Chapter Twenty One

"Did you find him?" Ara pounced on him as soon as John returned from depositing Bella in Sherlock's room, joining the rest of the party in the Great Hall for tea and crumpets. The huge stone fireplace was filled with a crackling log fire, and the big room was warm and inviting after being outdoors all day.

"Yeah."

"S'okay?" This was mumbled around a bite of hot buttered muffin.

Her manners made John smile, but at least she was eating something. That made him think of Sherlock. "I hope so."

The girl flicked her straight blonde hair over her shoulder and smirked. "Told you to piss off and leave him alone, did he?"

"Not exactly" was all he could manage before Mrs Walters appeared at his elbow. "Doctor Watson, can I get you a cup of tea, or would you prefer coffee? We've made a special pot with single estate Arabica beans from Yemen, brought by Prince Rashid for the guests' enjoyment."

For a moment, John was torn. Drinking and eating in the warmth when Sherlock was out in the dark and cold…bothered him. His indecision must have been visible on his face, because when he looked up, he saw that Mycroft had joined them. "Of course he will, Mrs Walters. He has at least an hour before he is needed elsewhere. Coffee, for once, rather than tea, John. You will not regret it, I can assure you." She bustled off, without even waiting for John to agree.

Ara looked first at Mycroft and then back at John, sensing an unspoken exchange going on. She cocked her head at them, as if trying to hear what they weren't putting into words. "Blimey; between the two of you, it's a wonder Sherlock ever gets to decide something for himself; maybe he's just fed up with the company. I know I am." She turned around and marched over to the fireplace, turning her back on the two men.

John had to bite his lip to stop from laughing at the look on Mycroft's face. He clearly wasn't used to being spoken to like that. John couldn't resist asking, "Was Sherlock as bolshie when he was that age? He's sharp enough with you as an adult; I can't imagine what he was like as a teenager."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that one could say he's 'mellowed' at all over the years. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other guests to whom I must attend." He crossed the room to speak the David Wills and Sarah Barnard, who were in a conversation with Elizabeth Ffoukes.

John was still smirking at Mycroft's discomfort when Mrs Walters returned with his cup of coffee. "Now Doctor, come to the table and let me tempt you; we have a range of cakes, biscuits, crumpets and muffins. After all your hard work, you need something to keep the wolf from the door until supper."

As she spoke, he took a sip of the black coffee, which slipped down his throat in a velvety warm caress. Wow- this is the Rolls Royce of coffee. He'd spent a lifetime drinking instant coffee, consumed in a rush, grabbed from a machine at a hospital or over-brewed filter coffee from mess halls in army camps. This was…delicious. He allowed himself to be taken over to the table, where he was seized upon by Sir Martin Whetle, standing with the Brigadier.

"Watson- just the man. The Gamekeeper will do the forms, and we've given our witness statements. "

For a moment, John's brain just stuttered. "Witness statements? What crime has been committed?"

The Brigadier roared with laughter. "You aren't aware of the Woodcock Club? My good man, there are less than 1500 guns in the UK who've ever managed a brace of woodcock with right-and-left barrel without pause or lowering the gun. It's a great honour, and Sherlock Holmes is joining an elite group of crack shots. All that's left is the photo of him with the two birds and it's done."

He gave it all of two seconds' thought before he knew what Sherlock's reaction would be. "He won't want the fuss. It's not important to him."

The two men looked momentarily confused by his reply. The diplomat responded, "Well, then lucky for him it isn't just up to him. We can apply on his behalf. No reason to be shy about his achievement." The retired general seemed to bristle a bit. "We won't tolerate any false modesty on his part."

John smirked. "Well, that's not usually his problem, I can assure you. But I still think you'd better ask him."

Her back might have been turned toward the men, but Ara had been listening to the conversation. She turned to them, her expression no longer one of bored indifference.

"I can take the photo."

The Brigadier and the diplomat looked at her as if she were an alien, green with waving antennae.

She ignored them and focused on John. "I can. I brought my Canon SLR. Wanted to take photos on the shoot, but the Prince's bouncer got all huffy and said I couldn't, because he thought they'd end up on Facebook. I'm not that kind of photographer- I don't take snaps," she said dismissively. "It's what I do; what I want to do as a career. And, I'm good at informal portraits. Sherlock's face is … unusual. It's interesting."

