Hope you all had a happy Easter. :)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sherlock stood in the shower, eyes closed, letting the clean, warm water wash away all traces of duck weed, mud and the musty stench of the canal from his body, while he reviewed the events of the evening. The mugger was obviously working alone, otherwise he would have passed the stolen phone down the line immediately, in which case they would have been dealing with someone much higher up the chain of command and probably more dangerous. So, despite the dunking, the mugging had proven to be a useful distraction from his other concerns and the outcome had been satisfactory, with little or no harm done.

His coat and suit would be going straight off to the dry cleaners in the morning and, hopefully, be none the worst for the experience. The contents of his pockets – his wallet and notebook – were drying out on the kitchen work top. He would make a decision about their futures at a later date. For some reason that he preferred not to scrutinise, he was relieved to have removed Molly's note from his pocket the night before and placed it in the drawer by his bedside… Which brought him back to the real bombshell of the last few hours – John's revelation about Molly.

Not his type? What was she talking about? Molly wasn't anybody's type. She wasn't a type at all. She was unique, idiosyncratic, distinctive, atypical. There was no one like Molly Hooper and she was like no one else. She was quirky and eccentric; she followed no trends or fashions but she had her own style. She formed her own opinions and was not swayed by popularism or voguish claims; and she was kind, caring, steadfast and loyal…

But, if she truly believed that she was 'not his type', perhaps the cab driver was right…

As the cab drew up outside Molly's home, Sherlock opened the nearside passenger door and stepped out, offering his hand for Molly to take as she climbed from the vehicle.

'Thank you again for your help, tonight, not least for the use of your phone,' he said, in a soft tone and with a gentle smile that he seemed to reserve exclusively for her.

'Oh, any time, you know that,' she replied, looking away, coyly.

He stood on the pavement and watched while she walked down the path and entered her dwelling through the front door. Only then did he get back in the cab and give the driver his address.

'Is that her, then?' the cabbie asked as they pulled away.

'Sorry?' said Sherlock.

'Is that her, the one your mate was on about?'

'I'm not sure that's any of your…'

'None of my business? 'Course, it's my business!' the cabbie guffawed. 'Anything what's said in this cab is my business, mate, you should know that. London cabbies have an opinion on everything. We're famous for it. And your pal's right,' the cabbie declared. 'Don't leave it too long.'

'Leave what…?'

'Making your move.'

'My friend never said that...'

'No, but he was going to, until you shut him up.'

'How would you…?'

'It's obvious, innit? A lovely girl like that ain't going to 'ang around for long if she thinks you don't fancy her. Some bloke's gonna come along a' steal her away, right from under your nose…'

'Look, I don't know what…'

'An' you obviously fancy the girl…''

'Really!' Sherlock snorted, indignantly. Suddenly, everyone was an expert on his personal life.

'Course you do, ya plonker. Anyway, just a bit of friendly advice from your resident Agony Uncle, that's all,' the cabbie shrugged. 'Take it or leave it but don't say you ain't been warned.'

'Thank you for your input,' Sherlock snapped, reaching out and closing the sliding window between the front and rear sections of the cab. It was the best he could do to forestall any further gratuitous advice from this complete stranger, short of getting out and walking. And, frankly, he'd had enough exercise for one day.

Thankfully, that was the man's last word on the subject but, nevertheless, Sherlock spent the rest of the journey hunched up in the back seat, arms folded defensively across his chest.

But he couldn't dismiss the cabbie's words out of hand. What if he was right? And John, too, apparently?

Procrastination is the thief of time.

'Shut up!' Sherlock growled at the annoying voice in his head, as he switched off the shower, wrapped a bath sheet around his waist and stomped out of the bathroom. 'Give a man some peace, for god's sake!'

ooOoo

The next few days were spent in what Sherlock would describe as his own private Purgatory - the Waiting Room between Heaven and Hell, not knowing in which direction one might proceed when the time came to move on. Miss Gatsby was distinctly non-committal when he spoke to her on Friday morning, stating only that they would have to wait for the official response from the Home Office before deciding how to respond, and advising him not to worry. What a waste of breath that was! Of course, he was going to worry. There was nothing else for him to do.

The only good news came on Friday afternoon, when the decorators packed up and left and Mrs Hudson declared the refurbishments complete.

The stairwell had been papered with the same Regency stripe as Sherlock's landing, and the ground floor hallway painted from floor to ceiling – and the ceiling – in a bright matt white emulsion which gave it a light and airy feel and banished the shadows from previously dark corners.

