CHAPTER 1

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PREAMBLE …

1998 Petrus Pomerol - $1,459+ USD per 750 ml bottle

This Merlot was one of the favorite wines at the White House during the Kennedy years. The official name is Chateau Petrus but even its label refers to it as simply "Petrus." A truly exquisite vintage, it should reach maturity after the year 2012.

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I stand at the open door and sigh. The fridge is largely empty. There is a half bottle of red wine, moldy left over Chinese take-away, jam with overly sticky outsides and three empty jars of formaldehyde. I rearrange the take-away and retabulate. There's also milk that's gone off and – correction - four jars of formaldehyde. The last one contains a single eyeball. There isn't even milk for tea. There is bread, however. Almost a complete loaf. And it's fresh. Perhaps a contribution from Mrs Hudson trying to keep us distracted bachelors alive? The state of the fridge is a microcosm of the state of affairs at 221B.

Turning my back on the kitchen, I take a reading on the weather. The rain is chucking down without end; the winds blasting it around in all directions including horizontal and updrafted vertical. The thin ridge of the road camber road is all that remains above water level. I look up at the low ceiling. It is almost nonexistent; this sky starts at the rooftops. There is no visibility. Nothing is going to be flying today. It doesn't really matter since I am not likely to be airborne. Not here. Not now. I used to, however. A great deal, and that makes assessing the weather a hard to break habit. Even now, knowing flight conditions is rooted in basic survival.

I continue against logic and search for some hope in the skyline. I had hoped my visual would be a contradiction for the television where every channel news reader related a version of a perky call for another day of 'brolly weather'. An umbrella will be useless in that – inside out in seconds and not much of a shelter from the rain from the shoulders down in that wind.

I watch the rain for a while, hypnotized by the visual white noise. There's something to it, I think, to watch the relentlessness of the downpour. There is no easing up – only surges in effort – like inconsolable sobbing. I work my way round to the last important idea and that is I have to go out in it this morning. No amount of gear is going to withstand the storm. Getting drenched is only a matter of time. We – among other things - have no food. Another high point is a visit to the bank. The business account is decidedly low on funds; I need to know by how much. It's not that he can't do his finances; I just made the fatal mistake of doing it once and that was enough to permanently inherit the job. If these errands are to be, it is up to me. The thought that Sherlock might go in my stead does not even enter my mind.

Eventually, I resign myself to my fate and leave. Long experience makes me right about the gear. I am drenched not a half a block from home and by the time I get back, I am well soaked through and enough so that a complete change of clothes is the first order of business. Once restored, I sort out contents of various bags – fresh food in the refrigerator, tins and crackers in the pantry, new business cards, a new notebook and three bank receipts on the desk. I am not the least bit happy about the receipts since they show only the thinnest of margins on the plus side. It's as close to zero as I have ever seen it. There's work in it for me – I must insist that Sherlock be less picky; Mrs Hudson is benevolent but she is a business woman, after all. The ability to buy food would also be nice. Besides, we don't need for every case to be worthy of his towering bloody intellect. We need them to be billable hours so we can eat and have a place to stay out of the blessed rain and cold. Next, the newspapers go on the table. I undo another phone charger and start charging my phone and wonder again what he did with the last one. This is charger number four. Perhaps it is better I not know.

Satisfied with my re-established indoors status, I further that cozy feeling by putting the kettle on. A morning running about in the freezing rain and I am starved. While I wait for the boil, I make toast and tuck into a well-buttered and jammed slice.

"Is that tea?"

I turn, mouth full and in half chew. Sherlock stands at the door way, half asleep, half dressed, shoeless and the tie to his dressing gown trailing and nearly lost.

I stuff down the mouthful of toast and say, "Not yet."

"Is that toast?"

"Not for long."

He descends into a scowl. He seems to have arrived at a mental impasse about what to do next. I take another bite of toast. It's possible I might be able to wait him out. He turns to go, changes his mind and comes back abruptly.

"Why didn't you wear boots?"

How did he know about the boots? It doesn't matter. This is revenge for the tea not being ready. Or not offering to make him toast. In any event, I refuse to indulge him by making any outward signs that I am trying to establish what he might have used as the tell-tale clues. I want to hold my hands out in front of me and take a look down my front but I don't. It has been raining for days – even at a guess, he has a fifty-fifty chance. Boots or shoes. I conclude by believing that he just got lucky. I take an aggressive bite of toast and don't dignify him with an answer.

Downstairs, I can hear Mrs Hudson greet a visitor and I take care of the kettle that is at full screech. By the time I finish with the teapot, there is a knock at the door. Sherlock is frozen in place – waiting for the tea to steep.

"I'll get that, shall I?" I offer. There is no indication that he has caught the sarcasm. I carry on. "And if it's a client, you better accept. The account has exactly enough money left for two pints of beer and a plate of chips." He doesn't acknowledge me and before I get to the door, it opens and in walks Mycroft. We square off and consider each other at a distance.

"Come in." I say. He is carrying a walking stick not an umbrella and yet he is completely dry. Someone must have held one for him from the car to the front door. Still – in the torrents – that might have taken some doing. Maybe the rain does not dare to fall on him. Perhaps he has immunity. I would not put either past him.