It was the most animated he'd seen the teenager. Her eyes were lit up and she was clearly excited by the idea. He hated to puncture that enthusiasm, but he knew how much Sherlock loathed having his photo taken. "He won't agree, Ara."

"I bet you I can get him to agree to the photo. You just watch; I've managed to talk some pretty reluctant people to pose for me. I've even got one of Prince William, and he loathes photographers, given what they did to his mum."

Sir Martin's wife had joined him in time to hear the end of the conversation. Lady Margaret had in the course of the day been converted from a critic into a fan of Sherlock's, so she stepped in. "Lady Arabella, if you can convince him to do the photo, I'll certainly take a copy of it. I know someone on the staff of Country Life; they'd just love the story, especially if it came with a photo. And, if you are serious about it as a career, then the publicity will do your reputation no end of good, my dear."

John didn't want to encourage the teenager, because when Sherlock turned her down, she'd be upset. "Lady Margaret, all that might be true, but Sherlock really doesn't like having his picture taken."

Ara looked at him crossly. "You can stop trying to be protective. I know you think you're his friend, but you don't have to try to make excuses for him or try to explain him."

John smiled, "as if I could. It's just that when he disagrees with something or someone, he can be very rude."

"I know. Mum warned me. He's different. I'm okay with that. In fact, I think it's…interesting. Kinda cool not to feel obliged to be polite all the time." The teenager continued, "She said he doesn't want friends; that isn't how his brain works. As if I wanted to be friends; parents always get the wrong idea." She rolled her eyes.

John was curious about that. How does Lady Caroline know about Sherlock? "Has your mother met Sherlock before yesterday?"

"Nope. That's what the weekend was supposed to be about. But that's a little difficult with all these other people around."

Before John could think that comment through, both his and Ara's attention was caught by a rather heated exchange going on behind them. Razi al Farkri said something in a harsh guttural tone, provoking a rather brutal retort from Jimmy that sounded full of anger. But he had no idea what they were saying because it was in Arabic. John and the teenager watched as Farkri stormed out of the room. Across the Great Hall, in the opposite corner, Prince Rashid watched with a surprised look on his face. Mycroft, with whom he had been speaking, also eyed the departure rather suspiciously.

Ashton looked annoyed at the attention that was being paid to him, but his sister rescued him by appearing at his shoulder and giving him a big smile and a gentle laugh. "Oh, Jimmy; have you been living up to your usual 'bad American' image? How many times have I told you that not everyone in every culture can understand your brand of humour. Now you'll have to apologise to him over dinner."

For a second, the American's eyes narrowed, but then he played along. "Well, golly- I guess you're right. I shouldn't expect him to get my jokes. He's never even been to the US, so I can't blame him for misunderstanding me." It was said just loud enough to be heard by those who were watching him, but not so loud that it attracted the attention of those who were enjoying the food and conversation.

John took a surreptitious look at his watch.

"Time flies when you're having fun, Doc." Ara had seen him checking the time. Lady Margaret and her husband gave her an odd glance, not understanding her point.

"Yes, well, on that note…" John gave an apologetic smile. "I will see you all later, but any ideas when we are supposed to assemble?"

Lady Margaret replied, "I understand we are gathering in the drawing room for a drink at 7.30, and supper is at 8 o'clock."

He made his excuses to Ara and the couple, nodded to the Brigadier and then slipped out of the room. He went up the back stairs to his bedroom to collect his coat, then back down to the ground floor and out into the cold night air.

oOo

Just under two hours later, John was back in his room, starting to get dressed. His search for Sherlock had proved utterly fruitless. When he got back to the temple, there was no sign of his flatmate. He'd been surprised by that; when he'd left Sherlock seemed incapable of moving without sensory overload, but it would seem that he must have made a speedy recovery. The doctor returned to the house, wondering if they'd somehow passed in the dark, but there was no sign of Sherlock, and Mrs Walters said she'd not seen him.

John checked the bedroom, only to find Bella stretched out on the bed, sound asleep. There was no sign that Sherlock had been back to the room. So, the doctor decided it was time for that bath. However, what he had anticipated as a nice long soak for tired muscles became instead an exercise in trying to figure out what was going on with Sherlock, and the various guests.

