19 BBC Sherlock: The Schemer's Pit

by Wynsom

In this Post S-4 story, the legendary friendship endures. An unexpected encounter in a restaurant and a call from Lestrade reunites Sherlock and John for a mystery that has stumped the Met. While Sherlock makes brilliant connections to solve the case, John handles the inconveniences of Sherlock's work.

1. Chapter 1

BBC SHERLOCK: THE SCHEMER'S PIT

"Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another."

Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Speckled Band

Chapter 1

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November 2018

"Hmmm, Chef Scot Williams, is it?" John leant in closer when his turn in the queue of restaurant patrons brought him face to face with his friend. "Brilliant disguise," he confided in a muttered aside and a half-smile as they clasped hands.

"Disguise?" Sherlock eyes twinkled.

"This chef's get-up," John whispered, unable to resist stating the obvious about another of Sherlock's impersonations.

"Not a disguise," Sherlock whispered back.

John eyed his friend before stepping away to let another enthused diner greet the "chef" and shake hands. Sherlock was eating this up!

It had been minutes since the friends had encountered each other quite unexpectedly. John had finished dining with several doctor-acquaintances in the elegant L' Effet de Serre. The Michelin two-star establishment had earned exceptional accolades from the London Evening Standard in recent months for "expertly crafted dishes that were not just refined but inspired and original." The highly touted fare was the draw for the six wearied medical men who had left the London Conference Centre with tired minds seeking diversion through their stomachs. And L' Effet de Serre did not disappoint. The delectable dishes and desserts proved a rewarding way to end a day after the medical convention. Following their epicurean feast, the doctors had lingered over their digestifs until closing and then rose in unison, each good-naturedly whinging about early starts the next morning, when Dr. Nigel Whitby remarked to the maître d' about the excellent cuisine.

"Messieurs, please stay a moment," the maître d' had effused, his palms raised to detain them, "You must tell him yourselves…it is his last night with us," and he had hastened to the kitchen.

The maître d' made a speedy return and introduced them all to Sous-chef Scott Williams. While the others gushed with their compliments, John had been struck speechless. The quite startling entrance of his friend nearly knocked him off his feet, but John resisted dropping into a chair. What he could not control was the ear-to ear-grin that appeared on his face. Fortunately his fellow diners were also grinning in good spirits with the prospects of meeting the chef.

John pondered the reasons for Sherlock's masquerade. His colleagues were ignorant both of the real identity of their ersatz chef and John's personal connections with the man more accurately known as Sherlock Holmes. Keeping silent as Sherlock's ruse played out, John had hardly had to feign his amazement.

For each tedious minute that John hid behind his camouflaging grin, waiting and watching the satisfied customers filter past Sherlock with their adulation, approving smiles, and handshakes, his curiosity grew. What is Sherlock really up to here? It had been several months since they had last spoken and John tried to remember if they had ever discussed a case involving a restaurant. By the time John's associates had collected their coats in preparation to leave, he was squirming with impatience.

"Watson!" Nigel Whitby's dark-rimmed spectacles and flat, florid face suddenly loomed inches away from John's. Apparently, he had been trying to get John's attention and resorted to blocking John's view of Sherlock. "Taxi's waiting…, " Whitby was pulling on his overcoat, one arm already stuffed through a sleeve, but he was struggling with the second. "You're coming along with us, aren't you?"

John stepped behind Whitby to assist him with his coat "Here, let me help," he said and darted a furtive glance at Sherlock. Am I?

No, John read in the subtle shake of Sherlock's head and quirky smile.

A shiver of excitement ran up John's spine with the thought of a case. He nodded that he understood. Detaching himself from the group with whom he had arrived would prove a bit inconvenient, however. Somehow—and irrationally—drawn into Sherlock's subterfuge, John fabricated several excuses, each sounded less convincing to his ear than the previous one. Resigned that his inability to lie was getting him flustered, he settled for the best truth he could provide without divulging his real plans. "No, but thanks. I'm fine," and waved them off.

"That was awkward," John chided his friend once the maître d' had seen the guests to the door and locked it behind them. John looked up at Sherlock, noting that the mien and comportment of the chef had dissolved. "You like doing this to me?"

"Not everything's about you, John," Sherlock dead-panned with a mischievous glint.

"So, you weren't trying to get my attention, then?"

"Not really, not like this," Sherlock eyes swept the dining room where the staff were clearing the tables and stacking the chairs on top. His eyes narrowed, his thoughts drifting elsewhere until with a sudden shake of his head his focus snapped back to John. "Texting's so much more efficient, but well, now that we've reconnected in this way, so much the better."

