Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Episode 3: Faces from the past
When Mrs Hudson introduced the grim-faced, black dressed client, for a moment John took him for a mortician. Instead, Mr Carter was the curator of a relatively small but very well-connected private museum.
"You might have heard of the exhibit we started at Halloween, Ill omens and cursed works. We have managed to gather quite a few works of art supposed to bring bad luck or otherwise cursed. It's quite the heterogeneous collection, naturally. We go from mummies to contemporary art. And despite rumours assuring that having some of these things on display will guarantee the failure of any exhibit, we've had quite a success of public," the man said proudly.
"There's a bust in particular that I feel would need an extra layer of protection, which I hoped you could ensure: Medardo Rosso's Bambino Malato, that is to say the sick child," he added, wringing his hands nervously.
John fought back a smile. "Why?" Sherlock queried, leaning towards him.
"It's been stolen once already, in 2014," Carter said, looking a bit too dazed by the sleuth's charm for the so-called boss' tastes.
"And the same thief brought it back, that time," John pointed out amiably, but trying to divert the man's eyes to himself. Maybe he should have a word with Sherlock later. Anyway, being willingly brought back didn't certainly make the bust a much coveted work.
"Yes, three days after the theft it was found in one of the museum's – the one that loaned it to us – supply closets. But can I ask how do you know?" their client acknowledged, raising a surprised eyebrow.
"I was following a different case in Italy at the time and that's why I heard of such a funny tale," John explained nonchalantly. His colleague looked sharply at him. She had her suspicions about how John had gained knowledge of that, and how involved he might have been.
"If it had been simply this past attempt scaring you, however recent it might be, you would have come to us since the start of your exhibit. But no, you come here months later. So I repeat, why? Hiding things is always bad politics for a client," Sherlock interjected sharply.
"Understand that I have no evidence," Mr Carter said hesitantly.
"It'll be our duty to find it," John assured, sounding reasonable and oh so reassuring.
"There's someone – a high-end media tycoon, you see – who came to our exhibit and offered us a lofty sum to buy the Medardo Rosso. Naturally, we had to refuse, stating it was a loan from an Italian museum, so it was impossible. He seemed particularly put out, but he's come again, and again – and yesterday, I noticed him in friendly conversation with one if our guards," their client narrated, eyes shifting everywhere.
"You would he would commission its theft and that he might be collecting information himself – which he probably isn't doing, it would be stupid of him, but he could be trying to buy out your guards to look away from the theft when it happens," the detective stated openly, when it was evident that no other word would be forthcoming.
Mr Carter seemed very ill at ease, afraid he might have said too much. "I'm not an impressionable man, I assure you, Mr Watson, but that man gives me the creeps," he confessed at last.
After sharing a look with Sherlock, John said, "We'll take your case, Mr Carter. Of course, you'll have to give us a name – and full access to your museum and its safety measures. Don't you worry. The poor sick child will be safe." And if his smile was more amused than reassuring – the one he had been aiming for – he hoped their client wouldn't notice. The man nodded, giving a sigh of relief and hearty thanks before leaving.
"We're going to the museum at soon as it closes, which is – nine pm. Late for a museums, but hey, more time to get visitors I guess. I was afraid it would be already," the detective announced, checking the museum's website. "Not even the most brazen thief would swipe the bust off with visitors still milling around – at least, I hope. Until then –"
Checking his own phone, John cut in, "I have a date, it seems. I solemnly swear that I'd be there at nine sharp, but I am going out. I don't want to disappoint this one, Sherlock."
The sleuth opened her mouth to protest. They were on a case, what if John's date dragged on, this was completely unprofessional. But she didn't have anything against her colleague dating in general, of course, she told herself. The sharp tang of disappointment in her heart was only because they had a case – and it didn't seem interesting enough for him.
Before she could voice all of this, though, she received a text herself. That made her change her tune. (Thank God she hadn't objected that.) "Bring her –" she suggested instead.
"Not to Angelo's. He might be a bit overwhelming," the doctor interjected quickly. Not to mention it was their restaurant.
She huffed. "Of course not Angelo's. No, to the Loeb Boathouse in Central Park. It's nice and if you remind them of that poisoning case we solved for them last winter, I'm sure that they'll find you a table despite usually needing reservations."
"Oh. Thank you. I will. How many restaurant have we worked with, by the way?" he asked, curious.
"Some." She shrugged. "I'll get you a list later, if you want. Now you better get ready for your date, don't you?"
