Chapter Four T minus 72
"Lift your arms, please."
Mary obeyed.
"Breath in."
She obliged, and stood up straighter for good measure.
"And now out- all the way; we don't want you fainting for lack of oxygen."
She smirked, but did as instructed.
Jane Bouvris smiled, and let the cloth tape measure out a good inch, then noted the figures on her pad.
Mary found herself breathing a sigh of relief. At last! She had spent hours searching online, and more than a couple of afternoons while John and Sherlock went off on a case, but this was the first time that she had not despaired of ever finding a wedding dress that she could not only afford, but actually consider wearing.
The wedding dress styles in all the magazines played up to women's fantasies, but in practice suited no one other than a six foot tall couture model- a sort of stick insect with just the right curves in all the right places. The dresses on offer to this mythical creature seemed endless variations on just two themes: the first was the meringue cream puff with a huge billowing skirt, strapless with a tight balcony shelf or plunging necklines, where everyone's eyes would be drawn to her breasts or bare shoulders- neither of which in her case were, in her humble opinion, worth a second look. And she hated the harsh, hard fabrics- so white that they bleached out her fair skin and made her hair look dull. The stiff net petticoats and hard bone work in the one dress she'd tried on in the Selfridges bridal department had more in common with a suit of armour than something she would actually enjoy wearing.
But, the alternative was even worse. The second "style of the moment," as all those stupid magazines gushed, was the Hollywood starlet in a satin sheath that sometimes included a fishtail train. She loathed the slinky fabrics that would show every lumpy bump of her well-padded self, unless she was so corseted up that she wouldn't be able to breathe. Either style was doomed to fail on someone like her, and she was beginning seriously to worry that whatever dress she could afford would end up being both monstrously uncomfortable and hugely embarrassing.
And then, to her utter surprise, a six foot tall person with the kind of figure that belonged in a magazine photoshoot came to her rescue.
"What progress are you making on the dress? It's on the critical path. You need to make a decision soon, because the cost will affect the budget for everything else. If you spend the average amount - that's £1,590 in the UK last year- that will leave you with only a thousand pounds to cover John's suit hire, the rings, the service fees, photography and the honeymoon- which is clearly impossible. You're going to have to find something cheaper."
He was standing in front of the Baker Street wall, which now hosted a calendar with numbered days being marked through with a big red X. A marker pen was being manipulated through his fingers in an intricate bit of hand juggling.
Mary had come on her own today, because John was having a lie in this Saturday. He'd spent most of Friday evening staking out a suspect with Sherlock, and come home tired but elated- and way too keyed up to sleep. "The Case of the Poison Giant" was what he was going to call it, and said he would use the day off to sleep in late, and then type it up for the blog.
Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed totally un-fazed by the night's exertions, and was full of energy and focused determination. He kept playing with the magic marker pen, as he went through each step of the detailed project plan. Most of the morning's questions had been the next steps about the reception.
The venue had been agreed- the Arnsworth Castle was perfect. She and John had gone up last week, and agreed the deal with the Manager, who was only too happy to give them the Orangery for free, and the Bridal suite; they only had to pay for catering at cost- which came to fifty pounds a head, including wine. John had been suspicious, but Simon Edwards assured them that the hotel was delighted to be able to make the gesture "in light of Mister Holmes' work in saving us last week from a horrible incident that I cannot go into for reasons of national security."
That saving left them with half of their budget for the rest of the wedding- church fees, rings, clothing and the honeymoon. And the largest expense in that was most likely to be the dress.
Her silence in response to his latest question made him turn away from the board and look at her briefly- almost as if he was unsure whether his question might not have been well received. He was still a little hesitant when they were on their own together, and she knew that he was making an effort to moderate what John called his "all too brutal honesty."
"It's hard, Sherlock. I've had a look- but nothing is right." Then she amended that, "actually, the problem is me. I'm not right. I'm too short for my dress size, so almost everything in the shops is either too big, too long or just God awful."
Two creases between his eyebrows appeared. "If that's the case, why not have one made for you?"
She laughed. "You have no idea how much it costs to get someone to design something; just altering an off-the-peg dress costs a fortune. I guess I will just have to keep looking."
"Isn't this something that your Best Woman is supposed to help you with?"
She smirked. Sherlock seemed determined to use that title; he wasn't willing to recognise the gender distinctions in nomenclature. She rather liked him for that fact.
"Janine is too busy. I took Sarah Chambers with me on my expedition to Selfrdges last week, but she's a nurse like me at the practice, so when we both disappear during a work day, it's a pain for the rest of the team. Anyway, one look on her face was enough to confirm what I already knew- the only dress I could even remotely afford there looked horrible on me."
"Why does her opinion matter? What did John say?"
She smiled. "It doesn't work that way. The bride's dress must not be seen by the groom until she shows up at the altar."
