Disclaimer: I make no profit of this; it's all in good fun.
A/N: So! It seems at long last I have found some time and some inspiration to continue this story! Let's hope it lasts.
The night had turned even colder, though it hadn't yet snowed, and their footsteps rang out crisply and loudly in the bitter cold.
John shivered and wished he'd had the time, or the foresight, to put on another layer or two of winter wear, because the jumper and jacket he had on weren't at all adequate against the frigid air. Sherlock strolled on ahead of him, apparently not at all bothered by the cold; he was tapping away at his phone at astounding speed and muttering quietly, whether to John or to himself was anyone's guess.
John chose to think it was addressed to him and tried to focus on the stream of words coming out of his best friend's mouth along with the icy white smoke of his breath.
"What did you say?" he asked, rubbing his freezing hands and wrapping himself more tightly in his jacket.
"So much for Mr. Henry Baker. It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatsoever about the matter," grumbled Sherlock, to John's surprise. "And yet! It has to be him. Or rather, his key. There is no other way that key could have been used, and it is certain it was. Both keys were, obviously, or the alarm would have been triggered. There is no way to get around those, not without destroying them. So. Opportunity: the fight, clearly. And of course, it isn't him."
"How can you be sure?" asked John, then, at the dark glare Sherlock shot him, quickly added: "Not doubtful, just curious!"
"Motive, John, motive! Or rather, the lack thereof."
"Surely the money...? Don't tell me he stood to gain all that much from the sale, he's just an employee after all..."
"I believe I proved to you already how money can be a lesser matter than reputation to some."
"Yes, alright, for the retailer, I got that, but Baker? It's not like he owns the place or anything and besides, he's young and all. What makes you so sure..."
"The books, John! The books!"
"What books?"
"The ones that were in his rooms, and perhaps more importantly, the ones that weren't."
John felt rather lost. "There weren't that many books in there," he said slowly, eyes closed in an attempt to remember the room in as much detail as he was able to.
"Precisely!" praised Sherlock. "Mr. Baker is clearly not an avid reader, despite being evidently well-educated. Good schools and decent brains, but no love for the written word – consistent with the number of digital devices in the room: two laptops, one very recently bought, it was in his bag, the other years older; a tablet in use – which showed the interface of a text-to-speech software before the energy saving modality kicked in – clearly he prefers hearing to reading and multimedia texts to printed pages – possibly dyslexic. But then why the books?"
John was rather dazed by his rapid-fire speech, as usual, but tried nonetheless: "They were well-used and didn't look new or... actually, I think there was a library label on a few of them?" he asked more than stated. When Sherlock didn't answer, or even break his purposeful stride, John forged on: "With what you've just said, I can't imagine he's reading them for pleasure... so maybe he's... studying them?"
Sherlock gave him what might have been an approving nod.
"What for, though?" blurted out John. "Don't tell me he doesn't have a degree yet."
The eye-roll he got this time was definitely not approving. "Honestly, John. Of course he does – didn't you see the certificate on the stairs? Framed and hung by his mother, I'd bet. Bachelor of Arts in Archaeology, of all things," he said disdainfully.
"...Archaeology? Seriously?"
Sherlock snorted.
"Alright, but then why is he studying... er... whatever those books were about?"
Sherlock slanted a Look at him, letting John hear the unvoiced 'idiot' loud and clear, but rattled off: "Clarity-enhancing heat treatments, quality testing of synthetic gemstones, illuminator polariscopes, statistical analysis of market economy, sustainable harvesting."
"I see no pattern," admitted John, a bit distracted by trying to determine whether he knew what a polariscope was.
"All the books had the sticker of a Library – he doesn't spend money on books, clearly he's only taken them because he needs them," Sherlock went on, unabashed. "Pages were creased, then smoothed out hurriedly, probably when he remembers they're not his: clear signs of frustration – it takes him effort to study, consistent with the dyslexia hypothesis, but he does it anyway. Obviously important to him." He frowned briefly. "Understandable, I suppose. Single honours in Archaeology won't get him anywhere, after all, especially in the field he's chosen."
"Which... er.. is?"
Sherlock stopped abruptly at the corner they'd just reached and stared at John in disbelief.
Feeling himself reddening, John coughed out a weak: "...Jewellery?"
Sherlock threw an arm up in exasperation: "Gemology, John, gemology! Don't you ever listen?" He flung open the door of the cab that had somehow appeared without John noticing. "Honestly! He told us he was doing jewellery evaluations. A retailer as prestigious as Horner's wouldn't send someone who hasn't got some appraisal training." He held his smartphone up meaningfully. "I checked the requirements for a Graduate Gemologist diploma and they fit with what he's evidently studying."