"What's with the disguise, then?"

"Not a disguise, John," Sherlock corrected again, smoothing the white double-breasted jacket he was wearing and releasing his sweat-dampened hair from beneath a simple cap.

"You let them think that you cooked our dinners, Sherlock." It came out as an accusation.

"I did," Sherlock replied with the slightest hint of self-satisfaction and turned on his heel. "However, I'd thought you'd be pleased. This once, I've made a good impression on your friends," he added over his shoulder, ignoring John's confusion and returning to the kitchen.

"What do you mean 'did'?" Stubbornness kept John from following. "That you misled them into thinking you prepared our dinners or that you actually cooked our meals?"

Sherlock paused at the double doors to the kitchen and gave the staring John Watson a playful smile. "Talk in here," he pushed open the right door and strode through—as if he belonged in the kitchen!

John lingered in thought. It was difficult to determine what upset him: Sherlock appearing out of the blue after being out of touch for months or Sherlock claiming to be the chef—their chef—who prepared their sumptuous repast? Curious about Sherlock's artifice and determined to get to the bottom of it, John followed his friend through to find Sherlock waiting for him.

The kitchen racket was voluminous. Over the hum of running appliances and the rushing tap water, there was a cacophony of clattering crockery and banging pots, punctuated by the boisterous banter of the workers. The dish washers, with their arms elbow-deep in suds, soaked and scrubbed the grime off oversized platters and pots and stacked them to dry. The kitchen staff, holding loud conversations among themselves, wiped down the stainless steel cooktops, work surfaces, and prep stations to close down the kitchen for the night.

Sherlock waved John into the relative quiet of an interior office. Within the tight but orderly quarters, the cork boards on three of the walls were layered with notes, announcements, work schedules, regulations guidelines, and lists of butchers, fishmongers and greengrocers. However, the last wall was brightened by a large window that afforded an excellent view of the kitchen. Once the door closed behind them, normal speech was possible.

Sherlock immediately dropped into the swivel chair behind a large, metal desk that dominated the room. It was stacked so high with papers and assorted files that it concealed all but the head and shoulders of the man sitting behind it. John remained standing as the only other chair in the office hosted a precarious pile of Kitchen Solutions and Nisbets supply catalogues.

"Okay, Sherlock," John adopted parade rest and eyed his friend's authentic-looking uniform jacket before resuming their earlier conversation. "I'm not displeased about you impressing my 'friends,' but, well, pretending to be a chef—when I know otherwise—put me in an difficult situation… as a doctor, I am required to inform the Department of Health if I believe there's been a breach in public safety— "

"—You think this is pretense?" Sherlock interrupted, clearly amused. He leant back in the chair and gestured with a sweeping hand at their immediate surroundings. "You don't believe me."

Their gazes locked. The shimmer in John's eyes clouded with skepticism.

"Oh, I see," Sherlock tented his index fingers against his lips to conceal his cat-got-the-canary smile. This would have been quite a satisfying prank on John if it had been premeditated. However, as the circumstances were completely accidental, Sherlock controlled his puckish pleasure at John's incredulity—so as not to ignite John's explosive temper in yet another restaurant, he thought—and addressed his friend without a hint of levity, "You need proof."

"You've faked things before, Sherlock. Just don't like being played for a fool… again and again and …," John admitted hoarsely with a half shrug. He shifted his gaze through the great window and focused on the pot rack suspended from the kitchen ceiling. "Seeing you here like this," his eyes came back to Sherlock, "was quite …a ...surprise—"

"—avoiding such a surprise would have been preferable, yes," Sherlock acknowledged with a nod, governing the impulse to chuckle at the memory of his idiotic antics as a French waiter. "Learnt my lesson the last time I endeavored to surprise you in a restaurant. To date, that was the only dinner engagement I've ruined, and Mary forgave me. So did you. Hardly seems that this one counts. Tonight, you enjoyed the company you were keeping, you ate your meal in its entirety along with dessert, and I did not inconvenience you with any disruptions until the very end—and for that I am not to blame."

"Yeah! You were a ridiculous waiter …," John's lips twisted in a crooked smile despite himself. The absurdity—once he had got over the indignation and shock—had made both Mary and John laugh often afterwards. It had been a running joke between the couple whenever they went out to dinner or grabbed takeaway, "Oh Lord," Mary had teased cheerfully, nodding toward the random waitress, bus staff, bartender, or counter server, "Isn't that Sherlock, John? My, his disguises get better and better every time." John savored both the memory as well as hearing Mary in his head. He was also glad that remembering her lighthearted wit was less painful than it used to be. John fancied he could imagine Mary's hysterical reaction to Sherlock's current disguise. "Seriously, Sherlock. You promoted yourself to chef, this time?"