It was confusing. As the steam rose from the enormous tub on its clawed feet, he kept wondering what Sherlock would be making of the various links between the guests and Eastern Europe. The diplomat's son was based in Romania. He'd heard tense words between Sir Martin and the American, both of whom had known each other in Brussels, and then between the American and Farkri- not just in the Great Hall, but also when they were in the woods, before the penultimate drive. Sherlock said he would explain that- but had not done so yet. Then there was the unrequited lover, Sarah Barnard who fancied the EU civil servant, but Wills was rather cavalier in his attitude, willing to flirt with Barbara Ashton.

And how it could possibly be relevant that both the Americans spoke Spanish and had been in Mexico? Well, he was struggling to put it together.

Just where Lady Caroline and her daughter fit in, John hadn't a clue. Although they had not met Sherlock before, the countess had been warned by someone, presumably Mycroft, enough about Sherlock to know he wouldn't exactly behave normally. Why the elder Holmes would do that was not at all clear.

He sighed. Far from relaxing him, sitting in the bath wondering what it all meant and where the hell Sherlock might be- it was just tightening up his anxiety even more. He pulled out the brass plug on a chain, and got out. He enjoyed the huge white fluffy towels- something about a serious laundry service that brought out the best in a towel. After that, it was back into his bedroom to get his mess uniform out of the wardrobe. That's when he realised that he'd folded his white shirt rather badly and there was a big crease in just the wrong place for the cut of his uniform jacket. He got dressed in his casual clothes again and went downstairs with it, in the hope of finding Mrs Walters, who could point him in the direction of an iron. If he was going to put the full kit on, it had better be right. While some might not notice, he was sure the Brigadier and his wife would. Military- we're always thinking about inspections.

His shirt was whisked away from him and he was told it would be back in his room in fifteen minutes, so he went back up. He felt the stubble on his chin and decided to shave, grabbing his electric razor and heading for the bathroom and its mirror over the sink. It was still very steamy and he had to use a hand towel to wipe the condensation and mist off the mirror. Even so, he could hardly see himself- it was hung rather high on the wall.

"One of the disadvantages of your height, John."

The doctor nearly dropped the razor. "Bloody hell, Sherlock!" He spun around and realised that Sherlock was in the bathtub, even though all he could see over the rim was the top of his head with a few dark curls. Then even this slid down further, and John realised that his flatmate was now completely submerged under the water.

"Sorry- I had no idea you were in here; are you alright?" He wondered if Sherlock could hear him under water.

The head reappeared, with a splash. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be?" He sounded a little indignant at the question.

"Well, the last time I saw you, you could hardly stand up and you were throwing up. So, forgive me, if I wondered. After an hour, I went back to find you but you were missing."

"You didn't need to do that. I told you I would be fine, just needed a time-out."

John sniffed. Why does he always make me feel defensive for being concerned about him? "Right. I'll give you some privacy then."

"There's no need to be huffy. You have no mirror in your bedroom, so use this one."

John turned back to the bathroom mirror, which had fogged up again in the heat and steam coming off of Sherlock's bath water. It didn't matter- he'd shaved plenty of times in the camps of Afghanistan without a light or a mirror, just by touch. He switched on the razor and started to shave. "There's something about the case I should tell you about. You missed an interesting argument over tea- Ashton and the Prince's aide had a go at each other- it was in Arabic, so no idea what it was about. Actually, that reminds me, do you speak Arabic or did I just mishear you talking to Prince Rashid?"

"Yes, I do speak Arabic, but no- I doubt Farkri and Ashton were speaking it. More likely Farsi. "

John stopped his razor. "Why?"

"Because the Prince's aide is almost certainly an undercover member of the Iranian revolutionary guard, sent to spy on the Dubai royal family. And he and Ashton would not want anyone else to overhear them. I think they were arguing in the Sparrite woods when they were behind us. That was definitely Farsi they were talking then."

"Just how many languages do you speak, Sherlock?"

"That depends on what you mean by 'speak'. I can converse in twelve. I can read classical Greek and Latin, but haven't had a reason to speak it since I was at school. I can understand a few more."

"But, Arabic? And Farsi? Why?"

"The former was very useful for studying the history of science and philosophy, John. Without Arabic, we would know almost nothing of the Greeks. And Farsi uses the script of Arabic, although it has its own grammar and vocabulary, so why not learn it? I can't actually speak it very well, but I can read it because it's useful both for scientific manuscripts-and the best poetry ever written was in Persian."