He gave her a startled look. "That seems…rather high risk. Why?"
"It's bad luck."
He made a face that was halfway between scepticism and distain. "That's stupid."
She shrugged. "Maybe, but them's the rules, Sherlock. And I intend to do it all, no matter how illogical."
He kept flicking the marker pen between the fingers of his left hand, then looked back at the board. "I may have a solution for you." He stood up on the sofa and pulled down the sheet of paper that said "Dress" on it. Turning it over, he pulled off the yellow sticky note underneath- and handed it to her.
It had an address.
"It's at the end of Portebello Road; tell her I sent you." He turned back to the wall, the marker pen continued its wayward journey through the fingers of his left hand. By lunch time, they'd finished the decisions about the meal to be served at the Wedding breakfast. Mary knew enough of John's taste in food to make choices; she'd been cooking for him for the past year. Sherlock told her to tell the Arnsworth Castle to give them a sampler tasting before committing for sure: "A Sunday lunch for free, as you need to be saving money. You can use the trip to time the train journey and see how expensive the taxi ride is from Sawbridgeworth Station to Saint Mary The Virgin's church in Sheering."
An hour later, heading back to the Metropolitan Line tube station, she decided to take a detour before going home. No time like the present. She took the underground to Paddington and then carried on to Westbourne Park, walking northwest up Portabello Road. The moment she came down the side street of Golborne Road and saw the window display of the dark navy facade, she was entranced. Pushing open the door, she was transported into a world of old-school elegance and nostalgic romance. There was a delicate scent in the air- of rosewater and lavender, even gardenia. Everywhere she looked she saw pieces of vintage lace. She just stared in amazement. The dresses hanging up on the walls, the gossamer fragments of lace, bead work and pearls were suspended from the ceiling- it was like stumbling upon a treasure trove. The display cabinets were the sort you'd find in a home rather than a shop. Amidst the satin shoes and button gloves, there were photographs in silver frames, of brides from the past century.
"They're wonderful." She must have said it out loud, because a rich contralto voice answered, "Oh, I am glad that you like them." Then the door at the back of the room opened more widely and a woman walked out carrying a tray of tea with a broad smile of welcome. "Hello, I'm Jane Bourvis."
She was in her sixties, with blonde-grey shoulder length hair, a sensible black jacket over trousers, and a face that was more striking than beautiful. Around her neck she wore a number of gold necklaces and a pair of reading glasses on a chain. Eyes that wore their laughter lines like badges of honour were scrutinising her with pleasure.
"You're Mary Morstan."
Mary smirked. "Oh, I should have known that Sherlock would warn you."
That got a laugh. "Warn? No, not at all. He just phoned and said to treat you like royalty- and he gave me enough about you to be instantly recognisable. I have to say that his powers of observation are probably honed on criminals, but his description of you was uncannily accurate."
The older woman gestured to a comfortable arm chair. "Take a seat. I've just made a pot of tea. We can share it and talk about what you're looking for."
Mary gazed around the room. "I think I've found it. It never occurred to me that vintage was the perfect choice- but it is, and I've never seen so many beautiful dresses."
Jane laughed again. "Well, I wish everyone had that reaction; I'm afraid that vintage wear is a marmite thing- you either love it, or hate it. This morning I've already been a referee in a fight between the bride who wanted nothing more than the latest fashion, and her mother, who wanted to pass on her own wedding dress, have it re-modelled to bring it up to date. World War three that was. The daughter stormed out of the shop shouting that it was positively ghoulish to wear someone else's dress."
While the woman was talking, Mary's eye had been drawn to a particular panel of fabric on a hanger. It was lace coloured a delicate cream, patterned with paisley shapes and flowers, with tiny beads of glass and pearls highlighting some of them. It caught the light, but not in a crude way that a sequin would have. She got up to look at it more closely. "It's wonderful."
"Edwardian- I bought it in Bolton; it was part of a dress made for a woman who was going to India to get married to a civil servant out there." She pointed out the shape of a palm fan, picked out in tiny glass beads. "She chose a tropical feel for that reason; but it has a story. When she got to India, she found her fiancé had died of a fever, so she kept it as a token of her love for him, even though she never got married. By the time it got to me, most of the fabric had perished- so many women didn't know how to store their dresses properly back then. I think it was the great grand-niece who decided to bring it to me to see if it was worth anything. This was all that was left- but it is enough for a bodice, if you like it."
She unclipped the hanger and brought the piece down. "Follow me."
Jane led her through the door at the back of the room, into another one which was lit from above by a skylight. "Take your jumper and blouse off- let's see how it looks against your skin."
She draped the fabric panel across Mary's bare shoulders. "Turn around."
Mary turned to see that the walls behind her- even the door they had come through- had mirrors on them and she took in the sight. The soft patina of the lace's age was so mellow compared with the harsh modern white wedding dress that she had tried on in the department store.
