Epilogue
Conclusions in the Flat
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The sound of the key opening the front door at the ground floor alerted John. He had been sitting in his armchair, engrossed in his medical journal, until his ears pricked to both his flatmate's familiar tread mounting the seventeen steps and the quick pace of his footfalls, indicating excitement. John was not surprised to see Sherlock's satisfied smile beaming at him in greeting.
"Good news, I see." John dropped the journal to his lap.
"You are getting quite good at this, John," Sherlock said shrugging out of his great coat and hooking it on the peg. "But happiness is an easy emotion to detect. Still I grant you are trying, which is better than most."
The detective paused on the landing as if a thought stopped him. "Tell me why, John."
"Huh?" Expecting his ebullient friend would share his information whether or not he was asked, John was surprised by Sherlock's directive.
"Tell me why I'm pleased." There was a glint of mischief in his eyes as the detective waited at the threshold.
"I'd just as soon stop whilst I'm ahead." John attempted looking disinterested as he picked up the medical journal again.
"You're no coward," Sherlock teased him with a widening grin. "Try."
"True, but I know which battles to pick." John didn't look up from the page, maintaining the pretense that the launch of a new comprehensive vaccination programme was much more interesting. He knew it wouldn't fool his friend but he wanted to make it clear he was not taking the bait.
"Then guess!" With a burst of energy, Sherlock circled the sitting room, engaging in the subtle behaviors which reminded John of an obsessive ritual for they always seemed to comfort him. Sherlock flipped through the stack of loose pages atop a mountain of books, checked the bookcase for signs of dust, picked up a small box on the high shelf shaking it gently, touched the penknife on the mantel, and sniffed for unfamiliar aromas. Seemingly satisfied that there had been no tampering since he had gone, Sherlock stepped on the coffee table to examine the wall, where several photos and diagrams were pinned. Somewhat impulsively, he launched himself forward, spun his entire body with a twisting feline motion, and flopped on the sofa.
Tilting his head toward John, Sherlock blinked. "Well?"
Knowing it was useless to continue reading, John slapped the journal against the arm of the chair as he rose. "Tea?"
"Don't stall," Sherlock countered as his eyes followed John. "Yes, and some biscuits. The fresh ones Mrs. Hudson was baking when I left."
"Maybe she didn't give us any. Or maybe I ate them all," John answered over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen.
"Don't be absurd. She bakes for us. And you're not a glutton. The crumbs on your armchair are from two biscuits. Mrs. Hudson usually gives us a dozen." Sherlock answered smugly, turning his head and eyes toward the ceiling. "Do you need a hint?"
"You don't like guessing games." John prepared the kettle and the mugs.
"You do!"
"You won't stop badgering me until I try, will you? Then you will humiliate me for missing the mark." The clatter of utensils going into the sink was John's attempt to appear too busy for Sherlock's game.
"You've come a long way since then, John."
Whether the words themselves convinced him or the gentle encouragement in the voice that uttered them softened him, John acquiesced. Bowing his head for a moment and leaning both hands on the worktop, he sighed. "All right. Have to wait for the water to boil anyway."
Sherlock aimed a silly grin at the ceiling.
"You saw Lestrade today. This much I know because you told me this morning." Whilst speaking, John took several steps towards the sliding glass doors between the kitchen and sitting room. His voice had become reflective, his eyes narrowed as he gazed out the front windows. "Okay. I think what would make you pleased to this degree would be the solution to a problem that proved you were right, correct? Over the past week, there is only one outstanding case that you would expect me to know. So, this information has to be about the Dodd Warehouse break-in." John looked over at the reclining Sherlock for confirmation.
"Go on." Sherlock had turned his head toward John, content to watch his friend think his way through this.
John averted his eyes. Gently leaning his right shoulder against the door frame, he crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles before continuing. "To summarize the case: Hiding in the alley, Stevie is wearing his eyepatch when he is admitted by Clara on her way to the WC. Tess is at lunch and Judi is occupied. Clara shields his entrance with the loo door that faces the basement door and allows Stevie to descend to the dark basement. She waits nearly three minutes in the loo for him to collect the pre-selected items Nathan had left out per Masterson's list. Then she reopens the door and again shields Stevie's return from the basement. Pulling off his eyepatch, he drops what he has taken into the last of the ready-to-ship containers marked Eric Christopher with a P.O. address, and resumes his act as loiterer "Stevie" until he is ejected through the main doors by one of the warehouse workers."
