Bills to Pay
By Kathy G.
In this story, set in "The Blind Banker," John owes money, and Sherlock has been offered a case. Will he take it to help John? (Thank you, ukaunz, for beta-reading my story!)
As Sherlock leaned forward next to the window, resting his elbows on the table's hard surface and pressing his fingertips together under his chin, John, who had just indignantly reclaimed his laptop that Sherlock had been using to check his emails and had sat down in his armchair, picked up a small pile of letters stacked on the table next to the chair. Outside, police sirens blared in the street. "Oh," John said; his voice did not sound happy. It wasn't at all difficult to deduce that John was owing some bills that he didn't have the money to pay. Sherlock did not look toward him, but listened to him flicking through the letters. "Need to get a job," the doctor added.
"Oh, dull," Sherlock said, clasping his hands together and resting his lips on them. Why would anyone want to get a job when there are so many interesting things to do? he silently wondered. He gazed ahead, thinking about the email he had received from his former Oxford classmate, Sebastian Wilkes, which he had started to type a response to when John had interrupted him. Sebastian had asked him to come to the bank where he worked, Shad Sanderson, and look into an incident at the bank. Boring, Sherlock thought. Sounds boring. I'm not sure I'll even bother answering his email after all.
"Listen, um…" John said, and then he took a breath and paused. "If you'd be able to lend me some…" His voice trailed off.
John's about to ask me for a loan, Sherlock thought. He's broke, and he owes money on his bills. His savings account must have run out.
"Sherlock, are you listening?"
On second thought, Sherlock thought, resting his chin on his folded hands, perhaps I will take Sebastian's case. John needs money to pay his bills, and if I know Sebastian, he will pay me a generous amount for solving this incident. Enough that I can split it with John when it's over. Perhaps if I do, he won't decide to get a job. He raised his chin just off his folded hands.
Out loud, he said, "I need to go to the bank."
He rose to his feet and, getting his coat off the hook on the front door, strode onto the landing. He didn't bother looking behind him; he knew that John would follow. Sure enough, seconds later, John's footsteps pattered behind his own. Within minutes, the two were in a taxi, on their way to Shad Sanderson, where Wilkes worked.
A few days later, the case had been solved. Sherlock had rescued John and his new girlfriend, Dr. Sarah Sawyer, from certain death at the hands of the Black Lotus Tong, and he had discovered where the hairpin that the Chinese gang was trying to reclaim was: in the hands (or hair, rather) of the late Edward van Coon's former girlfriend and P.A. That morning, Sebastian Wilkes, who had given Sherlock an advance of five thousand pounds at the beginning of the case, had paid him an extra 20 thousand pounds for solving the case. Twenty-five thousand pounds in total. He had given John the check, and John, in turn, had handed it over to Sherlock. Afterward, John had been exonerated when Sherlock had hunted down the graffiti artist and persuaded him to own up to the mural that he had spray-painted on the back of the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square, the day after Sherlock and John had embarked on the case.
And now John was reclining in his armchair, stunned. Just 15 minutes ago, Sherlock had told him that he had cracked John's bank account as soon as he had deposited both checks at his own bank, and had electronically deposited half of the fee in John's bank account. As soon as Sherlock had told him that, John had checked his online bank account on his laptop, and had found that it was true. As he leaned against the soft, cushioned back of his chair, he pondered that marvel. Twelve thousand, five hundred pounds!
Well, I've been cleared of the graffiti charge, and I'll be able to pay all my bills now, he thought, clasping his hands in his lap. But I'll have to save what's left, because we can't expect all of Sherlock's clients to be so wealthy or so generous. Especially since he doesn't get paid for the work he does for Scotland Yard.
A car horn honked down the street. With an incredulous smile, John bent over to pick up his laptop, which he had earlier laid on the floor. Setting it in his lap, he reopened it, logged into his online accounts, and commenced paying all of his bills.
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