The staircase itself had been stripped and sanded before the decorating began, removing layers of gloss paint that had accumulated over the two centuries of its history. The last job the decorators did before they left was to oil the treads and risers, bringing out the texture and character of the wood. The finished effect was, Sherlock had to agree, a great improvement on what had gone before. It elevated the status of the whole building from shabby to chic and would, no doubt, create a good impression on all future clients who might turn up at the door, seeking his assistance.

'I've got some furniture coming next week,' Mrs Hudson advised him. 'It's from a house clearance so nothing fancy – mostly '60s stuff. There's a dining table and four chairs, a leather sofa, a circular coffee table and an arm chair – for John, of course. It'll make the place a bit more homely for you,' she said, with a sympathetic smile. 'Oh, and Mrs Turner has given me a kitchen table that she has no more use for. It's got a Formica top so it should stand up to your experiments,' she added.

Sherlock thanked her for her consideration, whilst conjecturing what toxic fumes might be emitted were the Formica to come into contact with acid. Probably best avoided, he decided.

However, since the basics were covered, he could turn his attention to adding some of his own touches to his accommodation. With this in mind, he made his way on Saturday morning to Ladbroke Grove and his favourite second-hand furniture shop.

'Mr Holmes! How nice to see you! It's been such a while!' the proprietor gushed when Sherlock entered the premises. 'What can I help you with today?'

'Just browsing,' he replied and brushed past the man, making his way to the stairs that led down to the basement. From experience, Sherlock knew that all the real gems and bargains were to be found down there.

Strolling around, peering into every nook and cranny and checking price tags, he came across a rosewood side table that had definitely seen better days. At some point in its lifetime, someone had seen fit to gloss paint the table top but the legs and frame had, thankfully, been spared that insult. The table was solidly constructed and showed no sign of woodworm. And the price was reasonable, too.

A further search came up with two tall, oak book cases. They didn't match each other or the side table but, like the table, they were in good condition and a good price. When would he have enough books to fill them, he wondered? It had taken a lifetime of second-hand bookshop browsing to build up his former collection. Some of those books were first editions – very rare and extremely valuable. It wasn't the value that bothered him. He made a mental note of the book cases and moved on.

The next thing to catch his eye was a sturdy, wooden-framed arm chair. It was nothing special, as arm chairs go, but that wasn't what made it stand out – just a comfortable, solidly built Edwardian chair, upholstered in a brocade fabric. It was the colour that caught his eye – bright yellow. Molly's favourite colour. John had his own chair in Sherlock's flat so why not Molly, too? He could find no 'fire resistant' label attached and a close examination of the underside revealed the original hessian liner still stretched across the base so, apart from several decades of wear, this was as it had left the factory, some time in the 1950s. However, despite its age, it was still in excellent condition. Someone had loved this chair and taken very good care of it. The frame was sturdy and, again, there was no evidence of wood worm and it had been recently steam-cleaned. But the price was more than he felt inclined to pay. No matter. He would negotiate that with the shop owner.

Sherlock totted up in his head the face value of all his chosen items and then came up with what he thought was a fair price before walking to the bottom of the stairs and calling up to the proprietor, who had been loitering at the top, anticipating this precise moment. Sherlock pointed out his items of interest and asked the man for his 'best price'. After a brief period of haggling, they agreed upon a sum for the table, bookcases and armchair and arranged for them to be delivered the following week. Business complete, Sherlock was about to leave the shop when he spotted something lurking in a dark corner.

'How much is that?' he asked, pointing to a small, oval-shaped walnut side table, with three drawers, the fronts of which were inlaid with a leaf motif.

'Oh, Mr Holmes, you have such a good eye and excellent taste, if you don't mind my saying so,' the proprietor gushed.

'Yes, I know,' Sherlock replied. 'How much is it?'

'Well, as you know, walnut side tables are very much on trend at the moment…'

'How much?'

'A bargain at two hundred and fifty…'

'I'll give you one-fifty if you'll strip all that paint off the other side table top before you deliver it,' Sherlock stated, in his 'take it or leave it' voice.

'I'll have to speak with the vendor…' replied the dealer.

'Fine. I'll wait.'

Sherlock went over to examine the little walnut side table more closely while the shop owner made a call to the person for whom he was acting as agent. The table top had a raised rim to prevent anything sliding off, which told Sherlock it was probably made, originally, for a captain - or someone of rank - on a sailing ship. Apart from a few minor blemishes here and there, it was in good condition and the dovetail joints used in the construction of the drawers spoke to the quality of the workmanship. It was covered in dust, which suggested that it had been in the shop for quite some time so the vendor would probably be glad to see it sold.

And he was right about that. When the shop owner returned, it was with the good news that one hundred and fifty pounds would be a satisfactory price and that he would include the stripping of the other table top in the bargain.

