The next installment. Sherlock's relaxation reaches near-satirical levels.
Disclaimer- ALL NOT MINE.
Chapter Two
It was a nice room, a very nice one indeed. John looked around at the opulent hotel room and made a mental offer to take up Sherlock's offer next time he invited him to skiing in the Alps. Contentedly, he sat down on the incredibly soft mattress. He could get used to this.
A knock on the door interrupted his half-doze not fifteen minutes later. He got up with some difficulty, set some water to boil, and opened the door. A young woman stood there, looking a mite confused. She had long dark hair which curled every which way and framed her face and bare shoulders. She was abnormally tall, even in her flat shoes. On her long thin finger John could see a band, an engagement ring.
"Er, hello," John said. "You must be Ms Kerringdon."
"Mr Holmes?"
"No, I'm his colleague. Doctor John Watson," John said with a smile and proffered hand. "Sherlock doesn't like travelling," he added. He'd gotten better at bald-faced lies lately. "Please do come in."
"I thought I would be speaking directly with Mr Holmes," Gina Kerringdon said stiffly. John pursed his lips, thinking of the most delicate way to say that Sherlock really didn't think that much of this case.
"Yes, I know. He is consulting on this case, Miss. I'm just his representative."
"Yes, all right," Kerringdon said abruptly.
An awkward silence commenced.
"Well, Mr Holmes has told me briefly that you think Lady Frances Carfax has been...?"
"I do not think, Doctor. I know that Frances has come to harm," the young lady said impatiently.
"How do you know this, then," John said, and went to the kitchenette to take the whistling kettle off the stove.
"She's a creature of habit. We've written each other weekly for years, since I was in university. And today marks the fourth week she's neglected our correspondence," Kerringdon started. "I tried to contact her through other means, but with just as much success. Something's wrong."
John came back with tea, and offered her a cup.
"Is there any reason she might have stopped writing you, Ms Kerringdon?" he asked kindly, recalling Sherlock's e-mail:
GK is engaged to be married. Affair between GK and FC cut off as a result. -SH
"No! No, I don't think so," Gina said with genuine (looking) surprise. "She didn't let on that anything was wrong."
"What did she think about your engagement?" John prompted.
"Well, she was happy for me. I mean... what are you implying?"
"I have no idea how to put this delicately, but how did you cut off the affair after you were affianced?" John said quietly. Gina's look of surprise turned to shock.
"You think we were like that? Good heavens, no," she said angrily.
"Well, I don't think so, Sherlock does..."
"We were just very good friends. She taught me piano when I was younger. What we had was a great friendship, Doctor Watson. Does Mr Holmes not understand such a concept?"
"I hope he does," John said with a frown. "I'm sorry, Miss Kerringdon. I didn't mean to cast aspersions on your relationship with Lady Carfax."
Kerringdon took a deep breath in, and then nodded.
"It's all right. So many people just assume, because Frances tends to be so private about everything that goes on in her life..." she said. "She never had a real romantic interest in anyone for several years, at least she never wrote me about anyone."
"There wasn't anyone?" John pressed gently, pulling out his notebook. Kerringdon thought for a moment, then shook her head.
"She's always been very alone, even in her travels. More solitary than social, despite the letters."
"And she hadn't taken on any companions in her travels lately?"
"She's Lady Frances Carfax, not the ruddy Doctor," Kerringdon finally snapped. "I don't know what I expected when I hired a detective, Doctor Watson, but I was hoping for something a little more substantial than this kind of circular questioning. If you have nothing better to do than to waste my time, good day."
"Miss Kerringdon, I'm not trying to be unhelpful. Sherlock just likes to be thorough when it comes to this. Frustratingly, retentively thorough," John said apologetically. "He works in details, not broad statements."
Gina Kerringdon regained her composure, straightened her sleeves, and stood up.
"I am currently occupying room 321 of this hotel. When Mr Holmes decides to be useful and have useful questions for me, he may come to me. In person," she said shortly, and departed.
John pursed his lips, and looked at the perfectly good cup of tea Kerringdon had left behind. Upon draining it, he unfolded his laptop and opened the video chat. He had to wait ten minutes for the pleasure of Sherlock Holmes's company.
John had never had the dubious privilege of seeing the world's only consulting detective unwind. However, ensconced in a barricade of pillows and blankets with Enya playing softly in the background and a carton of cookies in hand, Sherlock looked just as ridiculously comfortable as imaginable.
"John, hello. How's the weather in Paris?" he asked, using the French inflection for the city's name.
"Gorgeous," John said. "However, Miss Kerringdon's attitude left more to be desired."
"Understandable. One of her most constant friends is gone without a trace."
"They weren't lovers, by the way."
"Of course they weren't. How did she react when you broached the subject?"
"Well, obviously, she was angry that I made assumptions about their relationship. Sherlock, she doesn't want to talk to me, she wants to talk to the person she hired," John said with some finality. "That's you."
"Well, that's not possible at the moment. I'm on sabbatical," Sherlock grinned. "See?"
John glared at Sherlock. Though he was loathe to interrupt one of Sherlock's first real breath for air in such a long time, this whole situation was verging on ridiculous. John simply wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't the means or the mind to be.
Sherlock, who could clearly read John's expression, sighed.
"I have every confidence in you. Keep me informed of the case's progress. I'll point you in the right direction if I must."
"But I have no idea how to progress, Sherlock. I'm convinced that the only person who has an inkling about what's happening here is you."
Sherlock seemed to deflate into the lacy pillows of his fluffy fortress.
"I'll send you some leads," he said with a long-suffering sigh. "Now don't bother me again. There's a ticket for the opera waiting for you at the front desk."
He terminated the conversation.
John stared, then resigned himself, not uncheerfully, to an evening of culture.