"Yes, yes, don't worry. I'll be out of your hair soon," John assured, reading her correctly.
Truth was, he couldn't be out of the house soon enough – Mummy was coming. She arrived seven sharp, as she'd texted – but if she'd come sooner than announced, it wouldn't have been the first time. Thank God John was already out by then. Mummy announced, "We're talking over dinner, Lockie."
"I'm not eating, mum. I have a case," she replied testily.
"Don't be ridiculous," her mother countered, taking out a divinely smelling box, "I made your favourite, honey, vanilla, clove glazed ham. You're eating until I'm satisfied. I know you'd starve without me coming round every now and then."
"I most certainly would not," Sherlock replied, annoyed. She wanted to refuse, but her mother was as stubborn as she was and extremely hard to deny, and it was her favourite. Maybe only a slice.
"Now, this flatmate of yours, where is he?" her mother queried, filling her plate.
"Out on a date," the sleuth replied, without looking at her. Why did it annoy her? It had no right to annoy her.
"Without you?" Mrs Holmes asked, raising a surprised eyebrow.
"Obviously, mum," Sherlock bit back sharply, before giving up and tasting the ham. She sighed minutely in pleasure at her mother's cooking.
"You started living with a man, I thought that you finally wanted to give me grandchildren," mummy countered, shrugging.
"I'm not going to!" the detective exclaimed, blushing. "Why don't you hound Mycroft for grandchildren too?" she complained, whining.
"Because he's gay, Sherlock," her mother said simply.
"Well, he can still adopt," the sleuth grumbled with her mouth full.
"Anyway, I'll want to meet this flatmate of yours soon," Mrs Holmes declared in a no-nonsense tone.
"To ask him for grandchildren?" Sherlock queried, horrified at the prospect.
"Don't be silly dear. To get to know him. Mycroft said that he refused to give any other name than John Watson, and we all know who that is," her mother replied, clicking her tongue disapprovingly.
"You mean to deduce him. Don't you think that I've done that already and that I wouldn't have invited him in the flat if he'd been an axe murderer? And I'm sure Mycroft did too," she huffed. "Besides, did my brother tell you that he refused to spy on me? He's annoyed at that. That's the only reason he sicced you on me."
"He did, and I assure you that he was relieved for that, not irritated. But we all know both Mycroft and you occasionally miss things. I want to see him myself soon, Sherlock. That is not negotiable. And now, don't you dare stop eating, miss," mummy ordered, indicating her still not empty plate.
"But mummy, I've eaten two slices!" she whined. What could she say, despite everything she told herself she couldn't resist her mother's cooking.
"Another half slice and I'll leave you alone. Promise. You'll just have more leftovers," Mrs Holmes proposed, knowing to pick her battles. She always tried to feed her daughter as much as she could, but she never managed to make her eat like she wished. Disgruntled, Sherlock complied. With mummy compromise was the only option.
In the meantime, John was meeting his date in Central Park. "So nice to see you, Sarah."
"Not anymore. I go by Mary these days. And you? What's today's name?" she replied, smiling.
"John. John Watson," he revealed, smiling back.
"I've not seen the movie he's in. Which one was it again?" Mary asked, shrugging.
"It's not from a movie. I've not been the one to pick this alias," John explained, a soft smile on his lips.
"Got a partner again?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.
"You could say that," the former thief agreed, the same dreamy smile still on his lips – if anything, only wider.
"Ditch her," his date ordered immediately, petulant. "Whoever she is, she can never work with you as well as we did. We are made for each other, John, you know. And I need you now."
"Don't play the soulmate card with me when last time you drugged me and left me alone and without passport," John remarked, shaking his head in exasperated fondness. Why did he like women like that? Because they were not boring, he knew.
"Without the passport you'd been using at the time. You still got another four," she pointed out, smirking. "Look, some not very nice people were closing in on me. Playing male was my best bet at the time."
"I figured that out. I might have helped then, you know," John declared firmly.
"I need you to help me now," Mary countered, voice saccharine.
"With what?" he queried. Knowing her, it could be anything.
"Medardo Rosso's Sick Child. You stole it once," she revealed, gazing admiringly at him.
"Yeah, and the deal with the man who commissioned it fell through, and I had to bring it back. Believe me – the thing might be seriously bad luck, I don't know. What I do know is that it isn't worth the hassle," he said, hoping against hope to persuade her. Fuck. Just his luck. He very much doesn't want to see Sherlock and Mary pitted against each other. Catfights might be hot in theory, but he's sure this particular one would be a nightmare.