Sherlock left the premises feeling extremely pleased with his purchases and moved on to his next destination, which was a family-owned rug shop in Portobello Road. He'd had enough of clumping around on the bare wooden floor of his sitting room. He wanted a nice big rug to dull the sound and make the place look and feel more 'lived in'.

The rug shop looked unimpressive from the outside but that was misleading. Inside, it housed the most comprehensive stock of authentic hand-tied, vegetable-dyed Oriental, Persian and Afghan carpets - new and second-hand - in the whole of London, from the smallest hearth rug to enormous carpets capable of covering the floor of any grand reception room. Sherlock was sure of finding exactly what he needed here.

He emerged, thirty minutes later, having secured a large, red Victorian rug with a bold, stylised floral motif in blue, repeated on a smaller scale around the border. Well-used and the with the colours dulled by dust and grime, it was almost an exact copy of the one it was to replace - which was unsurprising since these rugs were mass produced for the Victorian market, back in the day. It would be perfect. And the vendors had agreed to clean it before delivering it the following week.

Purchases complete, he made his way north along Portobello Road, in the direction of Ladbroke Road tube station. The Saturday street market that specialised in antiques, collectables and bric-a-brac was in full swing and Sherlock found himself having to weave in and out between the large number of people milling around the street stalls. He hadn't given a thought to the Saturday market when he set out that morning. Such crowds were a source of great annoyance to Sherlock, made up as they invariably were of people who had no specific destination in mind but just wandered about aimlessly and stopped frequently and unexpectedly to look at whatever caught their eye. Also, the wind was sharp and he was without his Belstaff, which was still at the dry cleaners, so he was feeling the cold, which irritated him still further.

He was about to duck down a side street and escape the madding crowd when he stopped dead – guilty of the very thing he found so annoying in others. On an adjacent stall, almost buried amongst a clutter of banal Victorian memorabilia, which included pottery mantle dogs, Staffordshire flatback figurines and a selection of brass and copper kettles, was a square wooden display frame containing a collection of nine butterflies. Sherlock approached the stall and reached between two people standing in his way, plucking the frame out of the melee and bringing it into the light for a closer look.

The specimens, though not particularly rare and therefore of little monetary value, were in good condition. They didn't hold a candle to the ones he had lost in the conflagration following the explosion but they had a certain charm and one – a small yellow individual on the middle row – he knew was now extinct and, consequently, of some scientific interest.

There was no price sticker on the item, which inferred that the stall-holder had no idea of its actual value and would be open to offers.

'How much?' he asked.

'That's fifty to you, dear,' the lady replied.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and went to put it back on the stall.

'…Or perhaps you'd like to make me an offer?'

'Twenty.'

Now it was the stall-holders turn to wrinkle her nose.

'Sorry, dear, I can't let it go for that. How about forty?'

'Thirty,' Sherlock replied, with a 'final offer' look on his face.

'Deal!' the lady declared and extended her hand for him to shake. He obliged then extracted three ten-pound notes from his wallet and passed them to her with a terse nod. Then, with his butterfly frame tucked under his arm, he strode off down the side street en route for Ladbroke Grove tube station.

ooOoo

Sunday passed not quickly enough but was eased along by a case he decided to take in order to avert the threat of a meltdown brought on by frustration over the Eurus impasse.

On the face of things, it looked like a straight forward Domestic Violence case – tragic but, sadly, not uncommon. The police were certainly treating it as such. The husband was found stabbed to death on the kitchen floor with the murder weapon – a kitchen knife - still in him. The wife, in a state of shock but covered in blood, was the prime suspect. But the next-door neighbour thought differently and it was she who came to Sherlock with her concerns.

'They were a devoted couple,' she insisted. 'Never a cross word between them.'

Though well aware that what went on behind closed doors in a domestic setting often bore no resemblance to the public impression, Sherlock was desperate for distraction, so accepted the engagement.

It took him less than half an hour on Facebook to unearth an on-going dispute between the victim and his step-brother and two hours accessing the CCTV in the area – curtesy of Mycroft's personal password, unbeknown to him, of course – to eyeball the man fleeing the scene within the critical time frame. He passed this information on to the local plods and ordered an Indian take-away to celebrate.

ooOoo

Monday crawled by without even the annoying decorators as a distraction and then Tuesday dawned, dull and grey. This would be the first Tuesday in just over six months that Sherlock had not made the journey to Sherrinford and it felt so not right not to be going there today. He wondered whether Eurus had been told not to expect him. Did she think he had abandoned her? He'd promised not to but she'd probably heard such promises from so many people, over the years, and they had all reneged in the end.