In the natural light from above, the tiny glass beadwork and the soft pearls drew the eye to the shapes of the fronds and some of the flowers. The effect of the creamy soft colour made her fair skin almost glow with health.
"Perfect."
Jane smiled. "Let me take some measurements, and then I will work up some designs for you. I've got plenty of other pieces that we can use to create the skirt and the veil. Something simple for both, but with enough to carry the theme forward and make it a cohesive whole."
Mary sighed. "But, it's going to cost the earth." She pulled the panel from her shoulders and handed it back to the woman.
"Not at all. You'll be paying only for the fabric pieces- and at cost. The design and the sewing is on me. It's the least I can do for Sherlock."
Mary gave an incredulous laugh; "Don't tell me- you owe him a favour? What on earth could he have done to help you? He's the one who said weddings were so not his scene. How do you even know him?"
Jane hung the panel back on the hanger and picked up a clipboard, writing Mary's name across the template image on the top page.
"This shop would not be here if it weren't for Sherlock Holmes." She picked up her tape measure. "I've always sold vintage clothes here; the Portabello Road is famous for it. But I decided twelve years ago to focus on wedding dresses. I'd only been at it for about eighteen months when I picked up my first big commission- a titled young lady wanted to re-purpose the lace from her grandmother's dress, which had been made in the 1940s. She was marrying into a very famous Italian family- the Ricolettis. They're from Milan, and are…well, serious names in the fashion industry. The groom's older sister ran the family's bridal wear brands, and wanted her to wear one of the Ricoletti designs, especially since the wedding was going to be held in Milan, where the couple had met during fashion week. In her opinion, all English designers were pessimo, that's abominable, beastly in English- I had to look it up".
She measured the length of Mary's right arm and the width of her shoulder, noting down the number before continuing on to the left arm. "My client was determined to wear something English- but didn't want to offend her future sister-in-law, so she chose to re-use her grandmother's lace. It was a very diplomatic choice; the groom's family couldn't argue with a family heirloom."
"Will you wear high heels or flats? How tall is your fiancé?" Jane was now measuring from the floor to Mary's waist.
"He's five foot six and a half."
Jane smiled. "…and very proud of that half inch, I am sure."
Mary giggled. "We fit perfectly- and I like to tease him that it's the reason why he's marrying me."
"So, a small heel, not much over one inch."
Jane now stood back and looked at Mary. "Drop your trousers, Miss Morstan."
Mary complied, but felt a little awkward standing there in her bra and pants- a little exposed.
Jane gave her a gentle smile. "You are a little self-conscious about your figure."
Mary nodded. "I'm not one of those young things that want to show off my naked back, arms or shoulders. I'm forty one years old and look like it, too; I don't want to be mutton dressed as lamb."
Jane snorted. "Hello magazine has a lot to answer for- or rather the youth cult's fascination for celebrities does. The first half of the twentieth century knew that women wanted to look beautiful on their wedding day- not like a piece of meat in a market. Thankfully, the market is starting to turn in my favour; demure is becoming fashionable amongst the monied classes, who don't need the bling of celebrity dresses. When I first started out, it was harder."
She measured Mary's hips. "It's not easy for a small business like mine. I can't afford catwalk shows or big fashion shoots for the magazines. I'm only me- so I can't go traipsing all over the country to all these wedding fairs. Advertising is expensive; I have to rely on word of mouth, which was really hard when I was first starting out. So, the Knatchbull dress was a big deal for me- the fashion elite all over Europe would see her in newspaper photographs."
"How did Sherlock get involved with a wedding in Italy?" Mary's curiosity was piqued.
"Hold your hands out in front of you, please." Jane slipped the tape around first Mary's left wrist and then the right. "The dress I made for Miss Knatchbull was …perfect, if I do say so myself. She came in for the penultimate fitting, and was just thrilled with it. The only thing left to be done was the hemming, because she'd found it difficult to find the right pair of shoes to go with it. I locked up the dress in my cupboard," Jane gestured to a door at the side of the room, "and went home certain that this dress was going to bring me to the attention of all the right people."
"Imagine my horror when the next morning I came in, unlocked the door and found that someone had taken a pair of scissors to the bodice- ripped a great big gash all the way down the front."
Mary's shock showed in the face reflected back in the mirror. "Why would anyone do that?"
Jane smiled ruefully, "My reaction, too. And then I went on to think about who would do such a thing, before trying to figure out the how. Of the three, the how was the oddest. Back then, I was the only one sewing." She pulled on one of the chains around her neck, and extracted the two keys that lay hidden below the neckline. "I kept this hanging on the door knob of the dress room when I was in the shop, and took it home at night. One key for the room, one for the shop. So, I couldn't figure out how it had happened- and without that, who and why were just impossible."
"So, you called Sherlock Holmes?"