"My deal will hold. No doubt about that," she replied, dead serious. "So? Any insights?"
"Maybe," John replied, noncommittally. "But I really have to go now. Previous appointments and all that. You're not in a rush, are you?"
"I will probably go take a look around. Who knows, if their security is more lax than usual museums I might not need your help, after all," she told him, shrugging.
Uh oh. Things would get complicated soon. Measures might be needed.
"It's a pity we don't have the time to renew our relationship, though. Are you sure you have to keep these engagements?" she queried, pouting.
"Very sure. I really can't stay. Though I agree – it is a pity." He kissed her. Deeply. "See you soon."
"Tease," she called after him.
Like he expected, John arrived with ten minutes to spare on the moment they'll have to set out for the museum and he helpfully started to prepare coffee to bring with them in a thermos. They had a long stakeout in front of them tonight.
Sherlock looked him over with a frown, but he didn't remark on anything, relaxing and uttering a soft, "Thank you," when she saw what he was doing. John felt a quick stab of guilt at the thought of what he was really doing, but he wouldn't change his plans.
At the museum, they're allowed in, and examine the situation and the security measures. They end up at the bust's side, naturally. "That air vents look like an easy way in," Sherlock snorted.
John nodded. He'd noticed it too, of course. "Do you think the alarms will work?" he asked conversationally.
"How long would it take you to disable them?" the detective countered, looking unimpressed with the security measures she'd seen.
"Doesn't matter, does he? I'm not the one who will have to," he replied softly, shrugging.
"Humour me," she demanded, casually touching his arm. (Really casually. She'd gravitated towards him without realizing to, for God's sake.)
"Ten minute tops," John said, smiling.
"Ten? Oh. John. I think I could do better. We should have a friendly competition sometimes," the sleuth proposed, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Sure ," John agreed enthusiastically. "But I said tops – better slower but being sure not to mess up. Coffee?"
"Thanks," she said, gulping the warm beverage down gratefully.
He didn't mention that he'd drugged it, but Sherlock must not face Mary. He knew her, and Mary was dangerous – and too trigger-happy for his tastes. He'd apologize to his flatmate later on – and leave her, if he had to. (He won't have to because the detective will ascribe the sudden drowsiness to having eaten and beat herself up for having given into Mummy.) John laid her down, giving her his jacket as a cushion, and set out to wait.
Mary didn't arrive from the air vent, but straight from the door. She must have visited the exhibit, hid herself in a loo or something and waited until now. She smiled and kissed him. "Oh John, here you are. Put it in my case for me, please."
"Turn back, Mary," he ordered, putting himself physically between her and the bust.
"Not without what I came for," she replied, sudden steel in her voice.
"You know I usually let you walk all over me, but this time I'll really have to stop you, Mary," John countered, not moving, "and you know that I'd win in a fight."
She didn't deny it. "Are you doing it for Sleeping Beauty?" Mary sneered, indicating Sherlock.
"I'm doing it because I want to," he stated simply.
"Oh. Of course. John Watson. The famous detective. Is that you? But you're certainly not, so – has he even ever existed? What would happen to you and Aurora here if I told it all to the media?" his former partner snarled with a cruel smirk.
"That's blackmail, Mary," John growled, surprised. They had their divergences, but he never thought they'd really ruin each other. Certainly not over anything so silly as one single heist.
"Yeah well, I learned from the best," she admitted bitterly. "I need that bust, John."
"It's not theft on commission – you've been blackmailed to," John realized suddenly.
"Why pay for something when you can take it by force right?" Mary pointed out, sighing tiredly.
"What's your deadline?" he asked, frowning.
"In three days. But why dawdle?" she admitted, shrugging.
"Come to Sherlock tomorrow morning. We're detectives. We'll find you a way out of this. You don't need to be under nobody's thumb. I swear, Sherlock can figure it out. She's a genius," John entreated passionately.
"A sleepy genius," Mary pointed out, despise at such unprofessional behaviour and distrust in the sleuth clear in her voice.
"A genius who trusted me," the former thief explained, with his 'now that's enough' smile.
Mary laughed softly. "Poor silly girl."
"Tomorrow, Mary. Give us a day to try. If we can't help you, I'm getting you the damned bust myself," John promised. He would, too.
"Oh fine!" she agreed, sighing. "I like you too much, John Watson," she added, giving a teasing lilt to his new name. And she pecked him on the lips before leaving.
