THE SLANTED PAINTING

CHAPTER 1

Author's note: Actually I should have written "note to self" because this story will never see the light of day. I'd like it to, but for some obvious reasons, it must remain an exercise, for my eyes alone. And maybe Mary's. But definitely not for Sherlock, or Greg or for the public in general. Everyone has heard of the case, of course – it gave a lot of publicity to Sherlock – but these particulars shouldn't reach the public.

It's a pity.

JHW

July 25, 2014

"Dammit!". Why had I driven to Baker Street? It would have been easier to take the tube. But then the packages I needed would have been hard to manage myself. I smiled a bit sadly, wondering how I had managed to be so concerned about such everyday, trivial things when the man I was coming to see would undoubtedly regale me with his latest escapade – his latest brush with death, the latest criminal mastermind he had put behind bars. I, on the other hand, was going to various markets in the area in search of ingredients for our dinner party tonight.

"Hello, John". Mrs. Hudson was heading out the door, lugging a large suitcase.

"Could you help me, dear?" she asked and fairly flung her suitcase at me.

"Going out of town?" I inquired as I struggled with a weightier load than I had anticipated.

"Yes, I got a note in the post a few days ago! I won a contest at Tesla. A weekend in Brighton! I'm bringing my sister along. We're meeting at Paddington. Where are the taxis?" She was fussing with her bag and carry-on.

"The street's blocked off at the end," I informed her. "I had a helluva time getting here. Some ditch digging, I think."

"It's not for that Pope visit?" Mrs. Hudson asked rather frostily.

The Pope was arriving for a state visit and Mass on Sunday. Security was astounding – already there were roadblocks on every artery into the city. I was only able to get through with my military ID. "No, no, just a regular ditch," I assured her.

"It's a good thing I'm getting out of town," she replied. "All these goings on. I don't approve of the disruption or foreign religious people coming…."

"Yes, yes, yes, indeed," I hastily replied, increasing my speed to the corner. I knew that it was far too early in the day to discuss the crowded London streets with Mrs. Hudson. "I'll get you a cab at the corner."

Having safely deposited her on the way to Paddington, I went back to 221B. I reminded myself what Mary had advised.

"You have to manage your expectations," she cautioned. "Everytime you go there, you come back all glum – he tells you about arresting a serial killer and you say you've diagnosed an interesting case of foot fungus."

"It was a very interesting case of foot fungus," I protested mildly. "And I wasn't that glum."

"You were glum times three," she reminded me.

"That's because he had just led the police to a forger who had the plates to…." I trailed off. "Yes, I was rather glum, wasn't I?" I was just glad she hadn't used the phrase "insanely jealous". I had decided to quit while I was ahead.

But today would be different, I promised myself. Not to brag (I'm quite different from Sherlock in that regard) but I had had a successful morning. I had set the record for most skin-rash diagnoses before lunch. So I had decided to reward myself by visiting Sherlock. I had told myself that it was primarily to see the blood sample coagulation that Sherlock was working on, but deep down I knew better. I was hoping there would be a case to work on.

I unlocked the door and bounded up the stairs. When I opened the door, I was as surprised as if Sherlock had his hands around a killer's throat. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if he had his hands around a killer's throat, for I had seen him do that on a number of occasions. But I had never seen him, paintbrush in hand, in front of an easel and canvas, staring as intently as if he were analyzing a crime scene.

Actually, it was a crime scene. Sherlock is many things, all of which I've enumerated in my blogs, but he is, evidently, not an artist. The painting (and I'm being generous in that noun) was, I gathered, supposed to be of the view outside the window. The street, the building across the way, the sky – were all rendered flat, garish and oddly-tilted within the landscape. I leaned my head to the left, then the right. Neither improved the aspect of the painting. Only a combination of bad lighting and poor eyesight would do that.

"Well, well," I said brightly. (Was it too brightly?) "What are you doing?"

Sherlock looked at me, narrowing his eyes. Yes, I had said it too brightly. He slowly put down the paintbrush.

He spoke very carefully, which was a very bad sign. "I have been bored bored bored and you haven't been around to go through my inbox for cases," he said levelly. He turned back toward the painting, tiling his head as I had done and evidently coming up with the same opinion as I. "Mycroft got me all this painting material for my birthday and so I thought I would give it a go." He tilted his head even further. "He obviously gave it to me in the now-realized hope that I would muck it up and make a fool of myself."

"I'm sure Mycroft was…." I began but I couldn't pull off the rest of the sentence. I started again. "Yes, that's exactly what he was doing."

Sherlock flung down the paintbrush and threw himself in his desk chair. "I need a case," he declared, waving his hand toward his computer. "Find me one." He quickly amended with a short glance at me. "Find us one."

I sat down at the desk across from him. I logged into his email account and started perusing the incoming. "Kidnapped heiress in France?" I asked.

"Don't want to travel," Sherlock said as he opened desk drawers.

"Moneylaudering in Belgium?"

"Still don't want to travel," Sherlock said as he pulled his revolver out of the bottom drawer.

I did a doubletake as Sherlock aimed the pistol at me. "What are you doing?" I asked none too patiently.

Sherlock pursed his lips and took aim. "I'm going to try to come as close to you as I can without actually hitting you."

"No, you're not. " I grabbed the gun from his hand and put it in my pocket.

"Now, you don't want to travel and you don't do divorce cases."

"Correct." Sherlock nodded.

"That leaves… absolutely nothing," I said as I ran down the rather lengthy list. "Evidently no one in London needs you right now. The closest case is in Brighton."

"God, not Brighton," he grimaced.

I brightened. "Greg" (Sherlock looked puzzled.) "Lestrade," I amended, "is working on that pirate case – he escaped yesterday – surely you heard."

Sherlock nodded reluctantly.

"Who doesn't like a good pirate case?" I asked. "Let's call Lestrade and ask if he needs help."

"He should call me." Sherlock said peevishly.

"Then it's back to the drawing board, er, the painting canvas," I said. I got up to go.

"You're not leaving me," Sherlock said as he got up to block the door. "You can't leave me to paint alone."

"I don't see where I would be much help." I patted him on the back. "You're doing splendidly." I edged past him toward the door. I took another look at the painting and relented. "How about lunch?"

"I told you I don't want to leave the flat," Sherlock said.

I tried to be patient. "I'm not asking about lunch in Brighton. How about in the café downstairs?"

"It's closed. The sign in the window says broken water pipe but I suspect it was for fumigation. Won't open again until Monday."

"There are a dozen cafes within a few blocks."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Okay. I'm trying to be patient here." I realized I had said that aloud. I tried again.

"Let's go have lunch and we'll figure out a gameplan for a case."

Sherlock was not to be assuaged. He was in full martyr mode. "You go on."

"All right," I said, edging toward the door. "Sure you won't come?"

"No, " he said. "You go find a case to solve yourself. In Brighton or France or wherever. As if you could."

I blinked hard, determined not to be baited. "Great then. Have a nice day."

He slammed the door behind me.