Jane nodded. "The police were useless. All they said is that there were no signs of forced entry and no fingerprints. I took the dress apart, replaced the damaged panel and sewed for almost eight hours straight, but then panicked at the thought that it would happen again. So, I took the dress home with me, and slept with it hanging in my bedroom. But, was that enough? The dress was due to be picked up the next day on her way to Heathrow for the flight to Milan. If whoever had done this had murderous intentions towards the bride, then surely I had to tell her. But I was terrified of doing so- I mean, really- could a dress become an accessory to murder? How could I tell a bride about something so sinister? What if it was an act of vandalism aimed at me, rather than her? I was just in a mess. So, I called him."
"And he solved it."
"Oh, yes. Didn't take him long either. Once I'd told him the story, he took one look at my appointments book, and asked me about a client who had come in six weeks before, by the name of Cinghiale. It was easy to remember them because the mother and daughter came in all smiles and looked interested, and we agreed a brief, but then when they were supposed to come back to look at my designs, they didn't show. The phone number and address they left was a fake, so I didn't get paid for the design work either."
"Then he asked me if I spoke Italian- which I do not- sat at my desk and used my laptop to do some research. Within a few minutes, he showed me the coat of arms of the Ricoletti family- right smack in the middle of it is a boar, a wild boar, which in Italian is Cinghiale. He figured that the groom's sister was determined to make the bride wear one of her designs. She'd hired someone to get into the shop, take an impression of my keys and then gain entry at night. He called it a reato di orgoglio, a crime of pride. The sister would come to the rescue of her brother's bride by providing a dress at the last minute when some vandal had destroyed hers, the story would gain them even more publicity, and everyone would be happy."
Jane pulled a gilded dining chair out from the side of the room. "One last thing to measure. Take a seat, please."
Mary did, and then watched with a bemused smile as the designer measured the spread of her bottom on the seat.
"This one is to ensure that we make the skirt full enough that you can actually move in the dress, and be comfortable. It is sad that a lot of wedding dresses look great when you are standing up for the photos, but are absolute hell to sit in during the reception. Will you be dancing in it?"
"Of course, so it can't be so long that I end up in a heap on the floor- but I don't want my ankles to show either." She wondered if John knew how to waltz. It would be rather nice in this type of dress to do the first dance as something more appropriate than a disco tune.
Mary had to ask, because she could not imagine the scene. "I do hope that you didn't let Sherlock anywhere near the bride? He'd not the most tactful soul. He would have told her everything, and that would have spoiled the wedding."
Jane laughed. "Of course not! I told her that I would ensure her mother took the dress from me, and kept it under lock and key at the hotel; no one should see it before the wedding. I made up this ridiculous story about how I'd surprised a paparazzi trying to break in to photograph the dress; that it was a sort of exposé he was after, to embarrass the sister-in-law, and that her mother must not let the dress out of her sight at any point." She put the clipboard down. "You can get dressed again."
"All's well that ends well." Mary pulled her clothes back on, while Jane went over to a bookshelf set into the side of the room and pulled out two thick books.
"These were produced by a photographer who specialised in weddings. His father's shop was bombed in 1941, but he'd taken his albums home with him and kept them in the cellar. I bought the whole lot of them when the son retired in 1989- and they are so useful for giving you some ideas about the sort of style you'd like. We'll go back into the warmth of the front room, I will fix you another cup of tea, and let you browse to your heart's content. When you see something you like, just tag it with a yellow sticky."
Mary spent a pleasant hour doing just that- enjoying the family photographs of brides she'd never known. It made her nostalgic, and for the first time in decades, she thought of her own mother, and the sadness of having to leave everything behind. She had told John that her parents died in a house-fire, and that all family memorabilia had gone up in smoke. In some respects, there was an element of truth in that falsehood. She was the one who set fire to their old home, after her father died; it was necessary. Her past had to be eliminated- no trace could remain. No photograph, no letter, no official record. Expunged from history. She tried to conjure an image up- had she ever seen a wedding photo during her childhood? Probably not. Weddings in the Czech communist era were civil ceremonies, with rules strictly applied by the KSČ, the Komunistická strana Československa. Why make a fuss about the practical joining of two comrades? There were no religious elements or wasteful fripperies like wedding dresses. Perhaps that's why I want the fairy-tale version. This is for you, mum and dad.
oOo
When Mary left Baker Street, Sherlock resumed work. He was on his sixth iteration of the day. Every step of the project plan was reconsidered- each objective, with its attendant retinue of activities, and every activity was considered in terms of a great number of specific timed tasks. He'd made an error somewhere on the 214th to 220th tasks, all related to the transport of guests and it had thrown the whole calibration out. To solve it would most likely cost money. He really needed Mary to sort the dress cost today, if at all possible. As one task was done, another could be planned- costs calculated, timetable scheduled, risks assessed, contingency steps taken to hedge that risk. Decisions to be made would then be raised with the various parties, and then letters or e mails exchanged, evidence of confirmation and contract.
