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The Adventure of the Dashboard Box
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Chapter 3: The Ring and the Diamond
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"So... Sherly?" A wide grin spread across John's face.
To his surprise, Sherlock's eyes didn't turn to the expected slits. Instead, they sparkled with amusement.
"You're one to talk. Mr. Holmes."
John groaned, burying his head in the pillow. "Oh, shut up."
Sherlock beamed. I won.
"So," he went on, "tomorrow, we shall go back to London to look into Mr. Holder's business at Harrods. This afternoon, I am going to that 'little cottage' with Mrs. Holder. And you are going to the fitness centre."
"Yes, sure... Wait, what?"
"The fitness centre, John," Sherlock repeated somewhat impatiently. "The gym Alexander and his brother usually went to."
John blinked.
"You want me to go there and ask what, exactly? I doubt they're going to tell me anything at the desk anyway. I'm not a police officer, and unless you have the badge of some local D.I., I–"
Sherlock clicked his tongue. "No, John, you're not going to ask at the desk. You're becoming a member."
"A member," John echoed, completely lost.
"Yes, a member! You have to talk to the other members to know what they thought about the two Holders' relationship to each other. Hearing Arthur, they were the best of friends. But Mummy told me they didn't actually like each other much."
"When did she tell you that?" John wondered, frowning.
"Over the phone. When I called to ask her to collect some proper clothing for you."
"For the gym?"
"Of course, for the gym! Please do try to keep up."
"But Sherlock, I don't look posh enough to go to some luxury fitness centre for rich people!"
Sherlock shrugged. "It's fine if you come across as a nouveau riche."
John growled. He's not even denying it. "I don't even have the money to look even newly rich, Sherlock."
"You'll be wearing expensive sportswear, and you'll have a platinum credit card. I don't think they'll be in a position to say anything disobliging."
The poor doctor groaned, getting up from the bed. "But why don't you go? You're a Holmes, they probably know your family."
"Don't be stupid, John. I would look ridiculous in a fitness centre."
"Because I won't?"
"Of course not. You're well-built."
John was so reluctant to go he didn't even notice the underlying compliment.
"People go to fitness centres to become well-built, Sherlock! Just go yourself!"
The consulting detective pouted. "Why are you being so difficult today?"
"I'm not being difficult," John retorted promptly.
"Unless you'd rather go to the cottage with Mrs. Holder?" Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Look, John, I know she's a widow, but–"
"Sherlock! Would you please stop implying I'm interested in old women?"
"Old women? I hope you weren't talking about me."
John froze. Mrs. Holmes came into the room, and only then did he realize that they hadn't even closed the door.
"Gilda is waiting for you downstairs, Sherly. Please try to at least act nice with her, will you?"
You can only ask him to act it out, John mused, repressing a chuckle.
Sherlock scowled at John's smirk, but Mrs. Holmes's lips curved up slightly, her eyes twinkling.
"Now, Dr. Watson, shall we dress you up?" She gave him a sweet, sweet smile. John knew he was doomed.
¤ oOo ¤
The drive to the Holders' little cottage on the other side of the woods was lovely. The countryside was a very pleasant sight, but Sherlock paid little attention to the scenery beyond taking note of the exact route they took.
"That doctor, he seems very nice," Gilda commented. Her voice was still shaky, but her eyes were dry. The emotion in her tone betrayed her shocked, grieving state, undoubtedly aggravated by lack of sleep. Still, Sherlock wondered if he shouldn't offer to drive in her place.
"Your mother told me you live together?"
"He's my flatmate," he specified absent-mindedly. Then, as an afterthought: "My colleague, too."
"That's a shame, though, two proper men like you, not even married yet. I thought your friend would be. He looked very fatherly to me. Don't you want to be a father, Sherlock?"
Sherlock blinked, then glanced at her with a little startled frown. What was that woman on about?
"I was only twenty when Alexander and I met. I remember I was terrified when I met his mother for the first time!" She laughed wistfully. "But Arthur was a darling, and it all went well in the end."
"So, you got along well with the whole family?"
"Oh, yes. When I moved into the house poor Mrs. Holder had already passed away. Robert and Simon never got to meet their grandmother and their grandfather died when Simon was only one."
