Chapter 34
'He who is overly attached to his family members experiences fear and sorrow, for the root of all grief is attachment. Thus one should discard attachment to be happy'
Chanakya
John was taking his time getting ready. Sherlock was getting impatient but the text; oh that text had been a glorious distraction. The Woman. He kept his amusement to himself.
"Who wants to have dinner?" Harriet asked trying to sound casual but Sherlock saw right through it. The consultant detective was tempted to play a game with Harriet but thought better of it. His conscience had reared its ugly head and told him not to.
Sherlock considered her question for a moment. The magazines of Harriet's that he'd flicked through in a moment of boredom had rambled on about honesty, but this was The Woman, "wrong number." Sherlock deleted the text and pocketed his phone.
Harriet was left alone with her knitting and Mrs Hudson for company once Sherlock and John left. The knitting didn't last long after mucking it up and asking the landlady to fix it twice in the end she gave in. Harriet soon craved another pursuit. There was food shopping to be done but that meant going outside alone leaving only two other choices: Jeremy Kyle or ironing. Harriet settled for ironing whilst watching Jeremy Kyle. It wasn't as fun as watching it with Sherlock picking the truth from the contestants as they appeared on screen for the first time. Harriet attempted it and got it wrong, twice.
Sherlock dragged John along with him to the jewellers in Windsor and stood outside. So far the slip of paper was fit. "There's some expensive jewellery in the window, are we going inside?" John prompted his friend.
"I'm not looking for a ring," Sherlock answered back and opened the door to the shop. The bell above tinkled.
John followed, "Right, of course you're not," it was Sherlock after all buying a ring for someone wasn't in his repertoire.
"Can I help you, sirs?" an elderly man greeted them from behind the polished counter. Every wall within the shop was lined with glass and every surface within shone in comparison to the counter.
"Ah, yes, I'm looking for a ring," Sherlock began.
"But you just said," John was confused. Was this for the case?
"Certainly. What sort of ring?" the old man's eyes sparkled with the prospect of a potential sale. As of late times had been hard. Gold prices had sky rocketed and with the increase in ethical conditions in mines prices on gems. Sherlock deduced the man in seconds. He wasn't their suspect. The only criminal activity the old man was likely to have been involved in was an unpaid library fine.
The consultant detective had a theory. The diamonds in the pouches were by no means legal. Blood diamonds. There was an illegal diamond trade operating from within London run by the very people that campaigned against it and all that operated from the jewellers they were stood in but the man behind the counter he was not involved. "I moved the ruby's into the safe," a younger man entered through the door behind the counter. This man was.
Bruised right hand knuckles. Grey feather left hand collar of shirt, unnoticed. Congo African Grey parrot. Lives alone. Middle-aged. Related to man behind counter. These were all important details to Sherlock. The bruised right knuckles were the giveaway. The first victim had put up a fight.
The man looked up at the two customers. His eyes widened in recognition. The two detectives from the papers. Sherlock Holmes and his assistant. "Visited the Congo recently?" Sherlock called the man out. He panicked and darted out the door he'd just come through. Sherlock sprung to life leaping over the counter. His shoes scuffing the polished surface.
"Sherlock!" John shouted and tailed the pair. The old man manning the counter was left in a daze as the scene unfolded.
The man had a head start on them. He was out the back door of the shop, down the back alley and out into the main road within seconds. Sherlock's long legs soon closed the gap and he vaulted over a brick wall to land in the road. A glance around locked his suspect in his sights once again. They tore down the road, John had to apologise to people as he went. Their suspect rounded a corner and took off down another road. He darted down a set of slippery stone steps where a river emerged from under layers of concrete and brickwork. The suspect slipped into the dark tunnel and out of sight. By this point John had caught up and taking the steps two at a time joined Sherlock at the entrance to the tunnel.
Smell. That was the first sense that John was aware of in the dark opening of the tunnel. It was damp and smelt of rot. Pulling his jumper over his nose in attempt to block the smell John continued the chase. Again Sherlock had been first off the mark. A few yards in the light completely disappeared. The only sounds that could be heard were the dripping of water from the tunnel roof and the splash of footsteps in shallow water.
Sherlock tore down the tunnel. The man was close. Sherlock could hear his breathing as he gave chase. He grabbed him by the arm spinning him around and pinning him against the cold wet wall of the tunnel. It wasn't enough. Their suspect pushed him back into the water. Sherlock groaned. His coat was ruined. John saw his chance and tackled the man to the floor earning him a face full of foul tasting water. He spat it out as Sherlock dragged the man to his feet. Between them they pinned him against the wall.