He takes a measured step forward, stops, anchors his walking stick just so then tilts his head and says with some derision, "Doctor Watson, why didn't you wear your boots?"

"Oh, come on." I say. "Not you, too."

"You must be careful of the elements, Doctor. You might catch cold."

"Stop it. Both of you."

"For God's sakes, John. Haven't you worked it out yet?" Sherlock pads over to me and waits. When I give no response, he says, "Black shoes!" As if that means something to me.

"What?"

"You're wearing black shoes." He points to my feet as if this were enough to fill in the entire story and he needs only repeat it to get me to understand. "You almost invariably wear brown shoes. They are suitably dull and inconsequential as a colour and match most of your wardrobe that tends towards a khaki aesthetic. You only wear black shoes for formal occasions only and when I say formal – I do mean that loosely. The pants you are wearing are tan. Brown would look better – and we have already established that is your preference. Yet here you are in your dress up blacks. So what happened? The place is littered with newspapers, business cards, food. So you went out. This is day four of a deluge. You would be soaked in mere minutes. Stands to reason then, that you are wearing black shoes because your brown ones are wet because you failed to wear boots when you went out. Mycroft is right. You can catch a dreadful cold if you are not careful. Now tell me the tea is ready. I'm positively parched."

"None for me, thanks." Mycroft adds, holding up a polite hand to refuse. "I won't be staying."

The sound of his brother's voice brings him back to the current circumstances. "You still here? What do you want?"

"The annual dinner at Pavel's is in three weeks. There has been a tragic loss of Petrus. The meal will be indigestible without it. You must find me a dozen bottles."

"Oh." I say, "Red wine? There's half a bottle of Beaujolais in the fridge. Yours if you want it." He looks at me long and hard. He is not amused. If I keep my expression bland, he won't know for sure if I am having him on.

"Doctor Watson." He concludes, "You are a barbarian."

Sherlock interrupts. "What's wrong with your wine agent?"

"I am between agents at present. The last one … did not appreciate that I do not tolerate substitutes. For Pavel's, I must have Petrus that is drinkable and in sufficient quantities. So I am hiring you to do it."

"Me? What for? You have an entire bloody military at your disposal. And all the MIs. Plus an executive assistant. Get one of them to do it."

"Yes. But they lack experience in the delicate task of locating, selecting and transporting wines. Sherlock, there is a deadline looming and this is clearly not a job for amateurs. I must have that wine in particular. It was unanimously agreed at last year's dinner. A dozen bottles of the '98 Petrus or the meal is ruined and England's place on the world stage compromised."

"I won't do it. And neither will John." He takes a severe look at me as I open my mouth to argue about billable hours. His stare is enough for me to temporarily hold my tongue.

"I hadn't thought …" Mycroft shakes his head as if shuddering at the idea of me taking the case. "However … in principle, I suppose it would be possible. He does technically work with you but success is improbable. No, Sherlock, I must insist that you do this. The annual meal at Pavel's is … crucial. Everything must be perfection. Not just excellent. Perfection. The guest list is … well … I don't need to tell you, do I? Doctor Watson, do make him see reason."

"I have my orders." I say and then, even though all I can think of is that near zero balance, I go silent. I know enough to get out of the way of two titans battling. I also know which one I back.

"Damn you, Sherlock. I will pay you." There is no reaction so he continues. "Handsomely. A finder's fee of … five hundred pounds a bottle."

My heart leaps. The math is easy. And rewarding. I am certain Sherlock will have it sorted in less than a day. Surely.

"Five hundred?" He scoffs and wheels away. "I am the world's only consulting detective. You are asking me to locate some wine for your little dinner party. That is an insult."

"Sherlock …" I edge in with a whisper.

"Alright. A thousand."

The total rises. Twelve thousand pounds for a few bottles of wine? He must see the reason in taking the case. I wait for Sherlock to accept the offer.

"Impossible. I won't do it. You have any number of resources at your disposal. You are doing this just to … spite me."

"Sherlock!" I say. The math has doubled. I imagine the numbers on the receipts will refuse to look at as proof of bank balance he does not wish to acknowledge.

"I am asking you because … you will not make a hash of the job. This is a matter of great importance to me personally and professionally. Fifteen hundred. And know that this is highway robbery."

"A hash? Hash? Dear God! Surely you have *some* respect for my talents! For that, dear brother, my minimum price is … five thousand pounds. Per bottle. Plus all expenses. Including the wine. And not a penny less."

"Sherlock!" I hiss at him. Sixty thousand dollars for a few bottles of wine?! He is going to price us right out of the market and we will literally be back to zero. The fifteen hundred was more than enough.

"Listen to Doctor Watson, Sherlock. He knows what I know – and that is - the alarming state of your affairs. You cannot afford to say no. I want a dozen bottles of '98 Petrus. Delivered to Pavel's in precisely twenty days. And – to demonstrate my good faith and how important this is to me, damn you – I even concede to pay you what you ask… five thousand pounds per bottle … upon delivery."

"Deal!" I say before Sherlock says another word.

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Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free follow the story so you get update notices. Also feel free to comment. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and me generally getting on with the story. : D