"Wasn't it a bit difficult though, to live with your brother-in-law all the time? Surely there must have been some awkward moments," Sherlock insisted.
Gilda chuckled lightly.
"Of course there were. That's why Alexander had the little cottage built, you see. It was our love nest."
At the words, her tears welled back up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Yes, that's lovely. So only you and he had keys?"
She smiled fondly. "No. When Robert and Hatty celebrated their first anniversary together, we gave Robert a copy of the key – he'd been mentioning the cottage in every conversation for months so we had gathered that he'd like to have access to it too. There is only one bedroom, but we have a couch that can turn into a bed and since they mostly spend their time watching DVDs, they prefer the living-room anyway. Besides that, there was another key to our personal room and we did not give Robert a copy of that one."
Sherlock nodded distractedly, his brain scanning the data he was provided for any relevant information. He would not delete anything until the end of the case were soon driving into the woods to arrive at the cottage. It was, indeed, a model for eco-friendly architecture and new "green" technologies, with its straw bales, structural insulated panels, and insulated concrete forms.
"Here we are," she murmured, a catch in her voice. "Let's go in."
They crossed through a charming little garden before entering the house. Indoors, it smelled like peppermint and rose, but Sherlock also noticed an almost imperceptible odour of tobacco, as if the smoker had opened all windows to try to get rid of the smell.
"Did you or your husband smoke?" he asked Mrs. Holder, as he examined every detail of the rooms they were walking through.
She looked up in surprise.
"No. Neither Alexander nor I smoked. Arthur does, though, but he's trying to quit. Doctor's orders. But you know what it's like," she said with a knowing smile.
Except I live with mine, Sherlock thought with a moue as her words called up the memory of John refusing to let him leave the flat before he'd eaten something. It had been in the middle of a case, to boot.
Sherlock looked around the house, Mrs. Holder on his heels. When they arrived at the closed bedroom door, she came to a halt.
"I can open it for you, but I won't go in. I'm sorry, it's just..."
Her throat was so tight she couldn't finish her sentence, so she just turned the key in the knob before pushing the door open.
"When did you come here last with your husband?" he asked as he went in.
"Last weekend... We had just bought the children's Christmas presents."
Sherlock could tell with one look that no one had been here since then. He also noticed there was no underlying scent of tobacco in this room.
"Fine. Thank you for showing me around. We can go back."
They locked the room and the house behind them, and as they went back to the car, Sherlock inquired:
"Do you always lock the door?"
"Of course. And so does Robert. We've never had any problems here, but a month ago we had a break-in at the mansion."
"And did they take anything?"
"Oh, yes. Alexander and I weren't there that night – we were sleeping over here, in the cottage. They somehow got past the alarm, and rummaged through a few rooms, including ours."
"What did they take?" Sherlock pressed in, annoyance in his voice.
"A 2 1/2 carat diamond Alexander bought me for our tenth anniversary."
Sherlock frowned pensively. They drove back through the woods quietly, Mrs. Holder lost in nostalgia.
"Is there any alternate route to the one we took?" the detective wondered out loud, interrupting her reminiscence.
"No, that's the only one. Actually, there wasn't any to start with, and Alexander had this path made."
Silence fell over them again. After a moment, Mrs. Holder shifted a little nervously on her seat.
"Sherlock, I have a favour to ask you."
He arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Tomorrow, Simon has a football game in London. Arthur and I will be able to make it there, but we have an appointment at the... at the funeral home in the morning, and the children have to be there around midday. Did you and John plan on going back to London today? I think your mother mentioned you wanted to go to Harrods."
Sherlock stared.
"You want us to take your son to London tonight?" he reformulated, disbelieving.
She nodded in embarrassment, and quickly added: "Of course if that's too much trouble, I'll understand, but... The poor boy was so happy to have been selected for the game, and he just lost his father too... I was surprised to hear he still wanted to participate, but that is a good thing. He's a fighter, you see."
"But where will he be staying if you're not in town?"
Mrs. Holder shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, your mother told me you had a three story house with a spare room and a housekeeper, so..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mummy. "I have a flat. And she's my landlady," he grumbled.
"I see," Mrs. Holder murmured brokenly. Then Sherlock remembered.
