The Hallow Study

Chapter One

It was a quiet afternoon in Baker Street, or as about quiet as it could get. The weather had been wonderful that day, bright sunny skies had greeted the summer months, and Sherlock had naturally chosen to stay in and watch the telly. Mary and John had gone out to dinner with some ex-girlfriend of his (clearly John's idea, and clearly done without Sherlock or Mary's consultation), and without an interesting enough case and wedding details to pour over, Sherlock had reached the inevitable crux of his problem. He was bored.

"She clearly cheated on him! Look at the size of that hair! Oh, boo," the Consulting Detective yelled. It was nearing the evening already, and he was still in his robe. He had not left his seat since he had gotten up from bed. This was him in a much calmer state now, as earlier he had proclaimed that the television was pointing at least five degrees more to the right than the last time he had seen it.

"You must have poked it with that harpoon you brought in with you last week, dearie, you remember?" Mrs. Hudson asked, bringing him a sandwich from the shop downstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, I will only ask for your opinion when I need it, so do shut up for now," he said. "You may dust the cabinets or something."

Mrs. Husdon gave him a smile and shook her head like Sherlock hadn't just told her to sod off. "Not your housekeeper, dear." She reminded him, humming to herself as she went to the kitchen and attempt to tidy up. It was then that John scampered up the stairs like an overly enthusiastic puppy. Usually not a good sign.

"Still watching American telly, are we?" he asked, emerging from his room looking ready to go out. Sherlock immediately noted his cologne and the way he had attempted to flatten his ash blonde hair. These facts aside, Sherlock decided to point out the first thing he had noted about his friend when he stepped into the living room.

"You're wearing a new jacket," he said, getting up for the first time to follow his friend around the room. "Where's Mary?"

"Out for drinks with some of her girlfriends," John said, waving a hand as he looked through the newspapers. "Any cases lately?"

"None I would regret not taking," he said slowly, peering closer at John's jacket. The tag was still on, so he was still not sure he was going to keep it. Better yet, it was too expensive, but he wanted to impress someone. Mary was already his fiancee and wouldn't be pleased with such extravagance, so it only meant...

"I take it dinner with...Lila went well?"

John sighed and rolled his eyes. "It's Elizabeth, and of course it went well. She actually has a case for us. Well, you. She assumed I would bring you to dinner."

"Does she think so highly of me that I would just join you for dinner?" He scoffed like he had been accused of something ridiculous. "She cheated on you and now she finds herself dating a cheater. Boring."

Sherlock strode back into his seat and resumed his previous position as if to end the conversation. John smiled a little and resumed reading the papers. After a minute, Sherlock yelled at him to shut up and just tell him what the case was.

"Do you really think I would even mention it if it was boring?" John asked him with a raised eyebrow.

"On with it then. What's the case," he said, standing up once again to go to the bathroom to shower. One might as well be clean when faced with a new case, who knows when the mood to shower will strike again?

John strode over to his usual chair, the paper still in his hand. "Elizabeth is a gallery curator," he said, brushing off imaginary dirt from his trousers. "They were to display that lost Van Gogh painting-"

"Poppy Fields, biggest art find in history, yes, yes do go on," Sherlock yelled from the running shower, making John roll his eyes.

"The tabs are calling it a fake, as well as all the other paintings in the gallery," John said. "She needs you to go and authenticate them, to save her reputation."

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in a gush of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist. He had a look on his face that seemed like it was actually considering but...

"Nope, boring," he said, sitting back down on his chair. Waste of a shower, then. "I told you I wouldn't leave the house for anything less than a 7 and this is definitely a 5, 5 and a half. If she doubts her own curating skills then she should hire someone better than her to check, not a consultant detective."

John peeked over from the top of the paper, as if asking Sherlock if he was finished with his tirade. "Last night, before she left for work, the Van Gogh was exactly as it was. But this morning…"
"Stolen?" Sherlock asked, his head whipping to his friend like a puppy who had smelled a treat.
"Possibly. There was a gap in the security footage of about two hours from last night," John clarified. "The equipment was in perfect order, it just looked like someone had deleted two hours worth of footage from last night." Sherlock bolted from his seat and proceeded to his bedroom to change into his work clothes. "I take it this is at least a 7?"
"6.7. I am quite bored so I rounded up," Sherlock yelled from the bathroom. "Nothing on the news?"

"Sir Francis Wulfric Young died," John said, quickly skimming the article. The man was in his early fifties, seemingly healthy. Knighted with an OBE several years ago for his contributions to art and his tireless work in recovering paintings. Survived by a brother and two daughters, found dead in his apartment early this morning.