"Technically, sous-chef," Sherlock corrected.

"Sous-chef!" John snorted. "What's the bloody difference?"

"Well, John," Sherlock began in smug pedantic tones, "A sous-chef, depending on the establishment, has more supervisory than actual cooking responsibilities, although there are times if the executive chef is out that the properly trained sous-chef would take charge of the actual food prep…"

"Yes! My point exactly," John countered. "Properly trained!"

"Problem?" Sherlock narrowed his clear eyes at John.

"You don't see it as a problem?" John swallowed his exasperation. "This charade—what's it for, a case?—goes a bit far, even for you. Do you realize you're responsible for the lives of all those people you served? That includes me, thank you!" The volume of John's voice increased with his concerns. "Your actual interaction with the food could jeopardize the dishes. Any mistakes or poor handling of perishables could cause a host of illnesses...food poisoning… or introduce foodborne pathogens…serious stuff, but yet—" John stopped, struck by the incongruity of his next thought and shook his head, "despite what I know of your woeful lack of talent in this area, you've somehow made everything taste so…bloody fantastic! Utterly amazing! How, Sherlock? Did you drug us...with hallucinogens? Should we expect to be feeling rough in short order?" Winded by his excitability, John drew a few short breaths.

"Well, don't beat about the bush, John!" Sherlock retorted sarcastically, "Say what you mean!"

John stared at his friend whom he had sorely provoked—perhaps unfairly provoked—and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Since when do you cook?"

"Since it has been required of me…for this case in particular. You see, you got that one thing right despite muddying the waters with hurtful presumptions. For a case, John!" Sherlock's reply was icy. He had become defensive.

"A case? When have I heard that excuse before?" John threw him a vexed look but kept his voice level. "You'd cook like that for a case, but you'd never once offered to cook when we were in Baker Street."

"A-HA! So that's what's driving you round the twist—can't let go of the past now, can you!" Sherlock scoffed. "It wasn't necessary back then."

"Huh! Besides foisting your apparent culinary ineptitude on those around you," John raised his eyes and spoke to the ceiling as if it would better understand his frustration, "did you ever consider being self-sufficient and learning to cook would've been helpful? Bloody hell, Sherlock, knowing how to cook is a basic survival skill!"

"It has never been ineptitude, John," Sherlock refuted, unsure how the ceiling would afford any intercession to dispel what baffled John. "It's been a skill set I had not needed to perfect, until the last three years—as you and Mrs. Hudson were at the ready. Did it not occur to you both that I was well-nourished and a fit specimen—despite my experiments with stimulants to offset boredom—before the two of you came along?"

"Well, we had presumed your life of privilege… ," John shrugged, "… meant not worrying about the next meal. But, here in this restaurant, you actually prepared food…something not just edible but palatable…!"

"Get a grip, John. I've just told you, it's for a case," Launching into an explanation, Sherlock expected to divert the heat from their absurd argument. "Surveillance for the Met… of drug lords enjoying their repasts in this quiet Mayfair location. For the past three months I've been posing as a sous-chef to gather incriminating information."

"That explains why you hadn't answered my 'been up to much?' texts and voice messages," John muttered as an aside. "I presumed it was your typical abhorrence to idle chit chat,...but posing? Actually cooking food for patrons to eat is not posing, Sherlock!"

"Yes. Yes. Of course! It would have been downright suspicious if I hadn't legitimate skills for the task. You know my methods, John. I'm thorough when I'm undercover. My goal is always authenticity."

Sherlock cut off, realizing he had also made several presumptions. John could not have known how he had been utilizing his private time. It had been years since the Watson side of the partnership had "got on with his separate life." Small talk was not their forte, so John would have been completely unaware of Sherlock's culinary training.

To control his racing mind between cases, Sherlock had not always succumbed to the temptations of cocaine or morphine. Even as young man Sherlock had kept clean between investigations by conducting research, refining his skills and learning new ones. Before they had become flat mates, he had warned John of his quirks: violin playing, experiments at all hours of the day or night, long periods of complete silence for thinking. These behaviors, which John had witnessed, were part of the exploration process that kept Sherlock evolving and expanding the scope of his talents. They, along with John's good company, had proven effective alternatives to drug use.

Since John and he were no longer flat mates, however, John was no longer witness to what engaged Sherlock between cases, nor had it occurred to Sherlock to divulge his educational pursuits—culinary arts being one of them—especially if they were not pertinent to the occasional case John and he were investigating.