"Please play the role of a nice boy with her, will you?" Sherlock groaned. So that's what she meant. Cursing the deviousness of his mother, he turned to Mrs. Holder with a smile and said:
"I'll gladly sleep on the couch. And our landlady is the best woman I've met – she'll be delighted to take care of Simon if John and I are out." The widow's face brightened with gratitude.
"Oh, thank you, Sherlock! Thank you!"
The consulting detective nodded with an amiable smile, and took his phone out to send a text to John.
You're sleeping on the couch tonight.
¤ oOo ¤
John had been forced by Mrs. Holmes to borrow her car to go to the gym.
"Just say you're a friend of the Holmes's, and that you're currently staying at the manor," she'd said with a smile.
John trusted his skills as a driver, but he would've rather driven some old wreck, rather than a Bentley. A Holmes's Bentley, John thought nervously, not wanting to know what would become of him if he gave the car back with a scratch on it. He shivered as he recalled the compelling power of "Mummy". No wonder Sherlock was rather wary of his family.
"So tell me, Dr. Watson, what are your plans for Christmas?"
John had been rather startled by the question.
"Well, I just assumed I'd be spending it at 221B with Sherlock."
"Oh, didn't he tell you? I'll be having a party on the 25th, and he'll be attending. You're very welcome to join us, if you have no one to spend it with."
John had frowned at the wording, which he had found a little too full of pity for his taste.
"That's very kind of you, but–"
"Oh, don't be shy," she had chided gently as she showed him into a room where several pieces of sportswear were laid out on the bed. "I'm sure Sherly will be delighted. And perhaps you could meet someone?"
John had stared with wide eyes. Is she trying to hook me up? he had wondered, in a daze. God, the Holmes must have been born to the world to drive people crazy.
She had been so insistent, though, he hadn't dare refuse her. And if Sherlock was going, it couldn't be too bad, although John was a little piqued that his friend hadn't even told him he wouldn't be there for Christmas. Not that they'd made any explicit plan to spend it together, but...
As John was parking in front of the fancy gym the two brothers had been attending, his phone vibrated in his pocket. For once, he didn't check his messages immediately, as he'd growned accustomed to since he'd met Sherlock, and so he waited until he'd stepped out of the car.
You're sleeping on the couch tonight.
What? Cursing the self-centred git, the doctor didn't even bother to reply. He took a deep breath before going in the centre.
"Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?" said the lady at the desk. She was very pretty, but John remembered he was on a mission, so to speak, and set aside the thought of flirting.
"Hello. I would like to sign up for a full membership." He hoped his voice sounded aristocratic enough, but highly doubted it did. Oh well. Let's just stick to the whole new to being rich thing.
"Would you like a full or a half-year membership?"
"A half-year will be fine, thank you." Actually, just an hour would be fine. But Mrs. Holmes had agreed to pay for the full membership if it helped solve the case. Apparently, only members of the club were granted access to certain training rooms, and the Holder brothers were more likely to have been regulars in those.
Sherlock's mother seemed quite dedicated to the Holders, in fact, and John wondered if his friend hadn't been wrong to brush off their relationship as mere acquaintances. Oh well. Perhaps Mrs. Holmes had a lot of money to spare. It didn't cross John's mind that she could have used this case – and the membership at the gym – for entirely different motives.
Once he'd signed over a ridiculous amount to get his member card, John entered and headed towards the large, luxurious locker rooms. The gym was huge: in addition to the training rooms, there was a spa and a shop with a retail area.
Personally, John would've gone for the weight training, but since Arthur had mentioned the cardio machines, he decided he should try those first.
His face was unfamiliar to the attending members of the club, and John could feel the eyes on him. He was so self-conscious he almost tripped on a machine and cursed under his breath, before hopping onto one of the bikes and pushing the buttons at random. Why are these things so convoluted? he moaned mentally. Soon, though, he was riding vigorously, trying to ignore the curious glances.
"Hello, there! You're new here, aren't you?"
John looked up to meet the gaze of the old man riding next to him. John blinked. The stranger looked nothing like what he would have expected to find in such a place. He was wearing bright green sportswear that contrasted sharply with his sunburnt, crumpled skin. His white hair was long to his shoulders, and tied into a low tail. His grin was crooked, but for some reason John found he inspired trust: true weirdos were never really the most suspicious ones.