The following day, introduced by a dubious-looking Mrs. Hudson, Mary arrived just after breakfast as promised (well, John's breakfast – Sherlock had pointedly refused anything beyond tea).
As soon as she saw the smouldering look this woman gave John, Sherlock pointed out, "You've never brought dates home before," with a frown. Which while technically true, was probably a rule she'd just given him. Oh joy.
"I'm not here for a date," Mary pointed out, "even if I'd definitely not object to seeing John's bedroom. Is that it?" She moved towards Sherlock's room.
"That's mine," the sleuth snapped, before she could open the door.
"Oh sorry," Mary apologized, with enough fake sweetness to make one's teeth ache. Then she went up to John and kissed him. On the jaw. Because he'd moved while she approached him. Shy now? Sherlock still glowered at them.
"Mary, get to the point," John prompted, looking uncomfortable. "Why are you here?"
"Oh. Because the great detective thought he could help me. I'm being blackmailed," she revealed, clear irony in her praise of him.
"By?" the sleuth asked, professional.
"Charles Augustus Magnussen. Yeah, you wouldn't imagine a well-respected media tycoon to stoop so low, but I assure you I'm not the only one nor the most resourceful under his thumb. He wants me to get him the Medardo Rosso. And know what, I'm going to," the thief declared defiantly.
"This won't make you free," Sherlock pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
"No, but shooting him while I'm handing it over will," Mary pointed out nonchalantly. "Why, I could even bring the damned ugly bust back afterwards. Like someone else."
She made a point to rub herself against John's side, enjoying the detective's discomfort. Sherlock glowered again (because discussing a case was no time for seduction, obviously – only that). John took a tiny step back, and Mary pouted. He was hers, and he would be hers under this stranger's eyes too.
"You can't solve anything with a bullet, Mary," he said reasonably.
"But if that's why you loved me. I kept you on your toes. What did you use to say? 'The greatest enemy of love is boredom'," the blonde replied, with air quotes.
John nodded. "From Hemingway and Gellhorn, yeah. Well, that might be very true, but not boring doesn't necessarily equal murder," he countered, rolling his eyes.
"Though murder certainly helps with that," Sherlock remarked, a smirk on her lips.
For the first time, Mary grinned at her. "A kindred soul. Perfect. I like you," she declared, lively.
"Yes, well, Sherlock, any suggestions about how to deal with Magnussen?" John queried, on his way to exasperated and feeling the only sane individual here.
"Her plan is not that bad," the sleuth said, shrugging. Mary beamed. "With a few adjustments," Sherlock conceded quickly, once John had yelled her name sternly, scolding and shocked. "He's going to believe we're bringing him the bust," she explained "but he won't be killed. He'll be arrested for attempted receiving stolen goods and blackmail. I really have to urge you to denounce him. I'm sure many will follow your example."
"So he'll ruin me," Mary pointed out, unconvinced, walking up and down like a caged beast.
"We'll protect you," John replied immediately.
"Of course we will," Sherlock echoed, nodding.
"That's very sweet of you, but –" Mary objected.
"And you'll be in witness protection program," the detective added, cutting in.
"Still," Mary said, frowning.
"And we'd be forced to hunt you down if you committed murder. I have friends in Interpol. You can run, but you can't escape me," Sherlock declared with an ice-cold smile.
"Is it a challenge?" Mary queried, instinctively squaring her shoulders.
"A promise," the brunette countered simply.
Something in her expression made Mary back down, and she never backed down. "Yeah. Well. Anyway, we have a bust to steal first," she said, shrugging.
"I thought we were meant to protect it," John reminded everyone.
"Magnussen won't meet us if it's not stolen. We'll simply misplace it a bit," Sherlock announced matter-of-factly.
"And we'll lose the fee for this case," the former thief pointed out. It was quite obvious, really.
"Money is of no consequence, John. I told you. I hate blackmailers," the detective snapped, clearly wishing to close the conversation. John couldn't help but wonder why the matter elicited such a passion.
That night at least, to follow the plan they'd concocted, John had abandoned the Christmas-themed jumpers for a more classical (for a thief) all black attire that suited him very much, making him look less cuddly and more dangerous (not that Sherlock cared about his attire – at all).
His mobile phone beeped angrily. "Mary is still miffed that we're the ones doing it. she maintains she should be doing the stealing," he announced, reading the text.
"As you told her this morning, we're meant to protect it – and I don't trust her not to flee with it. We're not stealing. We're simply relocating it," Sherlock replied, dismissive.
"Thank you for trusting me. and you're right, of course. Relocating," John agreed, nodding with a smile on his lips.