Unbeknownst to those who knew him as Sherlock Holmes, Scott Williams had trained and mastered—in less time than was usual—the necessary skills to receive his Professional Chef Diploma, NVQ levels one, two, and three. He had passed with flying color the blind tests—"You have 2.5 hours to prepare gougeres, escargots, gigot a la cuilliere and coeur a la creme"—or some such requests prior to his interviews and he has since accepted several temporary jobs as a sous-chef in one-stars throughout London. The result of eleven months of experiences was that Scott Williams' references were impeccable and easily landed him the assignment in the two-star rated restaurant that dovetailed Scott's gifts with Sherlock's case.

"Proof, John? You want proof?" Sherlock rose from his swivel chair and pulled a billfold from the file drawer and handed it to John. Within were the documents authenticating the credentials of Sherlock's current alter-ego, Scott Williams.

John studied the official papers, noting Sherlock's familiar flourishes in the signature despite the different name, and nodded. Having whipped himself into a frenzy with assumptions—assumptions that, based on the evidence in hand, were altogether wrong—John took a moment to decompress. With his doubts dispelled, he handed the documents back. "Sure, I know those are you other names, William Scott...but," John looked askance at his friend and teased, "but, for all I know, you've assumed the identity of another Scott Williams…"

Sherlock recoiled in frustration. His lips tightened in a thin line. He threw John a disheartened look, except, when they locked eyes again, this time amusement shimmered in John's.

"What are the chances, Sherlock," John continued, coughing through a chuckle, "that there is… another chef named Scott Williams?"

"I AM this Scott Williams, John!" Sherlock thundered. Having kept his identity secret for so long, he was more than pleased to reveal it— especially to John. The pride in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable; so was the hint of delight. "It was the best disguise for my purposes, as it turned out. Worked splendidly," Sherlock spread his arms triumphantly. "Besides, got a decent write-up in the "Food and Drink/Lifestyle" section of the London Evening Standard. Brought in scores of new customers—including your lot tonight—there's more proof, right there!"

Their private discussion was interrupted by persistent knocks on the door. Sherlock came round the desk, squeezed past John and opened the door to the pleasant roar of a lively kitchen where the wait staff, line cooks, and pot washers queued up outside the office.

"Before we all leave, Scott," a food-prep worker began, "we just want to say—" Sherlock closed the door behind him, cutting off the sound and leaving John inside to peer through the window to watch. At first all their faces appeared serious. Only one of them spoke, but quickly they all broke into grins and smiles. Someone handed something to Sherlock—from his angle, John couldn't tell exactly what it was—which made everyone, except Sherlock, laugh. Sherlock maintained a neutral expression, still John recognized in the squint of his friend's eyes that Sherlock was pleased, possibly even moved, by what they had said and done. The workers ended the little presentation by clapping Sherlock on the shoulders and shaking his hand, some more vigorously than others. Waving at their departing chef, they moved off with cheery smiles to finish their closing tasks.

Sherlock did not immediately re-enter the office; he remained outside, leaning against the door, lost in thought. John imagined his friend being puzzled by the ludicrous and sentimental overtures of strangers and was perhaps cataloguing this behavior in his Mind Palace for future reference. No, wait. Those were the attributes of the former Sherlock, John reminded himself and shook off his less-than-generous thoughts. Maybe this Sherlock—the reformed one—felt something in response and needed to process.

John also needed to process. Intrigued by his brilliant friend's revelation, John struggled with the vision of Sherlock supervising the kitchen staff, managing the day-to-day duties, ordering food and supplies, preparing diners' orders. On second thought, it required a devotion to detail that was not so far afield from Sherlock's usual perfectionist tendencies. It was harder for John to wrap his brain around the idea that Sherlock would willingly subordinate himself to anybody, much less a head chef or 'management,' yet here he was…a sous-chef and apparently good at it. What was more mystifying and impressive, the staff appreciated him.

Who would have guessed this? John marveled as he waited for Sherlock to open the door. The man had changed in so many ways.

Sherlock's reputation—especially his pre-Eurus reputation—had been a tarnished one. His arrogance, his cold-hearted, scientific detachment made his pleasures for the chase, his unbridled delight in solving the diabolic puzzles of madmen and criminals seem freakish, inhumane. "Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock had argued once when John had needed to remind him that "actual human lives" were at stake. But beneath Sherlock's blatant motivations, John adamantly believed there was a moral core in that heart Sherlock had "been reliably told" he did not have. John believed because he had seen it, mere glimpses at first. Enduring the crucibles of time and circumstances that had tried them both and burnt off façades, John's faith in Sherlock's goodness had been rewarded. The Sherlock Holmes he now knew, his best friend, had changed and demonstrated that he was more willing and able to connect with his human and compassionate side.