With his free hand Sherlock was able to retrieve his phone from his pocket the thickness of his coat having protected it from too much water damage. No signal. They would have to march the man from the tunnel before calling for Lestrade.
Harriet was bored she even found herself calling "bored!" aloud to no one. She blamed Sherlock entirely for that one. The ironing had been finished and the knitting just wasn't appealing leaving Harriet with very little to do except watch television. She supposed that she needed to find herself a job in London but Moriarty still remained at large and capable of walking right into her classroom. Not to mention Sherlock who would find some way to interfere. She resigned herself to speaking with him on the issue once his current case was over.
The doorbell to Baker Street rang mid-afternoon. It was the distraction that Harriet needed. The gardening show on the television had lost its appeal within the first five minutes. Baker Street didn't have a garden she could potter about it not that she would back home in the first place. Harriet expected Mrs Hudson to answer the door, she usually did but it rang again. As Harriet braved the front door Mrs Hudson appeared in the hallway. "I'll get it dear," she bustled past leaving Harriet hanging back in the hallway.
"Is my son here?" the woman at the door demanded. Mrs Hudson turned back to Harriet who shrugged, unable to see the woman. It was more than likely something to do with Sherlock.
"There's no one here but us," Mrs Hudson answered. The woman ignored her and barged past.
Harriet's sight landed on the woman. She was as old as Mrs Hudson. The woman wore a crushed velvet jacket in a deep shade of violet with a beige skirt making Harriet's mother's fashion sense look good. "This is 221 Baker Street?" The woman pressed, taking a dark pair of gloves from her hands.
"Yes," Harriet found her voice. The woman looked as if she'd stepped from a period drama of sorts.
"Then my son is here," Harriet had a feeling she knew where this was going. Who else did she know who had a talent for barging into people's homes? The woman regarded Harriet for a moment. It was the eyes that clarified the woman's identity to Harriet. They had the same piercing depth to them. "You must be Harriet. Mycroft said you were amiable," the last bit intended as an insult, "and Mrs Hudson my son's house keeper. Charming home."
"I'm not his house keeper," Mrs Hudson answered, "I'm his land lady."
"How about you come upstairs for some tea?" Harriet proposed glad that her boredom had led to her squaring the place up a bit. Mrs Holmes allowed Harriet to show her the way up the stairs.
"That's Sherlock's mother. What are we supposed to do with her?" Harriet was panicking slightly as she passed Mrs Hudson.
Mrs Hudson shared in Harriet's panic, "I don't know. She can't be that bad, can she?" Out of her depth entertaining the woman who bought the world's only consultant detective into the world Harriet sent a quick text to Sherlock as she followed up the stairs.
Next time warn me when I'll be entertaining your mother. - HT
John and Sherlock were on their way back to Baker Street when Sherlock received a text. Sherlock groaned dramatically. John read the text over Sherlock's shoulder out of interest as to what could have caused the man to make such a noise. He laughed at his friend's misfortune, "you didn't know either?"
"No John, do you think I would willingly invite my mother over? This is Mycroft's doing," Sherlock rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Today wasn't his day. He'd ruined his coat, the text from Irene and now his mother. John decided it was best not to comment. Most normal people would invite their parents over from time to time but this was Sherlock the man who had no place for sentiment.
A commotion signalled the return of John and Sherlock, the door slammed behind their entrance. "That'll be the boys back," Harriet got up and bolted down the stairs. "You insufferable arse," Harriet stomped down the last few stairs. "Oh god!" she clamped a hand over her nose, "you stink, where have you been?" her question was muffled through her hand. Sherlock turned to answer but Harriet cut him off, "on second thoughts I don't think I want to know. Just take your clothes off."
"John as well?" Sherlock inquired.
"Yes," she replied. Sherlock frowned. "What?"
"I don't want John taking his clothes off in front of you," Sherlock answered, he already had his purple shirt off distracting Harriet.
"I was going to my room. Unlike you I'm not a fan of walking around without clothes on," John shook his head and left.
"I was wearing a sheet!" Sherlock called after his friend
"You were in Buckingham Palace!" John yelled back.
