Chapter 24

Ten blissful days passed, and then someone posted a message on John's blog about a case. John had already declined it before Sherlock had even had the chance to look at it and of course he was furious when he found out. All those days of being locked up, and John didn't even tell him?

"You wouldn't have taken it anyway, even I thought it was boring! And you're still not well."

Sherlock bit back a string of insults and then didn't talk to John all day. Late at night, he curled up in the bed against John and muttered something that could have been an apology, or not. John wrapped his arms around him and told him it was okay.

"I need that case, John," Sherlock mumbled, his face pressed against John's shoulder. "I need to work again."

"Not this case, Sherlock. It would have been a lot of running around for nothing much. You'd never take it if it hadn't been so long since you had work. But I'll let you have a look at the next one."

Sherlock moaned. "You're a cruel man, doctor."

John kissed his temple. "I know, but it would only prolong the time you need to heal if you force yourself now."

Sherlock pulled away and looked John in the eyes. "I don't want to force myself. It's not the running around I need. It's the work. The puzzles. I need to think."

"Hmm, I don't think there's anything wrong with letting you do that. Still, this case wouldn't have been much brainwork."

Sherlock pouted for a moment. "Okay, but as soon as something that involves just the least bit of mystery comes along, we're taking it."

John put a hand on Sherlock's neck and stroked him. "Alright, but I'll do, as your brother would put it, the leg work."

Sherlock kissed his cheek. "Thank you," he said. "I love you."

"You too," John smiled, kissing Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock was pacing the flat. John had gone to the shop, and though it had only been twenty minutes, he was growing increasingly impatient. He was fine. His arm was still in a cast, but there was hardly anything he hadn't learned to do with one hand. In fact, in the beginning, it had been an interesting challenge to carry out everyday tasks without the full use of his right hand and arm. But now the novelty had worn off and the boredom was greater than ever before. Walks in the park and roaming the net were no longer enough. He needed to work. He needed to be challenged. But John was babying him. His ridiculously harsh restrictions were making it impossible to do anything. He doubted it would be possible to find a case that would meet John's approval. Despite any promises, Sherlock did not doubt that John would put his foot down if he in any way felt a case might make him 'force' himself.

The doorbell rang and Sherlock frowned. Had John forgotten his key?

As he made his way down the stairs he was annoyed to notice that even such a simple task gave him some relief from the forced inactivity that had become his life. Was this what he had been reduced to? A doorman?

The young man who greeted him nervously, instantly improved his mood. He was not from London. His otherwise smart suit showed definite evidence of a journey of at least some hours. But not by train. He hadn't been driving himself either. Sherlock glanced down the street and instantly located the chauffeured grey car. It was not a young man's car though, and definitely not this nervous, mid-twenties, wide-eyed 'boy''s. So he was sent by someone. Someone with money but taste. Probably a family member, otherwise they would not have sent someone so young and inexperienced.

"Mr. Holmes?" the young man asked with a frown, clearly taking in the rumpled robe, pyjama pants, t-shirt and tangled hair.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, feeling that the other's confusion was a much better reproof of his own appearance than if he had shown scorn or disdain.

The young man nodded and held out his hand. "Ian Gryffydd," he said. "I am here on behalf of my uncle, who would like to request your assistance in a matter of great personal importance." Welsh, Sherlock noted as he nodded and waited expectantly. As it became clear the young man was waiting too, Sherlock caught up and quickly stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "Upstairs," he muttered, annoyed with how sluggish his mind seemed to have become.

He followed Ian upstairs and signalled for him to take a seat, excused himself and retreated to his bedroom, to put on something more suitable for receiving clients. He didn't usually care, but something about this young man's nervous correctness made him want to actually put in a little effort. Or maybe it was just the prospect of actually working a case again. As he struggled to get the cast through the sleeve, he heard the front door open.

"Uhm, hello," John said to the strange man sitting in his chair. He had his arms full of bags from the shop and awkwardly closed the door behind him with his foot. He frowned, a little confused. "Are you a client of Sherlock's?"

Ian jumped to his feet and rushed over. Taking two of the bags from John, he said: "Yes. Or at least I hope so... that is... Well, my uncle is the client really... the potential client I mean." He frowned and then grinned sheepishly. "My name is Ian Gryffydd."

John stared in surprise at the bags that had disappeared from his own hands. "Uhm, thank you. I'm John Watson, I'm Sherlock's... flatmate. And. Uhm. You can bring those to the kitchen, if you want."

Ian smiled. "Pleased to meet you," he said as he carried the bags over and put them on the counter. Then he turned to John and held out his hand.

John shook it. "You too." He started putting everything in its right place in the cupboards and fridge. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh yes, that would be lovely," Ian smiled. Then he glanced at the kettle. "Can I help?"

"Oh, yeah, if you want to." After living with Sherlock all this time, John had to keep himself from staring at Ian as if he was some rare species of animal. Then he frowned. "Where is Sherlock?"

"I believe he went to get changed," Ian answered as he filled the kettle. "I think I caught him at a bad time. He did not seem prepared for company."

"No, he's been injured during our last case," John explained. "I'll go find him, okay?"

Ian nodded, as he started to clean the rather stained teapot.

John stared at the teapot in Ian's hands for a second longer before he went to the bedroom. "Sherlock, are you trying to put on your whole wardrobe at the same time or what is taking you so long?"

Sherlock huffed at John's question. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to button a shirt with only one hand?" he asked as he slipped on his jacket (one that was a little looser than he usually preferred, to allow room for the cast). He turned to John and held out his arms. "How do I look?"