What would never change, however, was Sherlock's drive to let nothing deter him from achieving his goals. Acquiring the skills to become a sous-chef was clearly not beyond his genius friend's capabilities. John's skepticism had already crumbled when he saw Sherlock's credentials, but now, the more he thought about what Sherlock had accomplished as a sous chef, the greater the respect he held for his friend—the man who had no limitations, whatever he set his mind to.

Damn! I've been such an idiot to doubt him! Sherlock had been telling me the truth.

When Sherlock came back into the office, neither mentioned what Sherlock clutched in a hand behind his back—out of sight, out of mind—and picked up their previous discussion as if there had been no interruption. "Let me remind you, John, that my grand reveal as Scott Williams was unintentional...the result of a sequence of accidents...dare I say coincidence? If you had chosen another restaurant, if your friends had not so enjoyed their meal, they would not have clamored to meet the chef and none of this would have come to light. Tonight's chef just happened to be me...worse luck."

"You're right," John replied contritely. "You're absolutely right!"

Sherlock pulled back in astonishment.

"What was I thinking?" John remarked to himself, but loud enough for Sherlock's benefit. "If Sherlock Holmes needed to be a chef for a case, by God, he would become the best chef in London! How can anyone compete with that massive intellect and determination?"

Momentarily surprised and shyly pleased at the transformation in John's attitude, Sherlock's smile was broad and genuine. "Truce, John?"

"Of course," John's wry smile was followed by a soft giggle. "So, it's legit! You not only haven't yet poisoned anybody, but you, um, I mean Scott Williams is an accomplished chef...sous-chef… and all this was …um…an undercover operation? You're leaving tonight, then. Why?" He arched his eyebrows with sudden concern. "Has your cover been blown? Are you in danger?"

"No, no, John. I broke the case a month ago, but at the end of the day, I've stayed on an extra month at the owner's request to train my replacement. My signature dishes are quite popular. On balance, I've found this case quite exhilarating. Not much different than preparing experiments—chemistry and physics, after all— but here it's acceptable to use human test subjects." During a brief moment of introspection, Sherlock's eyes gleamed with pride. He turned from John, concealing the item he had been holding behind his back in his trousers' pocket, and unbuttoned his white jacket. After peeling it off, he folded the jacket solemnly over his arm. With a small sigh and a clap of his hands, he snatched up his cap in a tight fist, spun around and opened the office door.

"Come, John!" His happy bellow echoed through the now quiet kitchen as he led the way toward the back door into the alley. Sherlock tossed his uniform jacket and hat into the restaurant's laundry chute, then sorting through the coat rack, he retrieved his suit jacket first. Using his body to block John's view of his gift, he transferred it to the inside breast pocket. Once he hitched his great coat over his shoulders and knotted his scarf, he turned around once more to face his friend. "Your timing is impeccable. We have a case if you choose to join me. Lestrade has something of interest. I could use your insights. Might have texted you about it, but by good fortune, you were dining out tonight. I've already told your childminder to expect you an hour later. This shouldn't take long."

Without waiting for John's reply, Sherlock set the timer for the automatic door lock. He twisted around, gave John an encouraging wink and backed through the door to the alley with a self-satisfied grin. He let it slam behind him.

John paused at the closed door and bowed his head to take stock and think "…if you choose," Sherlock had said. He chuckled softly and followed Sherlock out to the street. Perfectly timed, the automatic lock hummed as the bolt slid into place.

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More to follow...

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Author's Note: Inspired by the following passage from King, Laurie R. A Monstrous Regiment of Women: A Novel of Suspense Featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes. St. Martin's Press.

"Do you know, Russell," he [Sherlock Holmes] mused, "I once earned an honest living for six entire months as a sous-chef in a two-star restaurant in Montpellier." He shook his head in self-reproach and rattled the dishes off into the cupboard-sized kitchen, leaving me to stare openmouthed at his retreating back.

Never, never would I get his limits.

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In Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four, Holmes says, "Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in half an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little choice in white wines. Watson, you have never yet recognised my merits as a housekeeper."

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AN: Special thanks to the wisdom and patience of an unnamed friend who guided me in the writing of this short series and gave generously of her culinary expertise. And a nod to englishtutor who is always a cheerful voice urging me on.