John switched his razor back on and tried to get his head around how his flatmate had talked about science and poetry in the same breath. He was really learning things about Sherlock that he had never even considered before. Behind him, John could hear Sherlock was now washing his hair. An extraordinary scent wafted up into the room. "That's not your usual shampoo."

"No. This was made in Florence, at the Pharmacy of the Santa Maria Novella. It's a private mix, with orris root and honey. It was my mother's favourite, and she had a vast supply. I know where Mycroft hides it and liberated some. Reminds me of my childhood." Sherlock turned the water back on, and lifted the hand shower from its cradle, then flipped the lever so he could use it to rinse his hair.

"I thought you didn't like showers."

"I don't. But once I'm already up to my neck in a bath, the sensory impact is dulled. And it cleans my hair really well. Maybe we should ask Mrs Hudson if she'd consider installing one." He turned the water off and leaned back. "It's a shame I didn't hear that argument- I think Ashton knows I speak Arabic, but he might not have guessed about the Farsi. Pity Mycroft didn't add that one to his list."

"Maybe Mrs Ffoukes understands it?"

"Doubt it. She is rumoured to have done field work in the Far East, but that was ages ago. More an analyst. " He sniggered. "Seems an occupational hazard- the more senior one becomes in the intelligence world, the more office and desk bound they become. Mycroft loathed being in the field. Called it 'leg work'; he was much happier hiring minions to do the real business."

John finished shaving, rubbing his chin and face to make sure he'd got it all. "Remember you asked me to check out Sarah and David Wills over lunch?"

"Needn't bother, John. I figured that one out myself. She's trying too hard. He's keeping her at arm's length. That much is obvious, but what you might not have realised is that she's one of Elizabeth Ffoukes' lot. That fact is very interesting."

"How did you deduce that?"

"Sarah is obviously quite self-conscious having to perform in front of her boss. At first, I thought she was working for Mycroft. But he's not watching her half as much as Elizabeth was. So, it's not exactly rocket science, John. She's been told to try to figure out what the connection is between him and Sir Martin, and the Americans."

"That reminds me- the answer to your other lunch-time questions- another couple of puzzle pieces. Both have been to Mexico recently; Barbara's tan was got on a Yucatan beach, her brother's on a sunbed because, according to her, 'he was in meetings all the time.' And they both speak Spanish."

Sherlock was now washing, if the splashing was anything to go by. John decided to brush his teeth. He rarely had black coffee, and as nice as it had been, he was always conscious that it could stain the enamel. So he set to it.

"So, the Ashtons are the American connection with the Mexican drug cartels."

John stopped brushing. "R yoo shoor?" Around a mouthful of toothpaste foam, the question came out garbled.

"Yes, John, I am sure. When I was on my way back to the house, I overheard Ashton, talking on his mobile. Only got one half of the conversation, but it was most interesting. He's smart enough not to use the phone in the house; Mycroft's security team would have nailed that instantly, tracing the call and getting both sides. But his side was most illuminating, and he had no idea I was there."

John spat and rinsed. "Care to share?"

Sherlock sniggered. "Careful, John. Barbara's Americanisms are rubbing off on you."

"Then pass the information on, oh, enlightened one."

"Ashton was on the phone to someone he considers his superior; I could tell by the way he spoke. Said that person should 'contact the consultant; this was way out of control and something was going to crack soon.' Then he said that if he didn't get any advice soon, he'd take matters into his own hands because there was too much at stake. Don't let that bland exterior fool you, John; he's not stupid."

"I never said he was."

"No, but you thought it, didn't you? It's a common mistake. Americans sound so gormless that it is easy to underestimate them. The lack of finesse can lure you into thinking they're harmless. And Barbara is just as bad; no, actually, I think she's the smarter one of the pair. You just have to stop thinking with parts of your anatomy that are south of your brain, John."

The doctor raised his eyes to glare into the mirror, but realised it was a wasted effort, because Sherlock would be lying in the bath facing away from him. No, correct that. Even through the mist on the mirror John could see that Sherlock had stood up in the bath and pulled the plug. John grabbed one of the towels off the pile and shoved it at him before beating a hasty retreat back into his bedroom. His flatmate's attitude towards his own nudity had been one of the surprises of the flatshare- totally unselfconscious. While John was no prude, he'd had to endure cramped quarters with too many men in army conditions, and he enjoyed being able to bath in private. Too much information, Sherlock.