"Gorgeous as always," John smirked. He took a step forward. "You might have a client."

Sherlock couldn't suppress an eager smile. "I know," he said as he went to John and hugged him. "I hope it's a good one."

John hugged him back and kissed his cheek. "Let's go and find out about that."

Sherlock nodded and gave him a quick kiss. Then he straightened his jacket one last time and headed for the door. He had only taken one step through it, however, when he stopped.

Mysteriously, enough of the table had been cleared to make room for three cups. Ian was holding an unfamiliar-looking white teapot. Sherlock frowned. Had John bought a new one?

"Wow," John said to Ian, gently pushing Sherlock aside so he could enter the living room. "You've managed to get it clean."

Ian shrugged, blushing a little. "It wasn't hard," he said, pouring three cups of tea.

Sherlock looked from Ian to John and then back again. "That's our teapot?" he asked, as he went to take a seat at the table. "Impressive." He gestured for Ian to sit. "Please. Tell us why you're here."

"And thank you," John quickly dropped in, gesturing at the teapot.

Ian smiled. "You're welcome," he said to John. Then he turned to face Sherlock. "My uncle sent me. He believes that you are the only one who can help him."

With his usual lack of modesty Sherlock nodded and gestured for him to go on.

"My uncle is an avid collector of rare books," Ian explained. "It has been his life-long passion, but now the 'crown jewel' of his collection, as he calls it, is missing."

John looked at Sherlock, wondering if a missing book would be interesting enough for him.

Sherlock, however, smiled. Surely John wouldn't consider books to be too stressful. He nodded for Ian to go on.

"It's called 'Abscondita in Aperto'," Ian said, struggling a little to get his tongue around the unfamiliar words. "And..."

Immediately Sherlock perked up. "Really?" he interrupted. "I thought that book was just a myth."

John frowned. "You know it? What is it about?" If Sherlock had heard about it and didn't delete it, it must be something dangerous.

Sherlock turned to John. "I have no idea actually," he said. "As I said, I thought it was just a myth. But it's mentioned in some other texts of the time. It's quite a story actually."

Ian nodded. "Yes, supposedly only two copies were made. Legend has it that the printer was attacked and killed before he could make more, and the original manuscript was burned. But that can't be confirmed. Uncle found the book somewhere up north many years ago. He's had it tested in any conceivable way and it appears to be genuine..." He frowned. "But now it's gone missing."

"Do you have any idea yourself of what can have happened to it?" John asked.

Ian shook his head. "That's the real mystery. It disappeared from my uncle's library sometime between last Friday evening and Monday morning. He was away for the weekend and the house was locked, the alarm on. As far as we can tell, no one has entered the house during that time. No signs of forced entry, the alarm has not been disconnected, nothing in the room disturbed as far as we can tell. The book is just ... gone"

Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "Why have you not contacted me before? Surely you know that any clues gained from the scene are more likely to be compromised as time passes?"

"Yes," Ian replied. "But, naturally, my uncle first tried contacting the police."

Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in his chair.

"What did they make of it?" John asked Ian.

"They said the book clearly hadn't been stolen, so my uncle must have misplaced it." He almost cringed at the memory. Then he hurried to continue. "But uncle would never just lose a book. He takes very good care of all of them, and hardly ever takes them off the shelves. He only noticed it was missing because he wanted to check something in it when he came home."

"What did he want to check?" Sherlock asked so eagerly that Ian almost recoiled.

"I ... I don't know. Uncle didn't tell me," he gasped.

Sherlock leaned back, mind already working. "Hardly a coincidence," he muttered.

"But you said he was also certain that the book was still there on Friday evening," John remembered. "Had he already specifically looked at that book then?"

Ian frowned. "Now that you mention it, that is a bit odd..."

Sherlock gave John an approving nod. Then he got up.

"Looks like we're going to Cardiff," he said grinning.

Ian too got to his feet. "I never said where..."

"Yes, but he knows. You don't want to know how," John interjected quickly, before Sherlock could start showing off. "And Sherlock, I'm not sure you are going anywhere at all."

Sherlock's grin melted away. "Come on, John," he said, almost not whining. He gestured vaguely at Ian. "It's just books..."

"But we agreed that you wouldn't do any running around, and there you are, jumping up to go to Cardiff. I still think that keeping calm for a little longer wouldn't hurt you," John said sternly.

If it hadn't been for Ian's presence, Sherlock would have thrown a full blown tantrum. But he sensed that such a display would make the young man bolt, so instead, he took a deep calming breath and said. "John? Can I talk to you for a moment?" indicating the bedroom door with a nod.

"Yes, I think that will be best. Sorry, Ian. We'll be back in a minute."

Once in the bedroom, Sherlock whirled on John. "You have got to let me take this case," he hissed, with a note of desperation. "There's no murder, no violence, nothing remotely dangerous in any way and at the same time it is practically a locked room murder. It's perfect."

"I'm glad you think so and I'm not saying that you can't take it, Sherlock," John said calmly. "But I don't think you should go to Cardiff. I could go and give you the details, and then you can solve it from here, so you don't have to travel or anything else that is wearing you out."

For a moment Sherlock felt mutinous, and he very nearly told John to get stuffed, but then he deflated. "I suppose so," he said with a sigh.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and looked up at him. "I'm not doing this to bully you. I'd much rather have you go with me, but your health is more important."

Sherlock huffed, but kept his thoughts about John's motivations to himself, knowing them to be at least in part based on his own admittedly childish disappointment at being kept out of action. "I know," he said and gave John a quick kiss. "Now let's go and accept this case, shall we?"