John followed his friend into the cab, trying not to miss half of the information Sherlock was listing.
"The books confirm that he has invested time and effort in this," the consulting detective was saying. "His obvious pride, the insistence on his integrity, the hints that his employer relies heavily on him, that he's trustworthy on his own... plus, there's the way he chafes at his mother's interference in his love life, but shows no sign of even considering moving out, supposedly perfect girlfriend notwithstanding... Everything in his behaviour says he craves the respect and likely the boost to his earnings he would get for being an independent appraiser, but also that he realizes he isn't ready for it and rather badly needs Horner's as a bump start. After all, it's a a job that involves in equal part education, networking and certification. The last one, he's seeking right now – most likely from the AJA."
John nodded, uncertain.
Sherlock rolled his eyes: "Association of Jewellery Appraisers," he grumbled.
"Oh," John muttered and nodded a little more confidently. Sherlock's train of thoughts was starting to make sense to him: "But the diploma, and the experience, and the qualifications would mean nothing next to being involved in a scandal of this proportion, is that what you're saying?"
"Independent appraisers get most of their business in connection to insurances, they can't afford the slightest scandal, even by association: it gives the insurance companies too much leeway to claim unprofessionalism and downprice or avoid replacing the stolen items. This theft will ruin all of his chances of an independent career. He'll find himself stuck where he is now if he's lucky, pushed down to back-shop clerk more likely, and anyway, completely dependent on his employer-of-the-month's goodwill. No, no amount of money would entice him."
"What if he's just hoping to make a break for it? Go to Switzerland or to the Cayman Islands or I don't know where?" frowned John.
"There isn't the slightest trace of any kind of preparation in that sense," retorted Sherlock. "It would be ridiculous to risk so much without a proper escape plan. People might be idiot but he looked intelligent enough to at least be self-interested. Why defending Mrs. Ravensdale so staunchly if he didn't need her 'impeccable' reputation to be maintained? If he was the culprit, attracting the least amount of attention possible would be the smartest thing to do and he's both clever enough to understand this and dull enough to manage it. But no, he played the knight in shining armour instead, and it wasn't a convoluted attempt to making her a scapegoat either. I gave him a much easier way to throw the cleaning lady to the wolves if he was looking for that, yet he didn't even badmouth her. Why, if his workplace doesn't hold any relevance to his future plan, would he defend it so thoroughly? At a time like this? Obviously he needs the good reputation as a base for his own – ergo, he isn't going anywhere."
Sherlock shook his head slightly: "There is also no evidence of any compelling reason why he'd need the money in a hurry, and plenty of opportunity for smaller thefts, far less damaging to his career, if that was the case. Like I said, it's quite obvious that he knows nothing of the matter."
"Amazing," breathed John.
Sherlock smiled faintly, pleased, though his eyes had returned to his phone and didn't leave it.
"It's weird though," mused John. "I mean, you've practically proven that money isn't a motive in this case. Which is... yeah. Weird. I mean, it's a jewel. What else could it be?"
Sherlock scoffed. "I have merely proved that money would not have been a motive for two possible suspects. It's hardly a universal truth. You have to consider that the gem isn't easily disposed of on the market, though," he hummed. "It's peculiar – hence, well-recognizable. There is the black market... but it's still a huge risk, one that not many would be willing to run. Unless you'd pass it off as a more common, though still precious, colour-changing garnet. Which would reduce its value considerably – garnets that small can only gain upwards to a tenth of the true value of the Blue Carbuncle. But why go to the lengths and risks of such a theft only to get so little in return? There are three other garnets they could have more easily stolen in that jewellery alone!"
"Then... what?" asked John, feeling completely lost.
"Two options. A collector willing to pay anything for it, for the sole purpose of having it. Or, blackmail. In either case, our Mr. Baker has more to lose than to gain from it."
The cab stopped at 221 Baker Street and John had to scramble to pay and run after Sherlock, who was already up the stairs. "Wait, what do you mean, blackmail?"
Sherlock made an impatient swish of his hand. "I told you how the owner would be ruined. She has eight days. By the seventh, she'll likely be so desperate as to pay anything they ask of her."
John stopped abruptly. "God!" he breathed.
Sherlock went in, apparently without noticing he was leaving his blogger behind. "Which is why I think they must have a peculiarly secure hiding spot. They wouldn't have risked it otherwise."
"The goose," muttered John, fighting down a grin as he ran up the stairs to catch up with Sherlock's long strides.
The consulting detective threw him a dark look as he removed his scarf.
John smothered his chuckle and hurriedly asked: "So who do you think it is?"
"Too soon to say."
