Sherlock & The Copper Beeches
by Soledad
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Action/Adventure
Rating: G, suitable for all
Disclaimer: Sherlock and all related characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern versions of them belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, may their muses never abandon them. I only borrow settings and characters to have some fun. No copyright infringement intended and no money made.
I do, however, use some dialogue from the episodes "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Sign of Three", although in a different context, as well as a few lines from John Watson's (fictional) blog.
Summary: a modern retelling of the classic ACD story, with a twist. Set in the same 'verse as "Sherlock & the Illustrious Client". Time: between "The Great Game" and "A Scandal in Belgravia."
Beta read by the generous englishtutor, whom I owe my gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine, due to my pig-headedness. Sorry!
Chapter 01 – E-Mail For You
After the almost-deadly encounter with Moriarty, which John mentally called "that disaster at the pool", life became strangely uneventful at 221 Baker Street. Lestrade seemed to avoid them – in fact, he only occasionally called to ask how they were doing – which meant no police cases for Sherlock. Even private clients became rare and spectacularly uninteresting.
John suspected Mycroft's hand behind such an unexpected turn of events – not that he minded it, for a change. He had bruised a couple of ribs in that bloody explosion and even breathing still hurt. He managed to work the occasional shift at the surgery, so that they would keep him, but even that cost him considerable effort.
So yeah, a little bit of peace and quiet was mightily welcome. So was Mrs Hudson spoiling them like a doting mother hen.
Sherlock, of course, saw things differently. He was hideously bored, despite the fact that his dislocated shoulder was still in a sling and caused him nearly constant pain. Which made him irritated way beyond the usual levels; more so as he stubbornly refused to take any painkillers, not wanting to risk another kind of addiction.
He had not yet reached the stage where he would shoot the walls in sheer frustration but he was close to it. Dangerously close.
"Why don't you look out of the window and deduce the people who walk by?" John suggested, typing away on his laptop with both index fingers and with some difficulty.
He had wrenched his injured shoulder in the explosion badly, and while it was healing up well enough, typing was still one of the (many) activities that hurt.
"Boring!" Sherlock stepped over the coffee table – literally – and walked over to where John was working on his laptop. He leaned over John's shoulder to get a better look at the screen. "The Great Game? What's that?"
John rolled his eyes but kept typing. "It's the title, genius!"
"What does it need a title for?" Sherlock asked in honest surprise.
John smiled tightly. "So that people would know which one of our cases I am talking about?" he explained with forced patience.
Sherlock ate the piece of toast he was holding in two bites.
"Do people actually read your blog?" he asked doubtfully.
"Where do you think our clients come from?" John asked back.
"I have a website," Sherlock pointed out indignantly.
"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash," John retorted. "Nobody's reading your website."
"What I do is exact science and should be treated as such," Sherlock replied stiffly. "You make our cases seem like some kind of romantic adventure. You should be focusing on my analytical reasoning and nothing else."
"So that nobody would read my blog, either?" John returned without missing a beat. "No, thanks. In case you haven't observed," he emphasized Sherlock's favourite word with heavy sarcasm, "they actually like it when I splash a little colour on the bare facts."
"Unfortunately," Sherlock muttered darkly.
John ignored him, saved the blog entry and hit 'Post'. Then he clambered to his feet and went into the kitchen that was, for once, free of any experiments.
"Tea?" he asked, switching on the kettle without waiting for an answer.
As expected, he didn't get one. Unless a disgusted grunt counted.
"Do you know a woman named Wanda Hunter?" Sherlock asked instead.
John shook his head. "Never heard of her."
"She must know you, though," Sherlock said. "Why else would she send you an e-mail?"
John hobbled back into the living room – his leg had been acting up since the explosion, too, and wasn't that a joy? – his face dark like a thunderstorm.
"Have you been into my private correspondence again?" he snapped. "Sherlock, how often have we already talked about personal boundaries?"
Sherlock waved off his angry demands nonchalantly.
"Dull," he declared. "Besides, she only wrote you because she wants to consult me."
"And you've come to that brilliant conclusion… how exactly?" John asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Sherlock turned around the laptop so that he could see the opened letter on the screen. "See for yourself."
John leaned closer to read the letter. It was short and to the point, dated from twenty minutes earlier.
Dear Dr Watson,
I would be grateful if you could arrange a meeting between me and your detective friend, Mr Holmes. I have been offered a promising job, but the conditions are unusual, to say the least, and I would like to hear his opinion before I accept or reject it.
You can ask my previous employer about my credibility or you can reach me on my phone.
Yours sincerely,
Wanda Hunter
"That's what I've come to," Sherlock complained, unabashedly wallowing in self-pity and enjoying every second of it. "Giving employment advice to random women. It is pathetic, really."
John ignored the Holmesian melodrama with practiced ease.
"Not just any random woman," he eyed the address on the bottom of the letter with a frown.
Sherlock tried to veil his sudden curiosity – and failed. "So you do know her, after all?"
"No, I don't," John replied. "But I do know her previous employer. He was my commanding officer in Afghanistan. If he vouches for her, then she's okay."
