Chapter 29
'Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives'
C. S. Lewis
John Watson was worried about the latest addition to Baker Street. The inhabitants of 221 Baker Street were keeping up with the farce that Harriet Thornton was okay. John had noticed the lack of life behind her smiles, rare that they were. John had taken it upon himself, he supposed as result of his medical training, to make sure she ate three meals a day and didn't hide herself away in Sherlock's room. Speaking of Sherlock he had found himself a case on the second day of their return to London. Turner's masterpiece, The Reichenbach Falls, had been stolen from an art gallery.
"So this painting is the work of Turner?" Harriet asked John who was pleased to see that she was showing an interest. Whilst Sherlock was off gallivanting with Lestrade Harriet and John were trying to piece together the case to satisfy their own curiosity after Sherlock failed to give them any other detail in his excitement over a new case.
"Yeah," John replied. Shamefully their first port of call had been Wikipedia. Harriet searched Turner's other works online. She was no detective but could appreciate art. It was a welcome distraction from the trials of the last few weeks. Mrs Hudson had tried to keep her busy and under her instruction Harriet had peeled the wall paper from the walls of the damp basement flat. The land lady made no indication of when the flat would be ready for a new tenant. Harriet had the sneaky suspicion that she had no intention of renting it out or even would be able to with Sherlock living in the same building. She appreciated the gesture that Mrs Hudson was making to keep her busy but really of all the things why was it decorating? John's ideas were better. When he'd been out to get the food shopping he'd bought back a stack of magazines, a mix of celebrity, fashion and women's magazines.
"John where's my coat?" Sherlock strode into the flat, "it's now officially cold enough." John sighed and got to his feet to retrieve the coat from its hiding place. The army Doctor had forbidden the consultant detective from wearing the coat in summer. It didn't matter if it made him look dark and mysterious it looked bloody ridiculous on a hot August afternoon. "The scarf too!" Sherlock shouted after his retreating friend.
"Surely it's not cold enough for the scarf as well?" John reappeared with a heavy black coat draped over his arm. Sherlock shrugged on the coat and looped the scarf around his neck. Harriet looked up from her laptop to watch the exchange.
The consultant detective turned up the lapels on his coat and looked down at Harriet, "you will need a coat too."
"Take John," Harriet replied. The truth of the matter was that the thought of leaving the flat made her nervous. Run-ins with Moriarty had been one too many for her liking.
John stepped in. Getting out of the flat was just what Harriet needed although where Sherlock was taking her was anyone's guess. Hopefully the consultant detective had enough sense not to take her anywhere dangerous. Whilst Harriet reluctantly went to get ready Sherlock received a talking to from John, "she's fragile at the moment. No chases. No guns. No Bart's. No anything Sherlock-like in any way shape or form."
"No Bart's? Well what if I find something?" Sherlock asked annoyed that his fun was being spoilt. They both knew Sherlock would go anyway.
"Bring her back here first," John answered. The sooner Sherlock was gone the sooner his headache would disappear. It had been one of those days so far for John. Sherlock had left just after breakfast after first demanding his coat. John declined him on this occasion knowing he would hear protests all day. The text he'd received an hour later only proved it further. Upon his return he'd still demanded his coat. Harriet could deal with the consultant detective for a few hours. Let him be her problem.
Harriet linked her arm with Sherlock's and the pair walked side by side down the street towards the Tate gallery where the painting was stolen from. She was quiet as they wove their way through people. It worried Sherlock. There were no sarcastic remarks or scolding's from the withdrawn young woman. John had warned him to be patient and understanding. He was managing that, wasn't he? Casting those thoughts aside he returned to what he was good at, handling a case.
Lestrade had contacted him about the missing painting and if he was honest 221B Baker Street was suffocating him so he snatched the case up even if it was trivial and dull. A missing painting would be easy business that was until he decided to take Harriet with him. He didn't know what to say to make her situation better. Words weren't going to fix it. Moriarty's head on a plate would. That he could do but for the time being he had no leads.