The data that could be seen up on the wall were for John and Mary, and showed only a fraction of the clues he needed to run the whole programme of calculations, identifying the critical path and dependencies afresh, each time a single task was completed. Sherlock kept it in his Mind Palace; he'd built a temporary extension called the Orangery. It would be demolished immediately once the last bill was paid.
He sighed and closed his eyes. It was the 217th step- he'd underestimated how long the taxi out of Sawbridgeworth station took to get to the church in Sheering and return; the one minivan that served the village wouldn't be able to cope with the volume, so he'd have to investigate a bigger firm from Harlow, down the road.
He started over- the seventh iteration. Every time he found a flaw or made an adjustment, he had to resume at the beginning. It had become a ritual- at first just to persuade himself that he could do this; he could control the process so that John and Mary got the wedding they deserved, rather than the one they could afford. Then, as time wore on, the ritual of running the whole thing through every time took on an edge of anxiety. If he didn't do it this way, something would go wrong. He always "missed something," and repeating it again and again would mean that he wouldn't.
Iteration- the word suited the task perfectly. He could hear Mycroft's stentorian tones as he defined the word; "It means the repetition of a mathematical or computational procedure applied to the result of a previous application, typically as a means of obtaining successively closer approximations to the solution of a problem. In other words, practice makes perfect. Try again."
At the time, Sherlock was wrestling with his shoelaces; he was seven. Mycroft had already informed him that most children had mastered the motor skills required between the ages of five and six; he had done so himself at four.
"Not important." Sherlock shouted this, because his brother was making him anxious, and that made it even harder to deal with the laces. It was easier to find the finger positions on his mother's violin.
The shout invoked a sigh from the fourteen year old, and an eye roll. Sherlock knew both were indications that Mycroft was losing patience- that and his tendency to use ever bigger words. Ever since he'd gone away to prep school, when he came back home he used big words with Sherlock, who knew what some of the words meant- if he didn't, he found them in the dictionary later and always remembered them after that.
The lace in his left hand wriggled out from the thumb and first finger as if it had a life of its own, and the loop he'd made disappeared. He huffed, and started over again. All of it made his hands want to stop holding the laces at all; he'd feel much better if he could just flap them and forget about the shoes.
He stood up and slapped his shod foot down in front of Mycroft. The untied laces flapped onto the floor, his hands mirrored the motion. "You do it."
"Then you will never learn."
"I can't do it when you're staring."
"Then sit on the sofa. And I will sit in the chair and read my book. I won't watch. When you've done it right, tied and untied and tied again a correct bow on each shoe, then we will be ready to go out."
"I want my wellies; they don't need laces."
This got the eye roll again. "You need to be dressed properly, Sherlock. Wellies are not proper footwear when you are dressed like this". Mycroft straightened Sherlock's blazer jacket, and buttoned the top button on the white shirt that itched like mad and made Sherlock want to rip it off and throw it out the window. The dreaded tie was still on the hanger; Sherlock wouldn't even look at it. He absolutely hated the tie; it felt like a snake was trying to strangle him.
"Once your shoe is tied properly, then I will do your tie for you; a Windsor knot is just… beyond you." He picked a piece of fluff off the jacket sleeve and then gestured to the sofa. "Everything in its proper place; otherwise you will embarrass us."
Sherlock felt his lower lip protrude a bit and wondered why his face did that when he was upset by Mycroft's obvious signs of disappointment.
"Tie your shoes, Sherlock Holmes." That was delivered in a tone used to order the staff about, like Father used on occasions. Mummy never had to resort to it, and she didn't order Sherlock to do anything either, but Mycroft eventually got annoyed and started ordering him about.
It was ever thus, Sherlock mused as he looked at the evidence wall over the sofa. Mycroft taught him all about OCD. I must have driven him mad.
As a so-called "adult", he now had some sympathy for his brother's attempts to create order where there was none in his life. And having watched Mycroft over the years, he also knew that his own constant reiteration of every step of the wedding plan was now becoming compulsive. Too many people trivialised the notion, and simply called anyone with an attention to detail "OCD".
Sherlock knew better. It wasn't the detail, or even the ritual rehearsal of all of the details that made someone develop the pathological behaviour disorder- it was when that behaviour interfered with everyday life.
This whole wedding interferes with my life. That was a fact, and one he could not avoid thinking about- unless he filled his mind up with the minutiae of it all. Re-calibrating the plan, going over it from start to finish- he knew that it was a form of avoidance behaviour on his part. But he was no more able to stop it than he'd been able to learn to tie his shoelaces at four, as Mycroft had. We're wired differently.
