"I hate publicity," Sherlock said irritably in the cab.
John rolled his eyes. Those were the first words Sherlock had spoken all morning. All over a small criminology conference he'd been asked to attend as a speaker. The email had sat in Sherlock's inbox for two months before the conference organizers got desperate and contacted John instead.
"Well, next time I'll tell them what went through my head when they emailed me, which is that I'm not your PR person," John said reasonably. "In fact, I'm not a PR person at all. I thought you were so proud of this reputation you're gaining?"
"Yes, that's among clients. Clients get me cases. I don't care about academics and their theories. Only the facts, the evidence. Put me to work, let me figure something out. These people…they want to put me on display, the amateur who proves the police get everything wrong. So they can pat themselves on the back, 'good for us, we know who's really getting the criminals these days,' and go back to their peer-reviewed journals and their petty rivalries and not do anything useful," Sherlock's expression changed from disdain to anger to contempt, and John was surprised at the depth of vitriol.
"You know what the answer is, don't you?" John asked. He plunged on without waiting for a response. "RSVP to these people when they ask you so they don't have to contact me. I'm not running your business for you, Sherlock."
"It's not a business, it's an agency," Sherlock said.
"You make money, it's a business," John said flatly as the cab stopped outside the hotel where the conference was being held.
"Fine," Sherlock snapped. "Next time, I'll tell them no before you get to tell them yes and make me look even more ridiculous than you do in that blog." He opened the door of the cab and slammed it shut. John sighed and climbed out the other side.
"Don't do this. I know you're not angry at me. You don't care how you look, in my blog, in the papers, anywhere. You never have. So what is it?"
"And you must be Sherlock Holmes!" A tall woman in a blue dress suit came over before John got his answer and started to lead them into the hotel. "I was telling my colleagues at UCL that it's almost like being on TV instead of at an academic conference, with you as the guest." John couldn't tell if her tone was condescending or simply confused.
Sherlock smiled tightly, "Yes, well, my cases have been a bit…romanticized by the press."
"Well, we've all spent a lot of time studying you and your cases in our papers and classes," the woman said. "Frances Carfax, Professor of Criminology at UCL. And this is?"
"Oh, John Watson, my-" Sherlock stopped, glancing at John as if unsure exactly what he was.
"-friend," John finished with a smile. "I'm the one who writes up the cases."
"Oh," Professor Carfax nodded in understanding. "You have a biographer. A bit old-fashioned, that. I like it." She drifted away once they reached the lobby, leaving them both standing there, puzzled.
"A bit old-fashioned?" John asked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Prominent men of the 18th and 19th centuries would often be memorialized in print by their close friends," Sherlock said. "The most famous one would be James Boswell, who wrote the Life of Johnston."
"So, I'm your…Boswell?" John asked slowly. He shook his head. "Already we're discussing 18th century literature. I'm beginning to see what you mean. This has nothing to do with solving crimes."
Sherlock smirked, possibly because John was right; none of these academic criminologists would have been useful at a crime scene. They made their way through the packed lobby and into the hotel ballroom, where Sherlock would be giving his speech. People milled around in small groups, and as they passed, John head snippets of their conversations.
"-Dr. Monroe believes that the psychological theories of Professor Herman might have some basis-"
"-the use of Twitter for solving crimes in real time is a fascinating study, I have a paper being published-"
"-focused on a narrow band of felony murders based around stealing jewelry. It's very interesting-"
Most of these conversations left John feeling uneasy. There was a disconnect between the research done on these crimes and the effects they had on the real victims, not to mention the underlying social causes of crime in the first place. And he'd thought Sherlock was cold about crime solving. At least he was honest about it.
"And here's our guest of honor, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," a large man with a bald spot, a brown beard and a tweed suit jacket appeared out of nowhere and scooped Sherlock up by the arm, turning to his small, reedy friend with a smile. "He's the one who realized the lost Vermeer last year was a fake!"
"Yes, I did," Sherlock said, pulling himself out of the man's grip. "Does Cambridge know you were using their travel funds to assist the Venezuelan police?"
Identical slack-jawed expressions appeared on both men's faces. "Ah, no, I was doing research on the intersection of political dissent and criminal activity and it turns out I was able to help them out a bit on a case or two," the first, larger man said. "Now, how did you know that?"
"You're wearing a Cambridge tie pin, you're tanned around the wrists and neck, and you have a ring with the seal of the Venezuelan police on it," Sherlock said. "I memorize all standard seals of every police force in the world, it's not that difficult to figure out that you helped them out on something big to merit a gift like that ring. Incidentally, you were wrong. I followed the case, and it was almost certainly the sister of the man you led them to." The professor's expression changed very quickly from confusion to horror and he quickly slipped away. The smaller man, however, laughed.
"That's Bob, always looking for some extra recognition. I must say, I didn't think it was actually true, that you could do that. I'm Patrick Shennon, by the way. Hey, Flora, come over here, you've got to see," he pulled aside a woman from the next group and then turned to Sherlock, "Here, read her."
Sherlock stopped, looking between them in some confusion at being commanded to use his gift for observation on cue, his gaze finally landing on John, who cleared his throat and said quickly, "I'm sorry, but we really have to go. Sherlock's got to prepare his speech." He gently pulled Sherlock along by the sleeve of his coat until they found a mercifully empty stretch of wall. He shook his head and exhaled softly, "You were right, this is the worst."
Sherlock turned toward the wall, his hands steepled in front of him. He was carefully not gazing at any of the people. "I hate social occasions." John had rarely heard Sherlock express an actual dislike for something; usually he restrained himself to insults that no one took seriously anymore. He glanced up at Sherlock, who turned around and watched the room with distaste in his eyes. "They spend all this time arguing and gossiping; who's doing the most interesting research, who's getting a paper published, who's getting divorced, and who's sleeping with who. It's all so pointless."
"And then you have to pretend to be interested, be polite, get along with all these people you don't know and talk about all this stuff you don't care about," John continued, and Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "You're not the only one who hates this fake sort of thing, you know. There is a reason we get along."
"Then why did you accept their invitation on my behalf?"
John thought for a minute, "Well, for the same reason I write the blog, I suppose. It's good stuff, what you do. It's a science, it deserves to be recognized, more than these people do, anyway. You – we – deserve the recognition for all the good that we do with it." He shrugged, "Sometimes you have to do stuff you don't like to get ahead. Besides, Lestrade thought it would go over better with some of his higher-ups if he could say you had been recognized in some official capacity." John wasn't oblivious; he knew what Sherlock was like in social situations. In retrospect, Lestrade probably hadn't been the best person to ask but he did agree with the Scotland Yarder's assessment that the recognition by the academic community would do Sherlock's career a world of good.
"You know he doesn't watch out for his career, he turns down the cases he doesn't find interesting. Always has," Lestrade had said when John had first been contacted by the conference.
Sherlock sighed and dropped the subject, saying instead, "So now I have to talk at them for half an hour about my methods, as if they're actually interested."
"Some of them probably are actually interested," John answered. "As for the rest, they're just bodies in the seats. Go through it and we'll never do one of these again." One conference would be enough of a boost. It would have to be.
Sherlock nodded, steeling himself before he headed up the steps to the stage. The applause was genuinely warm, if slightly uncertain, as if aware that Sherlock's direct brand of crime-solving was something new, unconnected to academic theories and traditional police work. To John it seemed a harbinger of things to come. The future would be on Sherlock's terms; he would be the one people remembered, and everyone here knew it.
A/N Sorry for the long break between updates. Life's been ridiculous, I'll try and update more often!