"Murder?" Sherlock asked, peeking his head out of the door sans trousers.

"Apparent suicide," John clarified, looking at the article again. Sherlock made an annoyed sound and resumed dressing, out the door in under a minute and hailing a taxi in five. John, per usual, followed behind him.

"Does Mary know we're doing your ex a favour?" Sherlock asked pointedly, turning to his friend. His collar was up and his eyebrows were raised, the face that John always wanted to punch. He settled for a deep sigh.

"Need I remind you that you and I were friends first?" John asked, his hands in his pockets.

Soon, John and Sherlock arrived at the gallery. It was on the bottom floor of a large building on High Street, and was apparently well known to cabbies. "You hear about Sir Francis Young?" Their surprisingly chatty cabbie asked. John spotted Sherlock rolling his eyes at their driver's attempt at small talk. No need to mention that the last time the cabbie had been this chatty was when Moriarty had been behind the wheel.

"Yes, such sad business," John said politely. No need to be kicked out of a cab…again.
"Suicide at his age seems a little odd, don't you think? I mean, given he's so rich and all." The cabbie commented as the turned the street. "This is one of his galleries, innit?"
"I think this one belongs to his brother, Cadmus Young."

"Oh, righ'," The cabbie confirmed. "He should be pretty happy over this, e's next of kin."
"The papers said he has two daughters," John pointed out, at which the cabbie nodded.
"Righ', heard that too. Had a fallout with the older, didn't he?"

Sherlock Holmes burst out of the cabbie as soon has they had pulled up, leaving John to pay for the ride. John followed him into the gallery, ignoring Sherlock telling him off for talking to their driver. Elizabeth had been waiting for them in the gallery, looking pleased to see John. Sherlock noted her expensive Louboutin heels, expensive haircut and Chanel perfume. Her perfectly polished look covered up the nicotine patch on her hand, heavy bags under her eyes. He could see why someone like her would want to keep her reputation.

Leaving the social niceties to John, Sherlock took a quick look around the paintings in the gallery. Mostly from quasi-famous renaissance painters, all seemingly authentic. But they weren't there for the other paintings, were they?

"The Van Gogh?" Sherlock suddenly asked, interrupting John and Elizabeth's conversation. She shot him an annoyed look (Ah yes. Now Sherlock remembered her) and led them to the allegedly fake painting. John stood back a little while Sherlocks stepped forward with his magnifying lens.

Poppy Flowers. Painted by Van Gogh in 1887. Estimated value at 33 million pounds. Stolen from Cairo in 2010 until it was found months ago by the Young Art Recovery Foundation. Cut out of its frame with box cutters when it was stolen then. Sherlock noted that the colours were exactly the same as they should be, brushwork, correct. The painting even had the same frayed ends as it should when it was cut out by the Egyptians. But there was something.

"Something…lemony," Sherlock muttered as he stepped forward and gave the painting a long, hard sniff. John, with all his military prowess, resisted the urge to giggle. Elizabeth simply raised her eyebrow.

"Did he just…smell the Van Gogh?" A new voice asked, and three turned around. Standing beside Elizabeth was a relatively younger girl with wavy (permed?) brown hair and pale skin. She was dressed plainly in nude toned pumps, camel coloured pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. As plain as her clothes were, there was so much more hidden underneath the surface.

Small stain on the chest area meant sloppy eater. Shifting her wight from left to right meant impatient, but it was probably because she didn't really wear heels, judging from the welt appearing on the base of her big foot. Rich, obviously, given her new IWC watch, but tries to hide it by using cheap lipstick and Oxfam clothing, given the state of the skirt and shoes, could mean more. Places hands naturally on her waist, to seem authoritative, but shoulders are slumped, meaning insecure. Sherlock blinked, a little overwhelmed, until her big brown eyes blinked back at him.

"Sorry about this," John said, although he wasn't really sure who he was talking to. Mary closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, like she had expected something like this to happen.

Moments later, Sherlock and John were placed inside one of the back rooms in the gallery, the painting hanging on an easel near them. "This is Carla Pope, creative director for all of the A. Cadmus Young Galleries. Carla, these are Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. They're with Scotland Yard. I think."

She sounded annoyed, and understandably so. The way she spoke to her superior showed distaste, like she was annoyed that the younger one was her boss. Carla stepped forward, and smiled. She held out her hand to Sherlock, who was busily looking at his phone. He made a satisfied sound as he made the connection. Same face shape, same detached earlobes. Pope was probably her mother's maiden name. Explained her rank and her apparent insecurity.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Young," Sherlock said politely, shaking her hand. "Not working at your father's galleries?"