It wasn't just the worry of getting something wrong, of some mistake on his part spoiling the wedding. There were other things that were lurking in the shadows, too. If he turned fast enough, sometimes he caught a glimpse, heard a rustle or a whisper that told him he was being foolish. But then the impression, the hint of something, just dissipated, burnt off like a morning mist, if he tried too hard to really see what the problem was.
He turned his back on his anxieties and faced the wall, diving into the mundane, turning his attention to the wedding invitation proofs, the sourcing of a florist, a photographer, limousine driver- the "extras" needed to deliver this particular performance to the standards required. The wedding gift registry had been set up with the John Lewis Partnership. As they were already living together, it was important to indicate what the couple really needed, or run the risk of duplicating toasters and the like, or ending up burdened with something neither of them actually liked. Sherlock thought it a logical approach. He liked the logic and the order of it all; being able to tick off one task gave him satisfaction. It soothed the anxiety.
Actually, it was more than that- the feeling was relief- each tick represented one more thing he hadn't cocked up, made a mess of, or missed something important about. The mistakes he'd already made so far were usually something social, a bit of odd protocol, myth and superstition that seemed to be the warp and weft of nuptial events. To tick the box made at least one ticking bomb safe.
At the moment, he needed that reassurance, because too many other things that he once enjoyed doing were becoming…problematic. Take case work, for one. He'd come back from Hartswood with John's assurance that he still wanted to be "involved" in cases, as much as he could, given his job and his need to spend time with Mary "that isn't all about wedding stuff". So, Sherlock had been very careful, choosing to contact him only when the cases seemed both interesting enough, but not the sort that would take ages of round-the-clock activity or that would end up putting John's life at risk.
But he couldn't always predict. That was the nature of crime. What John was today writing up as "The Case of the Poison Giant" was just one such example. Someone had targeted John again. This time photographs of six pearls had been sent to John by email. That had annoyed Sherlock enough for him to "borrow" John's laptop to find the sender. That led them to the Wapping warehouse belonging to Daniel Brennan- a very dead Daniel Brennan. Even the manner of the death was tailor-made for the Consulting Detective. Someone knew that Sherlock's curiosity would be piqued by the use of a murder weapon in the form of a poison dart. And not just any dart- not the sort that vets used to put a wild animal to sleep.
"This is an Amazonian tribal dart." He held it between tweezers borrowed from the Forensic team, and drew it closer to his nose, taking a deep sniff.
John noticed his smile. "How is it that a poison dart can actually make you happy?"
"The thrill of discovery, John. This is a proper dart, fired by a blowgun, not an air rifle. But I need to examine it further to see just what kind of poisoner we are dealing with. We might be lucky; the toxin of choice comes from the Amazonian tree frogs."
The CSE gave him a look. "Toxin of choice? You do know that makes you sound a bit..um…weird?"
It was way beyond the skills of the Forensic Service, but right up his street, so Sherlock took back to Baker Street swabs of the dart's poison and spent two happy hours investigating. On Sherlock's instructions, John took custody of the laptop, once it had been dusted for prints. Two matches came back- the dead man's and those of a convicted thief by the name of John Swandale.
Lestrade wondered if Brennan might have stolen it, and this was a revenge killing.
Sherlock just shook his head in mock sadness. "Really, Detective Inspector; is that the best you can do? If the hit was orchestrated by Swandale, then surely he'd make sure that the laptop got back to him."
He took the laptop and said John would have a look while he investigated the dart.
It took Sherlock all of ten minutes to crack Swandale's password. "I have my doubts about a criminal whose password is the name of his first major theft." He sniffed and handed the laptop over to John. "You take a look; I want to do something more interesting."
One look through the microscope lens had told him that the poison he transferred from the swab onto a slide wasn't a derivative of curare- that was a plant, whose sap produced a blockage at the junction of the neuroskeletal systems, affecting the axon gateways of the synapse. Curare was basically a muscle relaxant, which in sufficient doses could kill. Boring.
At the obvious signs of animal cell structure rather than plant, Sherlock's smile reappeared. "And now the question is whether this poisoner has used the Rolls Royce of tree frog poisons, or settled for something more easily obtainable."
Phyllobates was a genus of amphibians that he'd studied before at Cambridge. Sherlock had particularly enjoyed the challenge of trying to distinguish the biochemistry of the toxins produced by phyllobates aurotaenia from that of phyllobates bicolor; he'd done a mid-term paper in his second year of biochemistry on the subject. Remembering that fact made him think- if he didn't know that Moriarty was dead, Sherlock would have said that this new puzzle was worthy of his five pips game. The six pearls made a connection with the five pips just too obvious for words. But, who knew enough about him to create such an elaborate scheme?
His anxiety ratcheted up a notch when John called him over to the laptop. "Swandale's definitely implicated, if not actually the killer. Take a look- he's got the floorplan of the warehouse on his desktop- and the file data says it was last accessed an hour before the murder."