"Hi," he replied, a smile on his lips. "You're right, I'm new. Doesn't seem to happen a lot around here."
The old man laughed.
"Oh well, we get the in-laws and nephews and-he waved his hand vaguely-sometimes, but they usually all disappear after a month or two."
John wasn't quite sure whether the man was joking or not.
"I'm John Watson," he said. "Pleasure to meet you."
"I'm Sam," the stranger said. His not adding a last name didn't bother John too much-he seemed well-enough known around here that no one else was staring at him. Mrs. Holmes would surely be able to fill in his name if it were needed.
"So, John, what brings you here to Surrey? Just moved house?"
Oh God, I don't want to go there, John thought.
"About to. I'm currently staying at the Holmes'."
"Ooh. Mrs. Holmes! The Titanium Lady."
"The Titanium Lady?"
"Yes, that's what I call her. But don't tell her, ha ha!"
Who the hell is this guy? John was stunned.
"So, you're staying at the Holmes's. Better that than the Holders anyhow!"
This caught John's attention.
"The Holders? Didn't one of them die just a couple of days ago?" he asked innocently.
"That he did. Young Alex. It always was a peculiar family."
John tilted his head to the side, trying to look as innocent as possible – he would have been appalled to know how well he managed the lost newcomer's expression.
"How so?"
"Two men for a woman, that's never good, is it?"
John frowned. "But Mrs. Holder was married to Alexander," he protested weakly.
The old man shrugged.
"What's a piece of paper signed decades ago?"
"She was shattered by the news, though, and is still very much affected, I can tell you," the ex-soldier replied coldly, a little shocked at the other man's lack of sympathy. He didn't realize the mistake he'd just made.
"Oh, so you know her?" the old man asked, arching an eyebrow as his grin twisted even more crookedly.
John slapped himself mentally. "She's a friend of Mrs. Holmes. I met her yesterday."
"A friend? Ha ha ha! The Holmes don't have friends."
"Why?" John was very surprised to hear someone say that of the whole family, especially since Mrs. Holmes seemed to be quite the socialite.
"Because they're too smart."
The flat reply was so comical John couldn't help but chuckle, and soon the stranger joined him.
"But back to Gilda Holder: you seem to have been quite dazzled by her charms. She was an actress, you know. And everybody acts around here anyway. Some are just better actors than others, ha ha!"
"Were the Holder brothers good actors?" John insisted.
The man's expression grew thoughtful.
"I suppose so," Sam replied, "since they managed to appear civil and even friendly towards each other even though didn't have the best of relationships."
"They didn't?"
"Ha ha ha! As I said, one woman for two men, never good, never good… Anyhow, young Alex was always more interested by his business than family matters. He wasn't a bad father, and he probably loved his wife very much. But he was rather absent-minded. And you know, when you live with someone in the same house, the tension is bound to rise…"
He laughed again, and John, who knew all too well what living with another person could entail, chuckled knowingly.
¤ oOo ¤
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"The two brothers didn't get along well," John reported as he let himself fall, exhausted, into an armchair in Sherlock's room. "And Mrs. Holder used to be an actress," he added, summing up what he'd learnt at the gym.
Sherlock was on John's laptop, scanning the screen.
"Good," he commented, and John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was talking about what he'd said, or what Sherlock was seeing on the computer.
Sherlock looked up at his friend and took in his limp posture. He smirked; John glared.
"The old man I was talking with did more miles than I did on those bike machines, because I was paying attention to his words, so…"
"… so you decided you should do at least as much or your pride wouldn't recover."
John rolled his eyes.
"We're going back to London today."
John noted that his friend was rather fidgety, but didn't remark on it. He saw the detective had packed all their things already and frowned confusedly.
"Wait, why are we taking our luggage back, since—"
"Naturally, you should just leave it here," Mrs. Holmes's voice chimed in, as she entered the room with little Simon.
"Why should we leave it here?" Sherlock snapped back.
She smiled sweetly. "Because you're coming back for the party, of course."
"No we're not." The detective's tone was implacable. John shrank.
"Um, I thought you—" he began.