"You're welcome," the sleuth said automatically, and found out he was right – she trusted him, instinctively and right from the start. Why, though? Sure, John saved her life – but she'd picked him to share her deepest secrets with even before that. Not having a rational justification for her choices scared her. Maybe she should mistrust him more.
John found out that as a thieving partner the sleuth was admirable. Between the two of them, they'd disabled the alarm (John – seven minutes after all), put the cameras on loop (Sherlock), picked the lock (John again, asking if he could do the honours) and taken to the air conducts not to meet any of the guards patrolling in the museum's corridors. Trigger-happy Mary might dare to walk around, not afraid to bump into anyone, but if at all possible they'd like to be unnoticed.
Only the alarm around the bust they didn't disable – they wanted the theft to be discovered and publicised, after all – and while it blared, they took back to the air vents with their loot, hiding the bust in one of the conducts. The guards soon arrived running, and they looked around, but didn't manage to understand how it had been done, because John had taken care to put back the grille after them, and ran around looking for them vainly. With a considerate good timing in leaving the air conducts and a burst of speed, they managed to escape undetected, leaving the door open after them, so nobody would imagine the bust to still be inside the museum.
They were still close when they started giggling. "That was great," John breathed. The reason he'd gotten into thievery. Not (just) the money.
"Yeah, it was," she agreed, enjoying the way his hand had slipped into hers while they ran away.
"Tomorrow morning the theft will be on the papers, and in the afternoon we can trap Magnussen," the blond remarked, eager for it to happen.
"And Mary will be safe, and you can have longer dates," the detective bit back, letting him go.
"Mary won't feel safe until Magnussen is dead, I'm afraid, and whether she feels or not, she's probably gonna leave anyway. Always been a flighty one, her. I honestly don't think there are going to be more dates," John countered, feeling the shift in his companion's mood and not liking it.
"Pity," Sherlock quipped, even if she thought the opposite.
"To be honest, I won't miss her much. For all that she was usually the one fleeing, we know that she likes me more than I like her – not a situation a person relishes. If the witness protection program sends her to the other coast, it's fine with me," he declared, shrugging. He meant it, too.
The following afternoon (after Mrs Hudson had dealt with a furious Mr Carter all morning, denying him firmly any access to the detectives) saw a disgruntled Mary with an empty case in a warehouse, ready to do 'the exchange' with compromising documents about her, while police captain Dimmock with two of his men, John and Sherlock hid in the vicinity.
Even knowing he was a blackmailer, they didn't expect Magnussen himself – who'd come with two goons, which John was eyeing warily (he could take down one, and he hoped Mary could deal with the other) – to act, swift as a snake, once the case was revealed empty. The media tycoon pulled a gun at Mary's temple, wrenching her arm viciously behind her back.
Before Dimmock could intervene, Sherlock came out, hands in the air. "Fine. We tried and we lost. Can't blame us, can you, Charlie? Don't worry, you'll get your damn ugly bust," she declared loudly.
"And who should this pretty lady be, Mary dear?" Magnussen hissed in his captive's ear.
"My lover," Mary quipped. "Jealous?"
Magnussen only smirked, all teeth, like a shark. "The Bambino Malato, please, babes," he ordered, sounding bored.
"It's not here, and I don't know where Mary put it. You won't believe what a mess our rooms are – can't find a single thing without an archaeological excavation. Mostly ny fault, to be honest, but still. Take me and let her go get it," Sherlock declared, taking a step towards them.
"Then we have a problem, my dear. Because, you see, I don't believe 'Mary' would rescue you. Only after her own interest, that's what our A.G.R.A. is. Now, if you only tell us where you put it, my men can go get it and –" Magnussen never ended that thought. There was a pop, like if someone had opened a bottle of champagne, and a red flower bloomed on his front. Shoot between the eyes, the body fell heavily over Mary, who shrugged. making it fall to the floor. At the same time, the policemen rushed to handcuff the surprised goons.
"Who was it?" Sherlock queried, turning sharply.
"I did," Dimmock said, crossing his arms, "you were just messing up and endangering the hostage even more. And if I'd come forth Magnussen would undoubtedly have shooted her outright. It was the only way."
"It was not!" the sleuth replied angrily, "once we got rid of the goons I could have disarmed him. I just needed him to let me a bit closer."
"Yes, no matter, everything ended well. Thank you officer. I think I need a stiff drink now. Can we move to a bar?" Mary interjected, batting her eyelashes at the police captain.