Sherlock ransacked the machine code for ten minutes, and then nodded. "This is his, and it has enough data on here to give a prosecutor ample ammunition."
"Then why leave it behind?"
Sherlock just looked at him. And then sighed. "Obviously, so we could find it, John. There can be no other reason. He's not a complete idiot. So, Swandale is challenging us."
"Why would he do that?"
"Perhaps the more interesting questions are why would a jewel thief be hired as an assassin and why would he use a murder weapon more commonly seen in the Amazon? Both are rather…exciting."
John asked a question, "What makes tree frog poison so exciting?"
Sherlock sat back down at the kitchen table for a moment and watched the doctor put down a cup of coffee by the microscope. It still surprised him sometimes to look up and find John doing things in the kitchen as if he still lived in the flat.
"You didn't hear me when I said I was going to make some coffee."
Sherlock shook his head, and then launched into the explanation. "The steroidal alkaloid of tree frog poisons is a neurotoxin that acts on the sodium ion channels of cells- keeping them open and permanently blocking nerve signal transmissions to the muscles. It's a particularly effective cardiotoxin, too- paralysis followed by massive release of acetylcholine in the nerves and muscles, destroying the synaptic vesicles."
John looked a little none-the-wiser for those facts, leading Sherlock to wonder yet again why British medical professionals specialised on their fields rather too early.
The next half hour was spent narrowing the choices. He could hardly contain his excitement when he realised that he was having his first proper look at the venom produced by phyllobates terribilis, whose batrachotoxins were so lethal that a mere swipe of the golden tree frog's skin was fatal.
"The native tribes capture the frogs, and keep them in little cages- a constant supply of weaponry." He'd always rather liked the idea that the frogs didn't have to die; they got a cosy lifestyle and were well fed in exchange- a truly symbiotic relationship.
When he recounted these facts to John, the doctor seemed to pale. "What antidote should I be getting my hands on if you make a mistake? Acetylcholine actually helps on plant toxins, but you're saying that would be the wrong thing to use on this."
"There is no known antidote, and it's always fatal- usually within five minutes."
"You're making me nervous." John started pacing in the living room. "One touch of that stuff and you could die. Be sure to clean up properly, or you'll be responsible for Mrs Hudson's death when she comes to clean up after you."
"Relax, John. I've handled neurotoxins before." He waved his gloved hands at the doctor, but did not take his eye away from the lens of the microscope.
"And that's supposed to make me less nervous? We should be in a sterile lab, and you should be in a biohazard suit, not a Spencer Hart."
"I know what I am doing. However, your pacing is distracting, and that is not a good idea at the moment."
John stopped moving, immediately. "Why can't Mycoft's lot do the technical work? They've got labs set up for just this sort of stuff."
He didn't answer that because he knew that if Mycroft got involved, he wouldn't be allowed to pursue the case to its logical conclusion. His brother was still being annoyingly over-protective these days. Sherlock had identified the poison from almost the first look at the slide, but he still ran the tests because he never knew when he'd get the chance to work again with a real sample. He didn't tell John that he didn't need the test results to know where to go next. That was the problem, really- a bit like the wedding planning. He was consciously avoiding the big picture, and losing himself in the details- on purpose.
In both cases- the wedding and this one- thinking about the big picture made him unbearably anxious. The trap set up by James Swandale's laptop was too obvious, too crude to be taken terribly seriously. Swandale…the diminutive man was almost too well known as a jewel thief, had done time only once, but otherwise had used his lack of height to great advantage in his chosen trade. He'd been chosen because of this fact, and his method of murdering Brennan had also been chosen just as a way to entice Sherlock and John into a trap.
Why else hire Swandale as an assassin? His use of the pygmy blow dart to kill Brennan was…interesting- but certainly not in his normal modus operandi. Like a moth to the flame, Sherlock's attention was drawn to the trail of files on the laptop which led to the dwarf's next target, Giles Conover.
Sherlock asked John to locate Conover's home- one of those newly built houses in the style demanded by the nouveau riche these days. He looked over John's shoulder at the house particulars- it had been bought by Conover six weeks ago, and RightMove was still listing it: Abbots Wood, on Heathfield Road, Taplow, near Maidenhead.
He then closed the laptop and told John to go home.
"No, Sherlock. Where you go, I go."
"Not necessary. I can do this on my own."
"I'm not questioning your competence, but I am going with you."
"John, your presence is not required."
"Nor is yours, Sherlock. You could just hand all of this over to the police. Call Lestrade."
"By the time he could get things sorted with the Thames Valley police force, it will be too late. I need to catch Swandale."
John tilted his chin and glared. "Why?"
"Because all this is an engraved invitation. I want to know who is setting this trap. It's not Swandale; he's not bright enough, and he doesn't have a grudge against me."
"Why are you taking this so personally? Maybe it's just another crime. You do get them now and then. Boring, I know, but it isn't always about you."