"Well, Dr. Watson is coming. If you want to sulk alone in your flat, Sherly, you can just leave his luggage."
Sherlock's eyes widened and he turned to his flatmate in reproachful bewilderment. John almost recoiled. "I thought you were already going, your mother said you'd be—"
The outnumbered detective sighed in exasperation, and dashed out of the room without a word – and without taking his luggage. John looked up at Mrs. Holmes.
"What just happened?"
"Merely Sherlock being a child. But aren't we all used to that?" Her grin broadened. "Even little Simon here can be more mature, can't you Simon?"
The boy stared back, his gaze doubtful. You want me to spend the night with these two? Mrs. Holmes seemed to get his message, for she smiled reassuringly.
"Don't worry, dear, you'll be just fine. There's this nice doctor here, and a housekeeper too. And it's only for one night."
John blinked. "What?"
¤ oOo ¤
The car ride was very quiet, except for John's numerous (and failed) attempts at starting a conversation with the youngest Holder. Sherlock was sulking on the passenger's seat, looking out of the window pointedly. Simon gave the most laconic of replies to John's questions, and soon the ex-soldier gave up, annoyed with the two brats. Well, one had the excuse of having just lost his father, at least.
When they arrived at 221B Baker Street, John enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's warm greeting.
"Hello, boys! Mycroft called to say you'd have a guest tonight. I wish you had told me in advance."
"Sorry, I just learnt it before we left," the doctor apologized with a smile.
"Hello Simon! I'm Mrs. Hudson, it's a pleasure to meet you."
"It's a pleasure to meet you too. Are you the housekeeper?"
Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised and a little offended at the assumption.
"No, dear, I'm—"
"…our landlady!" Sherlock barked from the car sullenly. "John, get in the car. We still have time to go to Harrods – it closes at eight."
Mrs. Hudson glanced at John questioningly, and he sighed.
"Well… Simon, why don't you come in? I prepared some tea and cookies, if you'd like them," she offered as she guided the child in.
"We'll see you later, Simon," John confirmed. The boy nodded, and followed the landlady obediently. John got back into the car and stared at his infuriating friend.
"What is wrong with you?" he snapped. "Can't you stop moping now? I already apologized. Your mother told me you were going, and—"
"And you were stupid enough to believe her," Sherlock finished curtly.
"She can trick even you! Just stop being such an insufferable twat!" John exploded. Sherlock was so surprised he blinked twice and whined in a smaller voice:
"But I don't want to go…"
"Well, I am going," John replied flatly as he started the car.
"Why?" Sherlock was nonplussed.
"To meet someone!" John's tone clearly stated the discussion was over. He drove through town with a scowl on his face, tight-lipped. Sherlock looked at him in shock, but didn't dare make any more comments.
After they had parked in Harrods Car Park, they entered the actual store. John was very glad Sherlock had insisted on him still wearing the fancy clothes Mrs. Holmes had lent him that morning.
"So... how do we proceed?" he asked.
"Well. We go to the Fine Jewellery Room. I show my badge and ask a few questions, then we come out."
John blinked.
"Wait, wait... the fine jewellery room? Why? How do you know?"
"Didn't you notice? Mrs. Holder only wears AS29 and Georg Jensen jewellery."
"And...?"
"And Alexander Holder spent £5,025 the day he died. I determined it was at Harrods. I also deduced it was a piece of jewellery for his wife, since they had already bought the presents for their children."
"What about his brother?"
Sherlock stared.
"As you found out yourself, John, they didn't get along well. They wouldn't have bothered with Christmas presents to each other. Most brothers don't."
John smirked, but decided not to make any comment.
"Wait. How do you know how much money he spent on the day he died?"
"I hacked his bank account online."
"You what? From my laptop?"
"It was easy. Just had to find the two secret codes."
"I don't even want to know."
"You won't," Sherlock replied with a smile.
"Hello. Police. I need to ask you a few questions."
The saleswoman looked up in surprise to glance at the badge and authorization document Sherlock was waving at her.
"What can I do for you, Inspector Lestrade?"
"We are investigating Alexander Holder's death. We know that he made a purchase here on the day he died, but nothing was found on him or in his car, so we think the killer might have stolen the item. Do you remember him coming here on December 19?"