"No, this is my uncle's. Like Elizabeth said, I'm the creative director for the A. Cadmus Young Galleries."

"Oh, of course," Sherlock said, nodding. Carla looked slightly amused.

"You were saying something about this Van Gogh," Carla spoke, her eyes directly at Sherlock.

"This painting's a fake," Sherlock repeated, a little exasperated that he had to go through this again. "I'm surprised you missed it, because it's right there." He pointed towards the painting behind them.
"Elizabeth is more than knowledgeable on the paintings," Carla said, her voice surprisingly even for someone who had been accused of showing a fake. "We had Poppy Fields authenticated months ago."

"Not this painting," Sherlock said, standing up and walking towards the painting. "It must have been switched, because I highly doubt an expert could see this as a Van Gogh. Though it's a good forgery, there is a distinct aroma of oil paint around the painting."

"It could be due to age, this painting is pretty old," Carla pointed out, standing next to Sherlock, peering at the canvas as well. Sherlock seemed to jump back, as if alarmed that Carla had decided to stand so close to him.

"No, " he insisted, like he was calling Carla stupid, hovering over the area with a magnifying glass he always had about his person. "It means that the paint is new, not more than a few weeks old."

"And…the something lemony?" John asked expectantly from behind them, his arms crossed like he was waiting for Sherlock's answer. The consulting detective grinned like a cat with a plan.
"Ah yes," he said. "Elizabeth, the lights please."

Elizabeth looked like she was about to protest, but a look from Carla sent her to the light switch. Sherlock procured a small backlight from his pocket.

"It's actually a simple formula, but will certainly point out that this is a fake," Sherlock said, holding the light up to the painting. "Children normally used lemon juice to write secret messages, like invisible ink."

In the blue light, a distinct mark appeared on the painting, like a…

"A thunderbolt?" John asked.

"Like Harry Potter's scar," Carla said, in a slightly dazed voice. Sherlock turned to look at her again, as if he had completely forgotten how he had ended up this room, right next to her.

"What? I'm a fan," Carla continued to peer at the painting, running her fingers over the symbol. "Did you read the books, Mr. Holmes?"

"No," he said flatly. "I only intend to fill my head with useful information."

Most people would have been annoyed or insulted by that, but Carla merely turned to the painting again. "It really looks like Harry's scar. But who would go through all this trouble just to replace this painting?"

"Either we're dealing with a particularly dim thief," Sherlock said, walking away from the painting for a moment, only to come swooping back. "Or he's trying to lead us to a chase."

The lights came back on, and Carla told Elizabeth to contact Scotland Yard. Meanwhile, Sherlock was Googling. "Ah. Just as I thought," he said. "We're dealing with a child."

He said this just as Elizabeth left the room, so it was John who had come over with his hands in his pockets.

"Are you saying that the Cadmus Young Gallery was outsmarted...by a kid?"

"Young teenager, most likely," Sherlock pointed out. "Someone young enough to have devoured the Harry Potter series," he said, this, throwing a glance at Carla, who said nothing. "But relates more to the visual elements of the movies."

"And you deduced this...how?" Watson asked, studying the painting again. There was a smug look on Sherlock's face that made Carla smile too. The answer was right in front of them, but he was the only one who could truly see it.

"Carla already said the answer," Sherlock pointed out. "She had remarked earlier that the symbol oddly resembled that of Harry Potter's, the title character of a children's' book series."

"It does," Watson said, which made both Carla and Sherlock throw him an odd look.

"What?" He asked them. "The telly was out, and I wasn't going to read another one of Mrs. Hudson's romance books. Anyway, you were saying something about the lightning scar."

"Right, of course," Sherlock said, turning back to the fake painting with a flourish. "The scar isn't just similar to that of Harry Potter's, it's exactly the same." He showed his audience a picture of the aforementioned scar, and he was right. The resemblance of the two was uncanny. "So, most likely our thief is more familiar with the movie version than the books. The books employ a different thunderbolt shape for the scar. Old enough to have picked up the storyline, but not old enough to know the series in its written form. Our thief is at least three years younger than you, Miss Prewett. Three years younger and quite determined to send me on a wild goose chase."

"So where is the painting?" John asked, ending the intense look Sherlock was giving Carla.
"Ah yes," Sherlock said, the grin his face possibly getting wider. "So the game is on."

End of Chapter One