Harriet processed what she'd just heard, "you went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet?" Of course he went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet. "Sherlock your mother is upstairs, thank you for that by the way; do you think you can manage to keep your clothes on till you get up there?"
"I didn't invite her," he replied smartly and headed up the stairs, "Mother, what a pleasant surprise," Harriet heard his greeting as she entered the room. For the next few minutes Sherlock defended himself against his mother's disapproving comments about his current state of attire. Harriet went to retrieve a wash basket from Mrs Hudson; she would have to commandeer her washing machine. In Harriet's opinion the less time spent in the company of the company of Mrs Holmes the better. Having wasted enough time filling Mrs Hudson in on the reappearance of the boys Harriet returned upstairs.
"Sherlock when will you get a proper job?" Mrs Holmes voice filtered out through the door Harriet had left open.
"I'm a consultant detective," Sherlock had now changed into a new suit and a customary dressing gown.
"Sit down. Both of you," Harriet wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. That was never a good start to a conversation. Harriet did as she was bid; Sherlock on the other hand walked towards the window and took up his violin. "Now what do you do for a living?" Mrs Holmes wasted no time in questioning Harriet.
"Mycroft has already told you what Miss Thornton does for a living," Sherlock paused his playing. "He more than likely sent you a file with every detail about Miss Thornton's life including the amount in her bank account."
Mrs Holmes waved her son's smart arse behaviour, "I want to hear it from Harriet." For the next ten minutes Harriet received a grilling from the Holmes matriarch with little or no help from Sherlock who played his violin in a world of his own.
"What I really want to know is why my son felt that he didn't need to tell me he'd found himself a girlfriend. Mycroft and I were beginning to give up hope of you ever one," Mrs Holmes shifted in her seat to glare at her son. The world girlfriend had stopped Sherlock mid-way through Beethoven's Spring Sonata.
"I-I-I really don't think I can answer that one," Harriet mumbled, "Sherlock?" Her consultant detective remained silent; "I really mustn't leave those clothes any longer," Harriet excused herself and went to retrieve John's clothes and some moral support. If she had to answer more questions about her favourite authors, religious views or choice of employment she would scream.
"She's very domestic," Mrs Holmes commented as Harriet disappeared. The woman had clearly never washed a dish in her life what did she know about domesticity.
Harriet knocked on John's door and entered. He was sat on his bed reading. "Got another book in here?" Harriet perched on the end of the bed.
"Is she that bad?" John tried to hide his amusement.
"She's Sherlock's mother," Harriet grumbled.
"I see your point, he must have gotten it from someone," John laughed.
Eventually Mrs Holmes left much to everyone's relief. John had joined them shortly after Harriet left with his wet clothes. He was just as eager as Harriet to find out about the woman but had enough tact to keep out of the way to start with.
"I can't wear that," Sherlock dropped the coat carelessly onto the sofa.
"Harriet washed it," John clarified. Harriet had painstakingly ensured that it had kept its shape throughout the wash and wondered what he could possibly find wrong with the coat.
"It's missing a button," Sherlock
"So you're not going?" John checked. The consultant detective had reluctantly accepted a case via email.
Sherlock flung himself into his chair and clasped his hands together, "it was a five at best."
"For god's sake," Harriet flung down her tea towel and stomped into the lounge grabbing the coat and disappearing out of the door and down the stairs. She returned several minutes later with a small box covered in a hideous fabric. Silently she sat down on the sofa and took out a needle and thread then cut the spare button from the label on his coat. A slight panic rose in Sherlock at the sight of the scissors so close to his precious coat. Within minutes Harriet had reattached the button. She thrust the coat at Sherlock and put the sewing things away.
Sherlock shrugged on his coat, "come on John," and carried on as if his dramatic sulk had never happened. He kissed Harriet on the cheek and fled out the door shouting to join to hurry up.
Okay so Sherlock's mother, fun times. I was hoping to fit Irene into this chapter but it wasn't to be so she'll be in the next. I have it part written already but I'm off to a festival for the weekend so there probably won't be another update until next weekend. As always thanks to everyone who is reading :D
Gwilwillith- sorry, going to make you wait longer for the woman's full return :p
chaosrachel- lovely review as always
UndercoverCaptain- Haha I'll keep that idea in mind, we certainly can't have Irene one-upping Harriet.
Fionn Rose- I thought the James Bond bit was good too but the whole industrial revolution bit with the rings was pretty clever as for the team entrances the Czechs with wellies and umbrellas was fabulous!