The Tate was quiet. It was a Thursday afternoon. Children were in school and parents at work. A couple of students lingered by a display of photographs and an elderly couple were shuffling past portraits of a long dead King. Sherlock walked quickly through the halls with one destination in mind. Harriet wanted to stop and appreciate what she seeing but panicked at the thought of being left behind by Sherlock. She followed diligently. Before Moriarty she might have protested but he could be in the building right alongside them. It was better to stick with Sherlock.
Harriet caught up with Sherlock mid-deduction, "no visible signs of a break in. That doesn't mean anything. Inside job. Gallery worker. No. Suspect has no care for art. Only works for money. Security. Come on."
"Where are we going?" Harriet asked as she followed the eager consultant detective. She almost collided with him when they came to a stop at reception.
"Do you have any lip balm?" Sherlock turned to her.
"Yes," she was unsure of her answer. What on earth would Sherlock need lip balm for? "Why lip balm?" Harriet asked.
"Prevents loss of moisture," Sherlock answered.
"Yes I know that but why do you ask?" Harriet was unnerved by the smile on Sherlock's face.
"Look over there at the receptionist. Pale. Bags under eyes. Chapped lips. Go ask her where the Picasso and Modern British Art exhibition can be found," Harriet did as she was told. Sometimes it was easier to do as Sherlock asked than question him. As she walked over she looked back to check that Sherlock was watching. She needed the reassurance.
"If you follow the signs to the left and head through this hall," the woman's voice was croaky as she pointed to a visitors map. Harriet, now thoroughly puzzled, thanked her and re-joined Sherlock.
"She has a sore throat," Harriet informed Sherlock unsure that it was the answer he was looking for.
"Thought so. When did you buy the lip balm?" he asked. How was she not getting this? It was simple.
"My mum got it for me when I left the hospital after…" she left her sentence open. The emntion of her mother and her abduction stirred still raw emotions. Sherlock wished he hadn't broached the subject. She was back to being miserable.
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and sauntered over to the receptionist leaving a confused Harriet to follow. His aim had been to move her mind away her mother and the abduction. Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a sort of wallet, he flashed it in front of the receptionists face, "Last night we're you or we're you not knocked out by a member of the Tate's security? Answer quickly."
"I," the receptionist struggled with her words clearly surprised by the man in front of her, "I'm sorry. It's my fault the painting was stolen. I should have seen him but I was working late. There'd been a function. I was tired" Harriet wondered what Sherlock had shown her to get her to give the information freely.
"Who's him?" Harriet asked trying off set Sherlock's blunt approach. Sherlock could feel Harriet's accusing gaze from behind. She clearly did not understand the need for a quick answer. This was exactly why sentiment was useless. It got in the way of cases. This would all be over a lot quicker if the insufferable women that had taken over his mind palace with sentiment kept out of the conversation.
"The security guard," the traumatised receptionist answered.
"Name," Sherlock prompted.
"Phil Wilson, he was always so nice," the receptionist took a sip from the bottle of water behind her desk. Sherlock couldn't care less if he was 'always so nice'
Harriet left the gallery with Sherlock; she had to jog to catch up before linking her arm with his. He'd left so quickly. Was he always like that on cases? Poor John. Sherlock used his free arm to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket and dial Lestrade, "Yes, Lestrade. Look into Phil Wilson. Security guard at the gallery. He's the one who stole the painting. Used chloroform on the receptionist." He hung up with no goodbye.
"Chloroform? Like me?" Harriet all but whispered. She now understood his question about the lip balm. Her mother had bought it for her chapped lips at the hospital newsagents and her throat had been sore as well.
"Yes," Sherlock sighed at her inability to keep up, "like you."
"No need to be like that," she huffed and yanked her arm free from his.
"Harriet," the tone of his voice was low. A warning.