"Oh!" Sherlock said in a tone that from a lesser being would have dangerously close to jealousy.
Not from a Holmes, of course. Holmeses didn't do jealousy.
"You respect him very much," he deduced instead.
John chose to ignore the slightly whiny undertone in his best friend's voice. "Yeah, I do."
"But obviously not enough to stay in touch with him," Sherlock commented with a predatory glance.
There was some secret behind this and he felt honour-bound to unravel it. John was not supposed to keep secrets from him!
"What?" John, trying to google Miss Wanda Hunter and coming up with nothing useful, was barely listening to him.
"Oh, nothing," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "I was just wondering why don't you see him anymore."
"Who?" John asked distractedly, widening the search radius with the help of keywords like nurse, personal assistant, driver and housekeeper – functions that would be needed around a man of Major Sholto's condition.
And bodyguard, of course.
"Your previous commander," Sherlock answered, getting a little impatient with him.
John raised an eyebrow.
"Previous commander?" he repeated, with a warning edge in his voice.
Sherlock, realizing he'd made a mistake, although he couldn't really guess what it had been, closed his eyes briefly.
"I meant ex-commander."
"Right," John said. "'Cause previous suggests that I currently have a commander."
"Which you don't," Sherlock said, starting to catch his drift.
"Which I don't," John agreed, again with that warning undertone.
Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. "'Course you don't," then he switched to analytical mode again. "He was decorated, wasn't he? A war hero?"
There was no way that John would respect somebody this much otherwise.
"Not to everyone," John replied grimly. "Some see in him nothing but a monster."
"Really? "Sherlock was surprised. "What for?"
"John sighed. "It was a tragic event. He led a team of crows into battle…"
"Crows?" Sherlock echoed, frowning.
"New recruits," John explained. "It's standard procedure to break the new boys in: under the tutelage of an experienced officer. But in this case everything went wrong. They all died; he was the only survivor."
Sherlock nodded in understanding. That had indeed been tragic. Small wonder that not everyone saw a hero in Major Sholto.
"The press and the families gave him hell," John continued. "He gets more death threats than you."
"Oh, I wouldn't count on that," said Sherlock primly.
John grinned and shook his head. "You just can't bear being seconded by anyone, can you? Why have you suddenly such an interest in another human being anyway?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I was wondering why the two of you lost contact, is all. I still am. Seeing how highly you think of him…"
"Well, he's almost a recluse," John replied with a shrug of his own. "Lives in solitude in the middle of nowhere, hardly ever leaves the house, accepts no visitors. In a way it's understandable, considering the crippling injuries he's suffered and all the hostility he's had to face ever since. Still, he's the most unsociable man I've ever met."
"He is?" echoed Sherlock indignantly. "He's the most unsociable man?"
The question What about me? hung between them in the air unasked. John grinned at him.
"You're not unsociable, Sherlock; on the contrary. You're such a prima donna that you'd die without a proper audience."
"There's that," Sherlock admitted in a sudden attack of honesty; then he added thoughtfully. "I wonder why Miss Hunter chose to leave his employment."
"Well, there's one way to find out," John pointed out reasonably. "You take the case, you'll learn all the details."
"I think I will," Sherlock decided. "It's not even a two, granted, but with Mycroft bullying Lestrade into not giving me any cases, I can use any distraction I can get."
John shook his head in tolerant amusement. "You think Mycroft has forbidden Lestrade to give you any cases?"
Sherlock gave him a look that expected without any doubt that John's reputation (such as it had been to begin with) had just plummeted down several notches in his eyes.
"Really, John, you don't think that the idiots at New Scotland Yard have suddenly learned how to do their jobs, do you? Clearly, Mycroft has been meddling with my life again. That's what Mycroft does."
There was an undeniable truth in that statement. In his subtle and scheming way Mycroft Holmes, the shadow lord behind the British Government, cared for his little brother more than anyone would have thought, no matter what he might have said about caring in general. It was well within his powers to order Lestrade to back off and leave Sherlock alone; and he would not hesitate to do so if he thought it necessary, regardless of Sherlock's wishes.
John knew this as well as Sherlock. Therefore he saw no reason to argue.
"So, do you want me to arrange a meeting with the lady?" he asked instead.
"Hardly a lady, if she used to work for an embittered war hero living in the middle of nowhere," replied Sherlock with a grimace. "But by all means, let her come here tomorrow morning. I'm sure the unusual conditions she mentioned will turn out deadly dull once approached with the right analytical method, but perhaps she'll take a liking to you. She'd be doubtlessly an improvement to your current girlfriend. Anyone would."
John shook his head tolerantly and sent an e-mail to Miss Hunter, asking her to visit them at 221B Baker Street at ten-thirty on the following day. He could not deny that he was curious about this woman who who'd managed to hold out in the employ of the misanthropic Major Sholto, at least for a while… and what sort of unusual conditions had made her hesitant to take a promising new job.
He was definitely looking forward to meeting her – and decidedly not for the reasons Sherlock had implied. He was fairly content with his current girlfriend (whom Sherlock just called "the boring teacher"), thank you very much. If only Sherlock would leave them alone long enough to actually make it work!
~TBC~