goggles off, and mopped at his face with the hem of his bathrobe.
"I see that you are still upset about your dinner with what's-her-name."
"Tina-"
"Though really, I can't see how I can be blamed for you not observing the blatantly obvious difference between salt and wax."
"Wax isn't supposed to be in the salt cellar-"
"Anyway, she was sure to discover your regrettable culinary mediocrity soon enough, and you both ended up enjoying that excellent Indian take away that I recommended. All's well, that ends well" The ridiculous grimace that passed for a grin on Sherlock's face, had "punch me," written into every line, but John resisted. Instead he slapped the newspaper back down and turned to the window.
He was just considering whether the freezing breeze blowing into the flat was better than the lingering smell, when he noticed the woman standing across the street.
It was a busy street, of course, lots of people coming and going, but she was just standing there, head down, with hands in her coat pockets. A smallish woman and bare headed despite the cold and damp. For a second she looked up at the window and John felt his breath catch. Almost immediately he heard Sherlock's voice.
"Oh, it looks like we have a client."
"Please sit Miss Morstan, and tell us about your case?" Sherlock adjusted his jacket before sitting himself, noting the woman's glance at the kitchen and slight grimace of distaste at the lingering odor of his "experiment". He grimaced himself, thinking off the trouble he was going to have preparing the compound again. He spent a second calculating the ratios for his next attempt, while another part of his attention considered where he should stow his nitrates since the sugar bowl was now off limits.
John's quiet throat clearing brought his attention back to the matter at hand.
The client, female. Mid to late twenties. Unmarried. Professional. Works with children. Teacher? No, briefcase says Doctor. Therapist.
"I guess I should tell you that I've been to the police already, and they haven't been able to help me." The woman's voice was low, and just a bit raspy, with a distinctly Welsh accent.
Sherlock had to smile.
"No surprise there."
The interruption rattled her, and she paused to take a deep calming breathe. Uncommonly raw nerves for a therapist, Sherlock considered.
"Perhaps you should start from the beginning." That was John being "sensitive" and stating the obvious. Where the hell else would one start?
Still, Sherlock had to admit, it got her talking again.
"I started receiving the parcels six years ago. Jewelry, some of it pretty nice, shows up every January the sixth."
"Shows up where?" Sherlock interjected.
"Wherever I am." She answered steadily.
"Interesting," He sat back and steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Go on."
"It started with a locket that came in the post. It was nice enough, though more for sentiment than actual value."
"You had it appraised?" He asked.
"No, I took it to the police."
"And what did they have to say about it?"
"Not much, except that it was stolen."
Sherlock nodded. The woman before him was sitting with the kind of casual ease that had to be automatic habit for dealing with her patients, but her hands were clenched together and almost bloodless in her lap.
"Turned out to belong to a woman in Stratford on Avon, who'd had a break in a month before."
"Have all the subsequent gifts been stolen goods?"
"Yes" she reached down for her briefcase, in a kind of spasmodic lunge. "I brought photographs of the items and copies of the police reports if you'd like to look at them."
"Excellent!"
She cast a questioning glance between him and John when he failed to accept the proffered folder. John gave him a Look, and took the papers from her at last.
"Do the parcels come with any notes?" John asked, flipping through the papers in the folder. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on her.
"They didn't at first, but the last four have all had something written with them. They're in the back." She added helpfully.
Sherlock held out his hand. A moment, and one resigned sigh from John later, he was able to take a proper look at the papers.
"Cheap paper, hotel stationery. Written with hotel pens as well. First one's Lancaster. These other two are continental, France, Deauville, I believe and Paris."
He shuffled the papers to find the last one.
"Ah, and London, close by, Pondicherry lodge. All of which the police must have already told you."
He looked up to find her gazing at him with the usual vacant expression that people gave him, when, if they had just bothered to really think, they could have figured it all out for themselves. She blinked and then nodded.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, the police have been investigating. The problem is that, whoever writes the notes, doesn't actually check into any of these hotels. They apparently break in, use the room, then disappear."
He bent back to the papers.
"Novel."
"Wouldn't the security cameras catch him though?" John asked.
Sherlock snorted. "Please, for dump hotels like these, security hardly amounts to more than a webcam and a fat man with a magazine. It would be child's play for our thief."
A pause, while he took a last look at the notes, then he refocused on the client.
"Very well, I think we know sufficient about him, now I suppose we just need to gather what there is about you that has gained his attention." He leaned forward.
"The date is significant obviously, and apparently quite traumatic. Not a death though, or at least not just a death, people talk about death. You're ashamed to talk about this date though…"
"Sherlock …" He barely heard John's voice as he warmed to the deduction.
"…You're more than willing to go to the police; indicating that the guilt is more than probably misplaced, which suggests rape..."
"Sherlock! Shut up!" John's voice was a sharp crack of sound in the suddenly silent room.