John didn't doubt that she'd drug the policemen to get out of having to sign forms and end up with all her information on a police file, even as the victim – that was the last thing she'd want. It was what he would have done, too. "I think I'll go to our client – he'll be anxious for the bust to get back to its proper place," he remarked nonchalantly.
"Coming," Sherlock agreed.
"Now everyone wait a minute! I'm the one who decides here," Dimmock growled. "Jones, Hunt, accompany these two gentlemen to the police station and tell your colleagues that there's a body to dispose of here. Mr. Watson, it's fine, you can go – you have a point. Miss Morstan, you're in shock, so before filling all the necessary forms I suppose I can get a drink in you – I'll accompany you to the nearest bar." (Oh, the power of eyelashes!) "But Miss Holmes, you aren't going anywhere until I've expounded in great detail how you don't take initiatives in a police operation – especially one led by me – and endanger hostages. You're coming with us. I'm still not sure I won't find some accusation that'll stick to you."
The sleuth only rolled her eyes, making a face, but gave up arguing.
For the second time in two days, Sherlock woke up from a drugged sleep. This time, though, she recognised what had happened. She hadn't eaten in over twenty hours, so there was no way it was digestion causing it. The headache (Mary must have been heavy handed with the dose) didn't help too. She left the policeman still gently snoring on the table and went home.
She needed at least a shower before the hunt.
Because surely that's what had happened. She'd fled, joined John who knew where the bust was hidden, they'd take it and sell it to the highest bidder. It wasn't anymore an ugly thing. It would be soon the thing Magnussen had been killed over. An infamous piece. Yes, John had certainly joined forces with his old (new?) lover. And she'd trusted the man. Mummy was right – she still missed things. Huge things. Well, she'd catch them in the end.
The last thing Sherlock expected was to find a cheerful John sitting on his armchair.
"You're…here," she pointed out dazedly.
"And you don't usually state the obvious. I think you need a not-drugged beverage. Tea. Tea fixes everything in the world. And a paracetamol, maybe. Headache? Yes, it's obvious. Mary has never learned the proper doses for harmless drugging. Anyway, good news. My miraculous retrieval of the bust – pity you couldn't watch my deduction show, it was a great imitation if I can say so myself – and the fact that it never left the museum somehow made up for our failure to protect. We're getting half the fee – better than nothing. Mr Carter also appreciated my suggestion to call it the Bored Bust – it sometimes gets up and leaves for a short time, but it always gets back home on its own."
Sherlock had flopped down on her armchair, letting him chatter cheerfully while he took care of her, handing her a glass of water with a paracetamol and putting the kettle on.
"I wasn't endangering the hostage," she said sulkily, once his chitchat died down.
"I know – you were trying to endanger only yourself, as usual," he agreed, shaking his head fondly. "There's one thing bugging me. Is it normal for police captains to have silencers on their guns?"
"You think he wanted to shoot him – without attracting attention. But that would mean –" the sleuth replied, frowning.
"That he had a reason for shooting him. Same as Mary, probably. Dimmock is awfully young to have such a high position. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd reached it with other ways than sheer merit," John concluded, smirking.
"Well, if he did, we have no evidence, and there must have been a long line of people wanting to shoot Magnussen. I don't think we can do anything, John," the detective admitted, shrugging.
"Oh, I don't want to. I'm just wondering how to make him more polite – but probably it's not worth it. We'll see," the former thief countered, moving to the kitchen where the kettle had just whistled.
When he came back with a cup of tea for her, the flat's door opened. A woman, unannounced, took in the scene before her and scrutinized John, her eyes raking through him, up and down, before nodding and closing the door. Sherlock groaned loudly.
"What was that?" John queried, flabbergasted.
"You have my mother's blessings," the sleuth explained, very put upon. She took a sip to calm herself.
"Not that I'm not happy, but she didn't even say a word to me," the blond remarked, incredulous.
"Trust me – she didn't have to," the detective assured. She took another sip of her tea and sighed, not in exasperation but in pleasure. She could get used to John's tea.
P.S. The theft and restitution of Medardo Rosso's Bambino Malato (Sick Child) really happened in December 2014 at the GNAM (Galleria Nazionale di Arte Moderna e contemporanea – National Gallery of Modern and contemporary Art) in Rome. The thief was never caught. The Bambino Malato really is thought to bring bad luck to any exhibit it appears in and its owners. Also, the Loeb Boathouse exists but it didn't have any poisoning to my knowledge. That's as far as real life appears in the chapter.