"Well, let me check… " She scrolled down her computer's screen, her eyes scanning for the name. "Yes, he did visit our store on December 19. He purchased an AS29 White Pave Diamond Flower ring. It is an 18kt white gold flower ring decorated with sparkling white diamonds – a wear-forever addition to every jewellery collection."
"£5,025, was it?" Sherlock asked dismissively.
She was startled by the precision of the question, but nodded composedly.
"Yes, indeed. The £5,025 model. Would you like to see it?"
"No. Thank you for your cooperation."
Once they had left the Fine Jewellery Room, John whispered:
"You had a warrant?! How did you get a warrant?"
"Not a warrant, an authorization from the Met. I had some help," he added reluctantly.
John smirked, but did not insist.
"So… a ring. Did Alexander get killed just for a ring?"
"Of course not."
"What about the little black box?"
Sherlock smiled.
"My guess is that it was just a red herring. A telling one, though…"
"Your guess?" John teased.
The detective sent his friend a dark glance sideways, his eyes turning to slits. As he took the escalator down to the lower level, John arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Men's Designerwear and Shoe Salon."
John blinked, but followed. "You need clothes?"
"No. You do."
"What?"
Sherlock sent him one of his Cheshire cat grins, and the doctor couldn't help but shiver.
"The Christmas Party, John! You know, the one you are so intent on attending…"
John blushed slightly and grabbed his friend's arm.
"Wait, Sherlock… I have a suit, I…"
He was interrupted by the detective snorting. "Please. Mummy did say 'proper clothing'."
The ex-soldier frowned, a little affronted; then, remembering where they were.
"No, Sherlock…" His grip on his flatmate's sleeve tightened. "Look, I… you know I can't afford it here…"
"John, you have a platinum credit card. "
"But it's not mine, it's your mo—"
"And she's the one who tricked you into coming. She can pay for your clothing."
At this point, John stopped walking altogether. "No, Sherlock. I can't allow it."
The detective rolled his eyes.
"It's a little too late for second thoughts now. But if you would prefer, I also have one of Mycroft's credit cards."
"Sherlock…" John groaned, trying to hold the detective back and prevent him from entering the intimidating room, "I just won't look right in this stuff, I…"
"You can't attend with one of your jumpers, John," Sherlock retorted flatly.
"I can wear my uniform."
Sherlock froze.
"No," he deadpanned.
"Why not?" John protested. "It should be just fine! I have a dress uniform after all…"
"Come on, John, didn't you say you were hoping to meet someone? Forget the military uniform."
"But many women love uniforms," John insisted.
That's the problem, Sherlock thought with a frown – not sure why it was, but definitely opposed to John coming in uniform to the party. Growing impatient, he turned to his friend, and explained:
"If you don't wear what everyone else is dressed in at this kind of party, you'll just look ridiculous."
Sherlock looked away from John's pained glare.
"I'll look ridiculous anyway…" the doctor grumbled, but he followed the detective inside nonetheless. Sherlock repressed a sigh of relief.
Two hours later, they left Harrods with everything John needed for the party - Sherlock looking smugly satisfied and John deeply embarrassed.
"They must have thought I was some kind of a kept man! We don't even have the same name…"
Sherlock furrowed his brow confusedly.
"Would you rather we did?"
"No, God no!" John exclaimed with a jolt.
"Well, that was whole-hearted…" Sherlock commented as he hailed a cab.
John remained quiet.
¤ oOo ¤
When they got back to Baker Street, Simon was watching the telly with Mrs. Hudson in her living room.
"Sorry we were so long, but…"
"John was being so difficult," Sherlock cut in with a sigh. The doctor shot him a miffed look, but the playful smile on his friend's lips assuaged him a little.
"I'm sorry but I'm going to Mrs. Turner's tonight. I did put together something cold for dinner, so you boys don't have to order anything," Mrs. Hudson apologized as she hustled them out of her flat, handing John a tray of cold dishes.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, what would we do without you?"
The landlady smiled fondly and just nodded. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Simon. Hope you have a good night."
The boy smiled shyly and nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It was a pleasure meeting you too."