She ignored the warning, "what did you show the woman?" Sherlock hid his surprise well. He was expecting a tirade from the irate young woman and not another question.
"It was a police ID," Sherlock answered.
"They gave you a badge?" Harriet was stunned. Sherlock tossed her the police badge, it was Lestrade's. "Lestrade gave you his badge?" She eyed him apprehensively.
"No, try again," Sherlock looked insulted at the suggestion he was given the badge.
"You borrowed it," it made sense to Harriet.
"Of a fashion," Sherlock turned his head to the side to look for a taxi.
"For crying out loud Sherlock! You can't steal people's ID and a police one at that, it's illegal," Harriet raved at the consultant detective as they hailed a taxi. Well, Sherlock hailed Harriet ranted.
Sherlock was more at ease with a Harriet who scolded him. It was normal. The tears were a bigger foe than Moriarty. She was still niggling on as they sat in the back of a black cab. It took a lot of effort on his part to hide his amused smile.
"We could have looked at the rest of the paintings," Harriet complained as Sherlock took her coat. John was pleased to see some life back in Harriet upon their return to Baker Street.
"No," Sherlock drew the word out and spared her a quick glance to prepare for the insult, "they weren't important."
"No, it's because you were being an arse," she crossed her arms in irritation.
"We could go back?" Sherlock wasn't sure why he suggested that. He didn't want to but would do it for Harriet. There it was again, that niggling persistent feeling that he hadn't behaved as expected in a relationship. He didn't want to look at paintings, he was on a case but Harriet evidently did. Harriet went to prepare dinner leaving Sherlock to fill John in on the case. "I should take her back to the museum," Sherlock mused aloud.
"You should or you want to?" John prompted, he was caught by surprise that this was Sherlock's chosen topic of conversation ahead of the case. The consultant detective in question sat on the settee with his elbows resting on his knees. His hands were pressed together with his chin resting on his thumbs. Sherlock Holmes was deep in thought. John allowed him to think not that he had a choice.
Harriet clattered about in the kitchen and swore loudly as she dropped a tomato on the floor. John shouted if she was okay but didn't go and help the answer he may get from Sherlock was more important. Eventually Sherlock sat back and stared at John with an impassive face, "I want to."
"Why?" John asked hoping that Sherlock might admit his feelings out loud.
The consultant detective sprung to his feet, "It was the security guard. Receptionist was working late; he drugged her and took the painting. Now to find it. Lestrade is finding out more about Phil Wilson, the guard. The painting will be returned by tomorrow." John was disappointed that Sherlock had stopped being forthcoming with information but was already distracted by the case. Returned as soon as tomorrow, of course, this was Sherlock he was dealing with. The man wouldn't sleep until it was returned.
Harriet and John ate their dinner in front of the evening news. The painting had made it onto the news. A reporter was describing the event stood outside the gallery. Lestrade had called to in from Sherlock that the security had guard had disappeared. Sherlock figured he would. For the second time that day he hung up on Lestrade without a goodbye. Sherlock passed on dinner to search on his laptop. He had a contact in the art industry that would inform him should the painting turn up at auction.
When Harriet had gone to bed Sherlock and John left Baker Street. Sherlock had insisted that a patrol car watched the flat whilst they were out. The investigative pair caught a taxi across town where Sherlock had gotten word that a not so legal auction of art was taking place. As it turned out the auctioneer had dealt with Sherlock in the past.
"You know a dodgy art dealer?" John asked in wonder as they left. They hadn't found the security guard or the missing painting but had come away with a grubby business card.
"Yes," Sherlock answered without an explanation. It was getting late despite this Sherlock dragged John along with him to St. Bart's. Once there he hunched over a microscope as he picked apart the stain on the grubby business card. The auctioneer had given it to them telling them that a man claimed he could obtain Turners 'Reichenbach Falls' painting.
