Sorry again. School kept me from writing... :'(
Anyways, I replased Dec 11th, because I didn't like it myself. I hope you like this better! It was really hard work!

Dec 13th

The train to Yorkshire rattled calmly. John felt the weight of the sleeping Sherlock on his shoulder and shook his head, when reflecting the last two days, before he started to update his blog.

Dec 11th

When John got up, he was quite surprised, to see Sherlock listening to a client. On the table there was a small box, entirely covered in blue gems and a tatty, old jacket. Well, when saying, Sherlock was listening, that wasn't entirely true. Both of them were silent; Sherlock was staring at the jacket and the client was staring at Sherlock. John regarded the man from the staircase, in order not to disturb his friend at work. The client was slightly overweighed, in his mid-thirties or forties and his brick-coloured hair were neatly styled. Sherlock would probably say that he made an effort to look neat, clean and attractive. After a while, watching Sherlock, the man got nervous. "What do you make of this Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock didn't bat a lash, when he gave the answer, "It's a good case, thank you, Peter. Tomorrow I'll be able to tell you what happened to you. Goodbye."
With that, the man shook his head and went out, greeting John.

"You can come in now, John."

"What was that now?"

"Not what, but who."

"Who then?"

"Mr. Henry Ryder, a colossal idiot who I went to secondary school with."

"I see. So he brought you...this.", John took the jacket and examined it.

"What do you make of this?"

"Not again."

"John."

"Well, alright. Hmmm...it looks quite tatty and worn, so the owner must have had it a while. A very poor man. Probably a beggar even. And...yeah. That's it."

"As usual. You see everything, but the important facts. You really need to work on it..."

John grumbled, but Sherlock ignored him. "The owner, with the initials H.B., had a lot of money, but lost it only recently, probably one and a half year ago, after the last stock-crash. He's a teacher, right-handed and usually combs his hair back with loads of gel. He or a close relative of his owns a distillery. I also believe that we will get to know him soon, for this jacket is of very great value to him. But not today. I think we even have to draw his attention on us so he can have his jacket back."

Again John was caught between the outmost astonishment and the fact that he should know Sherlock's methods, as he pointed out more often than necessary.

"How did you see that?"

"Oh come on! It's easy! Look, at the brand. This tailor only produces customized suits and has one store, which is situated in Savile Row."

"Sorry to interrupt, but didn't you say he's a teacher? How can a teacher possibly afford something like this? That doesn't make any sense to me."

"And that's the point. It doesn't make any sense. Not yet. Now, I know that he's lost his money, because of the very thing you said. It looks quite worn, but the cloth seems to be newer than its looks, and it hasn't often been cleaned. Just twice. And it has to be his only one, because he wears it more than necessary. That he's a teacher, I gather from the white, powdery stains on the back and sleeves, and that he loves gel in his hair, you can see, when looking at the collar. Here."

He handed the jacket to John, and pointed at the collar. A rather gross looking film of an oily, sticky, b substance with a sweet smell was spread on top of it. John now also understood why Sherlock knew, that the owner must have something to do with alcohol. When he had taken a smell at the white stain of gel, he had also instantly noticed a faint odour of something alcoholic.

"How do you know he's not a drinker? It's quite a strong smell..."

"He can't be, because the smell is all over. He must have drenched it in whiskey, and hung it out to dry, because most of the smell has gone, but that's rather unlikely, because most alcoholics don't care about their looks. He does. I'd rather say, that he's spent a long time in a distillery, so that his clothes have adopted the smell."

"And the rest? How do you know he'll find us?"

"Oh that's easy, I'm going to tell him where to find us. If the GPS-chip neatly hidden in the pocket, would work, and if he'd have the money to have it repaired, he'd clearly find us. I think I don't have to explain why he values it, do I? I have Lestrade looking for him."

"Wow. I'm stunned."

Sherlock tilted his head. He never knew how to deal with admiration. Eventually he grinned and uttered sheepishly.

"Umm...thank. You."

John returned the smile, and sat down next to him.

"So, what are you going to go today?"

"I think breakfast would be a good idea."

"Seriously? You want to have breakfast?"

"You've just found a case. You always say, that you don't eat while working. I still don't get why, by the way."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Digesting slows my brain down. Why do I always have to repeat myself...? Anyway. Afterwards, we have to go to St. Bart's, and in the evening, I'll visit a concert. If you want...umm...you could join me..?"

"I've got nothing else to do today, so...yes. I'd like to come. What kind of concert will that be?"

"Tchaikovsky and Bach, a classical violin concert."

"Sounds nice. Fine. But now, I'm starving, let's have breakfast."