"Need I remind you that you were sent the six pearl photos? That makes it personal."
John nodded. "Yes, it does. Personal…to me, not you. If you think I'm going to let you go without me, then you've not learned a damned thing since you got back."
Sherlock turned and pointed at the wall over the sofa. "I've made a serious investment of time and energy making sure you survive until a certain date in May. Mary will not be happy if I end up being the reason why the groom can't make the wedding."
"Shut up, Sherlock. This is non-negotiable." He shouldered his coat on, and handed Sherlock his Belstaff. "While you're wittering about weddings, a murderer is at work."
The train to Maidenhead from Paddington Station took nearly an hour; then the taxi up Cliveden Road dropped them about a quarter of a mile past the iron security gates of Abbots Wood. By the time they worked their way over the security fence and through the undergrowth from the road, it was late.
From the evidence they stumbled over on the lawn, the venom of the Brazilian tree frog was certainly effective at taking out the rock star's pack of Dobermans, but at least it meant that Sherlock realised that the dwarf was as good as a Yawalapiti at using the blow gun. They got into the house through an open French door- presumably left open by the murderer.
There were no lights on in the house, and no sound.
When John pulled out his gun, Sherlock whispered, "I thought you stopped using that when I was dead."
The doctor rolled his eyes before whispering back, "Since you insist on coming to these parties unarmed, I took a little precaution."
As they passed through the garden room, down the hall, past the kitchen, Sherlock realised the house was a minimalist white, with touches of black- which made it surprisingly easy to see even in the dark. But he was wary- the open plan of the rooms would give a blowgun a clearer target. He hugged the walls, and John followed suit. In the entrance hall, the grand staircase went up a floor, and also down. John nodded his head up with a question in his eyes. But Sherlock had seen something rather amazing hung on the wall: a Daisho. He took the Katana long bladed sword but left the Wakisashi short sword. The tempered steel whispered free of its scabbard.
John was grinning, and silently mouthed the word "pirate."
Sherlock smirked, but then a faint noise from upstairs caught his attention. They went up the staircase, slowly. Sherlock kept calculating trajectories for a dart, and tried to keep John behind him as the pair ascended. At least the marble meant no creaking floorboards to give them away.
They found the middle aged rock star in the master bedroom, tied to an exercise bicycle positioned in the bay window. He was bound and gagged so all he could do was dart his eyes towards the side.
Sherlock stopped at the door, and whispered to John, "don't go in any further until I say so." And then he entered, hugging the wall to the left, until he reached a doorway into what was presumably the bathroom or dressing room- the door was open. He looked back at John and nodded, so the doctor came in, announcing "Mister Conover; we're here to rescue you." But he stopped when Sherlock gestured, and went no further. If the killer was in there, he was not going to get a clear line of sight unless he made himself known.
When the mouth of the blowpipe appeared at the dressing room door, angling to take a shot at John, Sherlock pounced with the sword. In the battle of a bamboo tube against the Japanese steel, it was no contest- the first swipe took off a meter in length. Undeterred, the dwarf tucked the remaining length of the blowpipe under his arm, ducked under Sherlock's grasp and bolted into the bedroom. John couldn't shoot without risking the bullet hitting the Consulting Detective. Swandale took advantage and was out of the room in a flash and climbing up the stairs to the roof. Sherlock was in hot pursuit, with John bringing up the rear.
Ping. Sherlock's mental rehearsal of the previous night's activities came to a sudden halt, and he pulled out his phone. He'd set up an email alert to tell him when John published anything on his blog. He linked out to the site and read down the page to the end.
…We escaped, obviously. Sherlock's good with a sword and I'd bought a gun. One of them went off the roof and the other's currently in prison.
We never found out who was trying to kill us. I felt we should investigate further but Sherlock had already dismissed it as boring and irrelevant.
"No, not boring, and not irrelevant. Just too dangerous for you, John." Sherlock realised that whoever had put John in the bonfire was upping the ante. He'd deflected John's worries as much as he could, but had not been successful with his own- they had led him to a sleepless night, rather than the post-case crash that he normally endured. For him, the lesson was clear- he would need to be extremely selective in the future about what cases he took on when the doctor was with him.
He drew breath, trying to settle his nerves. Then he turned his phone off, slipped it into his pocket and faced the wall again. Sherlock started the eighth iteration of the day, and wondered how many more he would need before he felt calm again.
Author's Notes: The dress designer is real, and her site is interesting to google. I had outlined this chapter BTW before the title of the Christmas Special was announced, and I am sticking with it. Abbots Wood is a real house- check it out if you want the visuals; all we saw on TV was the roof, so I have taken some liberties- still it works. I don't really pay much attention to the blog of "Doctor John Watson" as it has so many errors on it, but I am using it when referring to cases mentioned in the broadcast episodes.