"Oil," Sherlock exclaimed as he sat back from the microscope with pride.
"Oil? Right. What's good about oil?" John's tired brain was slow.
Sherlock was sliding his arms into his coat and heading for the door before John could finish his question. Getting to his feet John grumbled to himself and followed. "There is oil on the card. Oil is good John. It will lead us to Wilson. It's the same oil used by the maintenance crew of the London Eye," Sherlock was ecstatic.
They left the quiet hospital or at least John thought they had. Sherlock had turned back inside. "Where are we going?" John asked Sherlock.
"Detour," Sherlock mumbled.
"Right," John followed a few steps behind. He watched as his enigmatic friend plucked a plant from a shelf in the hospital florists. John had to blink to clear his vision. Had he really just witnessed Sherlock Holmes buying flowers?
Sherlock and John got in a taxi and headed back to Baker Street. Lestrade had been woken from his sleep by Sherlock who knew the exact location of Wilson who would panic and give up the paintings location to the police. In Sherlock's eyes the case had been solved, he didn't need to bother with the boring police stuff.
"Who are the flowers for?" John asked with amusement. Sherlock stiffened but didn't answer. "They are for Harriet aren't they? The great Sherlock Holmes buying flowers for his girlfriend," John teased. Sherlock ignored him.
"Miss Thornton, wake up," it was not easy to shake the young woman awake with a plant in his hand.
"Oh," she yawned and rubbed her eyes, "you're back."
"I am," He confirmed.
"Solved?" Harriet sat up in the dark room.
"Solved," Sherlock sat on the bed, "here." He thrust the flowers awkwardly at the sleepy teacher.
Harriet took the object and switched on the bedside light, "Flowers?"
"Yes as ever Miss Thornton your powers of deduction amaze me," Sherlock brushed her hair back from her face.
"Don't spoil it. I love orchids, thank you," she leaned up and kissed him firmly as she placed the plant on the bed side table. Thank god women were made to multi-task. One of his hands had found its way to her cheek, the other was steadying himself as she kissed him with a passion Sherlock had not expected, not that he was complaining. He guided her gently back onto the bed so his body hovered over hers. Lips still firmly locked.
Harriet was in heaven. Sherlock had surprised her with his romantic gesture even if he had left the hospital gift shop price tag on. Harriet didn't inform him of that. She didn't want to discourage any future romantic gestures.
His lips were a distraction from her worries. Harriet's hands deftly moved to the buttons on his shirt. In the blink of an eye Sherlock was on his feet leaving a stunned Harriet lying in a daze on the bed. The woman had distracted him, "Go back to sleep," he instructed.
"Sherlock Holmes! You cannot wake a girl up in the middle of the night. Give her flowers. Kiss her like that and then walk away," Harriet chastised.
"Miss Thornton you kissed me," he answered back and closed the door.
Oh how he'd wanted to stay but there was thinking to be done. In hindsight he should have waited till morning to give the flowers but imaging the smile on her face he threw that plan out the window and decided to wake her. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. He couldn't stay though. The case had been solved but the London Eye was niggling on at Sherlock. They'd seen Moriarty there. Was there a connection between the painting and the consultant criminal?
Wimbledon has been my big distraction over the last two weeks, anyways enjoy and thanks to everyone who'd read, reviewed and whatnot.
Sally Fantastic- he's learning! I can just imagine Sherlock delving into a romance novel to learn something, might have to use that idea. Thanks!
Gwilwillith- great review as always :D
chaosrachel- Errrgh rain and non stop at that. How inconsiderate of the weather! Glad the chapter could cheer you up.
UndercoverCaptain- I'm desperate to leave the miserable Harriet behind and start writing happy Sherlock/Harriet moments. John is definitely going to play a part in educating Sherlock in this field.
Newtofanfic- wow! Absolutely loved your review, made me smile :D
Way Worse Than Scottish- reading fiction in one night is definitely worth it :P