"Delightfully complicated. Almost as entertaining as a Rube Goldberg game," Sherlock interjected with glee. "And yet simple enough to work each time. Smashing!"
"Oh yes, smashing…." Recalling the details of the case kept John from fully participating in Sherlock's enthusiasm. Instead, he first scratched his head, then rubbed his left eye as the memories returned. Finally he recrossed his arms and continued. "As it is Clara's job to inspect the packages, finalize the items for shipping, and seal the boxes, no one except Clara knows there is an extra crate containing the untracked-outgoing inventory, shipping to a specific address with Dodd paying the post. That bloody git Masterson! " John shook his head. " At least, after all this, Dodd did not bring charges against Clara. I think he's right to see her as another of Masterson's victims. He's a good man. I suspect he'll give Clara her job back."
"Yes. This is all true, but this is not new information." Sherlock's voice remained neutral but not at all displeased.
Briefly John studied the reclining man who was peering at him and pondered, not for the first time, whether he should broach the topic about what had happened in the basement. What childhood loss had Sherlock sustained to make divulging it impossible as a man? Why was his joy of pirating connected to grief? The questions were pressing, but John swallowed them and gave a resigned sigh. Maybe Sherlock wasn't ready to share. Maybe I'm not ready to hear. We've only been partners for a short while...nearly eighteen months. There will be other times to talk. No need to highjack the topic and spoil the man's good mood by prying into dark secrets.
He cleared his throat and resumed the course of the conversation. "Does it have to do with finding out who Stevie really is?" John looked back at the kettle that had begun to boil but remained leaning in the doorway.
"Somewhat, but not completely."
"So what did Lestrade tell you?"
"Masterson hired a shady working associate, Geoffrey Marks, a con artist with a history of burglaries to help him get the salvage. Clara was not yet involved in the plan and did not know anything about Geoffrey/Stevie when he first visited the warehouse as Eric Christopher." In one fluid movement Sherlock went from supine to sitting upright on the sofa. "But why am I pleased, John?"
John unfolded his arms, bent his head, and concentrated. When he finally looked up his eyes were bright with amusement, although his voice relayed his hesitancy. "Because the merchandise was recovered?" He guessed and quickly retreated to the kitchen to switch off the kettle.
"Very good!" Sherlock rose from the sofa, stepped onto the coffee table and back to the floor to join John in the kitchen. "Knowing what you know…where do you think the merchandise was found?"
"Dunno. In Masterson's basement?" John shrugged as he dropped the tea bags in the mugs and opened the tin of biscuits.
"Think again. You mentioned this when we first discussed the case in the flat." Sherlock helped himself to a biscuit and opened the fridge for the milk.
John's forehead creased, his eyes shifted introspectively as he recalled the conversation they had had about a week ago. "I said something about it not making sense to steal things that couldn't be sold, unless someone was ….doing their own restorations!" The eureka moment lit up John's face. "You found the merchandise in restorations done on Masterson's house?" Bringing the mugs of tea to the table John sat; a delighted grin spread from ear to ear.
"Yup!' Sherlock popped the p with undisguised glee as he slid the tin of biscuits on the table and took the opposite seat. "Outside: door knobs, kick plates; inside: hanging from the ceiling as chandeliers, sconces, hinges on the doors, pulls on the cupboards, antique door plates, screws, brackets, and decorative inserts for the mantelpiece. All identifiable and all quite incriminating indeed. Proof of ownership belongs to Dodd. Masterson is going away for criminal liability to trespass, burglary, and theft. Stevie is on the run. Lestrade thinks they'll find him." The detective sniffed. "I have my doubts."
Softly the cascading sound of laughter came from John's side of the table, increasing in volume and intensity. The more he considered how justice was served, the harder he laughed, and Sherlock had no problem joining him.
oooOOOooo
The End
Thanks to all who stayed with this adventure and left their reviews, but especially to my fanfic friends and advisers who shared their wisdom to guide me.