This story takes place about a year after the events of "His Spare Watson" and "Can't Manage Ordinary", three years before "Invictus." It is based upon ACD's short story "The Boscombe Valley Mystery". As usual, all the best lines are his, and are in italics.
000
The annoying sound dragged her reluctantly towards consciousness. A sort of vague thought fluttered through her sluggish mind—what was that noise? It was a just a dream, she decided. Pillowed beneath her, John was also stirring. How could he hear the sound she was dreaming? she wondered. But then the nuisance stopped, and she sighed and wrapped herself more tightly around her husband, effectively stilling him.
Then the door to their bedroom flew open and John, instantly alert, sat straight up in bed and snatched up his gun with a cry of "What the hell?" Mary grabbed the sheet tightly around her and turned over to see what the disturbance was. There was Sherlock, looming over them in his long coat, carpetbag by his side.
"Hurry! We have a train to catch!" he exclaimed dramatically.
John was livid. "Sherlock, what the bloody blazes are you on about? And what have I told you about bursting into our flat without knocking?"
Sherlock snorted with impatience, jerked out a drawer in the wardrobe, pulled out a pair of pants, and threw them at John with a flourish. "Get dressed! Lestrade called, we have a case. And I DID knock. You didn't hear me. And both your phones are turned off! How am I to get hold of you if you turn your phone off?"
John had his pants on and was scrambling for trousers. "You carry on knocking until one of us answers!" he snapped. "So, what is this case we have to rush off to?"
"It's in . . . ." Sherlock began.
Mary cleared her throat.
Both men turned to stare at her, both suddenly struck dumb and frozen in place.
"I've had many consultations with naked people in beds before, but that was usually in an examination room, and I was usually the one wearing clothes," she observed wryly.
Neither John nor Sherlock could think of anything to say.
"Get out," said Mary suggested calmly. They got out and shut the door.
Mary sighed and hurried to the shower. This was her least favourite way of waking up in the morning.
Fully clothed, she went into the kitchen, where a half-dressed John was making tea and Sherlock was sitting at the table playing with the salt cellar and explaining why they didn't have time for breakfast. He looked for all the world like a dog waiting for the signal to fetch.
"So what's going on?" she asked, accepting a cup from John.
"We have a case in Herefordshire. Lestrade is there already. We need to catch the train and get out there this morning," Sherlock explained, his words rushing out almost too quickly.
"In Ross-on-Wye?" Mary asked. "The Boscombe Pond case? The one I pointed out to you in the paper yesterday and that you said was boring? That one?"
"Well, yes," Sherlock admitted, trying to look as sheepish as possible.
Mary balled up a serviette and threw it at him, bouncing it off of Sherlock's forehead. "Prat," she said affectionately. "Why can Greg persuade you to work on a case that I couldn't?"
"He can't," Sherlock admitted. "But he called me this morning and said that one of the parties involved has requested my assistance specifically. I felt I couldn't refuse a personal request from the young lady."
Mary giggled and waggled her eyebrows at him. "Ooo, a young lady, is it?" she teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes eloquently.
John chuckled. "Young lady, indeed. It was Lestrade's saying not to bother coming because it's an open-and-shut case that persuaded him. He just has to prove Scotland Yard wrong."
"I suppose the young lady's name is Alice Turner?" Mary asked with exaggerated innocence.
Sherlock looked at her strangely. "Yes, as a matter of fact it is. How do you know that?" he demanded.
John handed his wife a piece of buttered toast. "Perhaps she read the paper. The one you couldn't be bothered to look at." He buttered his own toast and bit into it.
"Or, perhaps I e-mailed Alice last night and suggested she request your help," Mary smiled. "She happens to be an old school friend."
Sherlock was clearly taken aback. "But, you don't have old school friends," he protested.
Mary tried to look insulted. "Oh, you're in rare form today, aren't you, Sweetheart? You're usually insulting everyone else in the world except me. Now I don't feel special anymore." She ate her toast, pretending to sulk.
John stuffed the rest of his toast into his mouth. "He has a point, Mary." His voice was muffled, talking with his mouth full. "You moved around so much as a child, you really didn't make a lot of friends."
Charitably, Mary conceded the point. "But Alice was an exception. I think she felt we were kindred spirits of a sort. Her mother had died when she was little, too, and she and her dad emigrated here from Australia. So we were both a bit out of place at our school, and we stuck together. I even spent a few holidays with her at her dad's estate in Ross-on-Wye. But then I got shuffled off to yet another relative and I had to change schools. We tried to keep in touch for a bit, but you know how that goes. I used her old e-mail address on the off-chance she hadn't changed it in twelve years. I guess she didn't."
But Sherlock was now in an agony of impatience. "All right, all right, you've finished eating. Let's get going!"
"I'll go get cleaned up and pack my kit. It won't take a minute," John said, slurping down the last of his tea. Mary popped the last bit of her toast into her mouth and followed him.
"I don't know what your great hurry is, Sherlock," she called back through the bedroom door. "There are any number of trains running to Herefordshire all day long. We have plenty of time."
Sherlock appeared in the doorway. "We?"
"We," Mary informed him. "I'm coming too, you know. Alice is my friend, after all, or was at any rate. And anyway, the change will do me good. It'll be good for you, too, Captain. You've been looking a bit peaky lately, haven't you? Fresh, country air: that's what we need."
"No I haven't," John replied off-handedly, stepping into the bathroom for a shower.
Mary began tossing clothes into her suitcase, ignoring Sherlock's antagonistic pacing. "I actually called work last night and took the rest of the week off," she informed him, "even though it was long-shot, Alice having the same e-mail as she did at sixteen. I need a nice break of routine. You two have all the fun; it's about time I got in on some of it."
"You helped me on the Cornwall case," Sherlock reminded her.
"That was almost a year ago now," she returned. "I think letting me in on a case once a year sets a good precedent." She was finished with her own packing and started throwing John's clothes into his old army duffel.
Then John himself reappeared, half-dressed and drying his dripping hair. "Oh, thanks, love," he kissed his wife, seeing that she had nearly finished his packing. "I would have done that."
"But could Sherlock have managed to wait the extra five minutes it would have taken you?" Mary chuckled. "He's about to explode as it is."
"We should bring some toys to keep him busy on the train," John suggested, pulling on his shirt. "Or maybe a sedative."
"It won't be as long a trip as the one to Cornwall. He was a good boy on that one. I'm sure we'll manage to keep him occupied and well-behaved."
"Two hours and 33 minutes," Sherlock interrupted. "If we leave now, we can catch the 9:27 from Paddington and arrive in Gloucester by noon." He picked up Mary's case and his own bag and stomped out the front door, leaving John and Mary to giggled at each other and quickly close up the flat.