Standing at his sitting room window, scowling at the world outside while he waited for the kettle to boil, he heard his phone vibrate on the kitchen worktop, alerting him to a call…from Miss Gatsby.

'We've arranged a Skype meeting with Drew,' she advised. 'Can you be at Middle Temple by one o'clock this afternoon?'

Obviously, he could.

On arrival at Mr Ramachandran's chambers, Sherlock was given a copy of the letter from the Home Office to read. It confirmed what Mycroft had told him the week before – the Freedom of Information request for Miss Eurus Holmes's personal medical and social records was being denied on the grounds that it was not in the public interest to release this information. It was accompanied by a thinly veiled threat, couched in diplomatic legalese, that any further pursuit of this matter could have a detrimental effect on the careers of Mr Ramachandran and his colleagues.

Sherlock was not surprised. He hadn't been expecting any Road to Damascus epiphany for Mycroft. But seeing it in black and white, on official Home Office paper and signed by Lady Smallwood herself, it took on an air of finality that his brother's words had not conveyed. The barrister, however, seemed unperturbed.

'If I had a pound for every time I've been threatened by a government official, I'd be able to devote myself entirely to pro bono work,' Rom remarked, with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'We're Human Rights lawyers. It goes with the territory.'

Sherlock and his legal team were assembled around the boardroom table when the Skype call came in. Reassured by Rom's dismissal of Mycroft's threat, Sherlock was curious to hear what the Scottish Advocate had to say. But when the man's face appeared, smiling broadly, he frowned suspiciously. What did he know that Sherlock didn't?

'Mr Holmes, I hope you've had a chance to read the Home Secretary's letter?'

Sherlock nodded in affirmation.

'Well, this is an excellent result and no mistake!' the Advocate exclaimed.

'I'm glad you think so but would you care to explain?' Sherlock replied.

'Why, indeed!' Drew retorted. 'This provides us with irrefutable evidence that your sister, Eurus Holmes, exists. Up until this moment, Mr Holmes, we only had your word for it.'

Sherlock was indignant. Of course, she exists. Why would they doubt that?'

'Oh, please understand. I never doubted for a moment that she did but when a case is brought to my attention, my staff must carry out due diligence. From the pubic records, we obtained a copy of your sister's birth certificate…and also a copy of her death certificate, stating that she had died accidentally as a consequence of a conflagration in 1983. So, officially, your sister was dead. But now we have confirmation, from the Home Office itself, that not only does she exist but that she's been held for over thirty years in a UK government institution without ever having been formally charged, tried or found guilty, in a court of law, of any crime whatsoever.'

Sherlock looked around the table and saw only smiling faces but wasn't quite ready to permit himself to smile, also.

'When a petition for a writ of habeas corpus is filed in a Superior Court,' the Advocate continued, 'the court must first determine whether the petition states a prima facie case for relief. A prima facie case is made when the petition states facts that, if true, entitle the petitioner to relief, and the stated claims are not for any reason procedurally barred. This is a prima facie case for Habeas Corpus.'

The ghost of a smile threatened to appear.

'I believe we now hove sufficient evidence to take this to court and seek a Writ of Habeas Corpus for your sister but I'm afraid, from this point onwards, I can no longer act as Advocate for you, Mr Holmes.'

Sherlock slumped back in his chair, feeling the wind knocked out of his sails.

'Why ever not?' he exclaimed.

'If I'm to take this case to court, I must do so as your sister's representative. Therefore, we need your sister to sign a document authorising me to act on her behalf…'

'How can she do that?' Sherlock snorted. 'My brother controls who has access to her and, so far, that has included just him, me and James Moriarty. And,' he added, more soberly, 'she doesn't communicate…not verbally, at least.'

'Mr Holmes, your sister is entitled to legal representation. Even if she were the most prolific mass murderer in the history of mankind, this is her right. I intend to make an application to the UK Home Office to meet with Eurus Holmes, in person and in private, and I shall invite her to sign a legal document, appointing me as her Advocate. And if she accepts my invitation, we will prepare our case and present it in a Scottish court.'

Sherlock was not convinced.

'You don't know my brother, Mr Merriman.'

'No, we've not been formally introduced, but I do know the First Minister of Scotland. In fact, I spoke with her just this morning and I can advise you that, even as we speak, she's on the phone to your Home Secretary, Lady Smallwood, having a quiet chat and reminding her that Scotland has an independent judiciary. I confidently expect to be meeting with your sister within the week.'

ooOoo

Sorry that I made you wait, rather like Sherlock, for this update. I hope you didn't find it as frustrating as he did!

Many thanks to Wikipedia for that clear and concise explanation of Prima Facie.