"Such a good boy, that child, such a good boy…" she muttered as she closed her door. John smiled. Unlike someone… Sherlock seemed to get the meaning of the smirk, for he gave a slightly vexed moue. It made John want to tease him even more.
They went up to the flat and John led Simon to the second floor.
"So here is the room you'll be sleeping in tonight, Simon," John told the boy as he showed him to John's own room. "You have your own cleaning cabinet, if you want to take a shower…"
The young Holder looked around the room somewhat dejectedly, and John felt a little affronted by the blatant contempt. Simon made no disobliging comment, though, and simply thanked the doctor.
"All right, well… If you're hungry, we can have dinner now, too…"
At this, Simon's face brightened slightly, and John sighed in relief. Finally, something snapped the boy out of his torpor.
"Good! Let's go back down to the kitchen, then."
During dinner, Sherlock kept sending quick glances to the boy and John kept shaking his head whenever he caught him. Just leave him be. Naturally, Sherlock couldn't stop himself – or didn't care much for John's disapproval – and eventually said:
"So, football game tomorrow… Is your brother coming too?"
Simon nodded. "Yes. Mum told him to. I'm sure he would've preferred to see always does."
"Oh, you shouldn't say that…" John retorted, going for the comforting tone. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed on:
"You don't seem to like Hatty much."
"I don't. She's a liar."
John arched an eyebrow in surprise as Sherlock tried – and failed – to hide his freshly piqued interest.
"How so?"
Simon's brow furrowed with anger and his voice rose in outrage.
"She's not faithful to my brother. I saw her kiss another boy once, but Robert doesn't believe me! Father never liked her either, but Robert was so infatuated he never listened to him… They always quarrelled anyway."
"Robert and your father?" John inquired.
Simon nodded. "Mum said it was just his teenage years, that it would pass. But really, that girl really made his head spin. I wouldn't be surprised if they were the ones who killed Father."
John jumped.
"What?! Simon, you can't say such things just because…"
"But Robert loves her to distraction, and Dad never approved!" Simon cried out.
"Still, it's no reason to…"
"Even if they did kill him," Sherlock cut in, "you have no proof whatsoever, so it's pointless. Don't make such useless accusations when you have nothing to back them up with."
John's eyes widened at the cold tone. How could Sherlock…? Simon's eyes filled with tears of rage and he stood abruptly from the table.
"You're the super detective, you're the one supposed to find proof! But you're just like all the others, you don't believe me and… Mum only believes Arthur and he never liked Dad either! Robert turned against Dad because of Hatty! And you don't believe me because I'm just a child. You're just like everyone else!"
He stormed out of the kitchen and stomped to John's room, slamming the door. The doctor glowered at Sherlock and ran to follow the boy, but he had locked the door. He knocked gently.
"Simon. Simon? "
He could hear the boy sobbing behind the wooden panel and sighed in frustration, not knowing what to say.
"Look, Simon, I'm sorry… It's not that we don't believe you, but we don't have enough data to…" He froze. Now I'm sounding like him. Cursing under his breath, he resumed: "Sherlock is a git, but he doesn't mean to be obnoxious. He just states facts very… boldly. He didn't mean to be rude."
The door still did not open. After a few minutes, he gave up.
"I'll be downstairs in the living-room if you need anything… You can come down any time to have dessert, too…"
Once he was back downstairs, Sherlock was already on his (John's, naturally) laptop, looking as innocent as possible.
"That was really uncalled for, Sherlock," the doctor growled.
"I just needed to know if he did have any proof!" the detective protested. Then he added in a grumble: "Obviously, he didn't…"
John shook his head and went back to the kitchen to clean up. He really didn't want another argument.
Sleeping on the couch didn't turn out as bad as he'd thought it would. Sherlock had told him he could use the first floor shower, which he did, before he went to prepare breakfast. Sherlock was playing the violin in his room to while away the time – or to wake up the whole neighbourhood. When it was nine o'clock and Simon still hadn't come down, John decided he should probably wake him up, and went knocking at his door.
"Simon? Simon, it's nine already. Would you like to have some breakf—"
John felt his blood turn cold as the door opened under the slight push. The bed hadn't been slept in, or had been very well made that morning. But most of all, the boy and his luggage were gone.
"Oh God…"
TBC
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~o~