John rolled his eyes: "Yes, yes, obviously, but, you know. You must have a lead."
"Oh, must I?"
John blinked at the unexpectedly teasing tone, then mock-glared: "Don't give me that. I saw the triumph in your eyes. You got an idea, and he confirmed it for you, and now you're going to follow up on it, so tell me!"
Sherlock faltered for all but an instant, shooting a strange, vaguely amazed gaze at John, but recovered his poise immediately: "It can't be him, yet it has to be – solution: he's being used. This 'Cathy' is the most likely suspect."
Sherlock flopped down on the couch, looking incredibly self-satisfied.
Several long seconds went by with nothing to break the silence except the usual sounds of London outside, and of John puttering around the kettle inside.
Carefully, the blogger worked it all out in his head, already trying out a few sentences for the post he would eventually write: "You think the scuffle was the perfect opportunity to... no, wait," he changed his mind mid-sentence, "not to get the key – he told us he checked immediately and it was there – but... return it?" he hazarded.
"Oh, well done, John!"
He smiled, inordinately pleased. "So our next move is tracking down this Cathy?" He brought out the two mugs and settled himself in his armchair.
"It would, if she existed, of which I am not at all certain," was the unexpected reply.
John gaped: "Excuse me?"
"Oh, Mr. Baker believes her real and in love, of course, but I have my doubts." Sherlock waved his phone at him: "I can't find anything on her, for starters."
John levelled an unimpressed look at him.
Sherlock scowled: "Really, John. A girl like that, without a Facebook account? Unlikely. Extremely so."
John scoffed. "Not everybody is fond of social networks, Sherlock."
"Perhaps so, but nowadays, they're essential, especially for someone her supposed age. Peer pressure should have talked her into it, if nothing else. Yet there is no trace of any Catherine Cusak on the net."
"Maybe she's using an alias," ventured John reasonably. "Lots of people don't use their real names on Facebook. You, for instance," he said pointedly. "Wait, how do you know her name anyway?"
"Don't you think I've considered that? I'm checking his account."
"...What?"
"Baker's, John, Baker's. Do pay attention! His Facebook profile was updated just over an hour ago. And it's pretty detailed: more information than most would post. There are also links to a Friends Reunited account and a tumblr one. He clearly enjoys social networks. His status shows him 'in a relationship with Catherine Cusak'," he shot John a triumphant look and the doctor grimaced in acknowledgement, "yet there is no link to a Facebook page for her. Ergo, his partner doesn't have a Facebook account." He narrowed his eyes at the phone. "Extremely suspicious."
"Maybe she's against?" tried John, feeling as if he were grasping at straws, but stubborn enough to be thorough. "You know, one of those who think internet's bad for society. Er. That it..." he tried to remember one of Tornwell's typical tirades: "...enables terrorists to discover recipes for making fertiliser bombs and regroup faster than police forces are able to anticipate... or, you know... may be a communications mechanism for paedophiles..."
"If she were, he wouldn't have told us that they had 'similar tastes'," retorted Sherlock testily. "He obviously isn't a sportive man, he's no musician or artist, the number of books in that room of his was appallingly low and there were no magazines except a few numbers of Gemstones he probably brought home from work. What does that tell you?"
"That... he leads a rather boring life?"
"Precisely! Now what 'interests' could they share, if he doesn't have any?"
"But he likes computers. You remarked on how many... oh. You think that must have been what drew them together."
"Well done, John," said Sherlock in an infuriatingly condescending tone. "Now you see that Miss Cusak's absence from the web is puzzling."
John sighed, conceding defeat – though rather less grudgingly than he pretended: "Yeah, yeah. So... what now?"
"Nothing."
A moment of stunned silence. "Really?" John asked weakly.
"There is nothing more we can do. We need to find this Catherine Cusak and we simply don't have enough data for it. Nothing we've gathered so far can be trusted, since she was obviously trying to con that Baker. Hopefully she'll make a mistake, but so far, she hasn't." He seemed almost pleased by it. "I'll put the word out with my homeless network, though I doubt it'll yield any result. Meanwhile I'll text Gregson about her. He's moved to the Police Central e-crime Unit – let him make himself useful for a change. I need to think anyway. This case is extremely well thought-out."
He trailed off in what John privately called Sherlock's admiration-for-psychopaths tone.
The doctor finished his tea, unbothered by being ignored. There was simply no distracting the consulting detective from his inner contemplation of the criminals' all-too-rare intelligence when he got like this.
Before he went up to bed, he glanced back carelessly: "And if nothing comes up?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.
"I'll have all the time to break into the MET's database myself, eventually. Or Mycroft's."
John groaned.
TBC
