Disclaimer: I own nothing still. I am very very sorry this comes a day late, but Sunday I've been to the cinema to watch Mr Holmes and it messed up all my schedule. I don't regret it though.
Episode 9: "Are we still pretending?"
When John got back from the shopping, he was welcomed by Sherlock holding a golden ring and offering it to him – right past the door – with a bashful smile. She might not be on her knees, but it was quite impossible to mistake the situation – she was proposing. Marriage. He dropped the bags where he stood and gaped for a second – or two. Then, he quipped, voice surprisingly steady, "Traditionally it is the man doing the asking. And while I know you loath tradition, usually both parties are aware they're dating before taking one such step. Though I suppose we could consider…"
She blushed and cut in quickly, "No! No, no, nothing like that. a client came in while you were out. A divorce lawyer. Someone's trying to kill him. And we're supposed to go undercover – as clients. He suspects some of the wives (well, soon to be ex-wives) of his clients might be behind this. That's what you need a wedding band for. It's part of your cover."
It was John's turn to blush brightly and stammer, "Oh. A case. Of course – of course it would be. So we're divorcing before we get to have any of the good stuff together, are we? Pity, that." Cheeky, yes, but he couldn't help himself.
"John," she warned sternly. That wasn't even flirting. That was...joking, that's what it was, surely. She gave him a file that laid on the table. "Here's your cover story. I expect you to learn it quickly. In two hours we have a meeting with John Straker – our client – and his wife so he can tell you all about his case in person. We're pretending to be clients so you can talk without alerting and worrying his wife. He wants to talk as soon as possible, and he doesn't want to give up the engagement he had with his spouse. He insisted on you going to him."
"I'm sorry," John replied automatically. He was angry at their client already – the man had not trusted Sherlock even to relate things properly, and wanted to see him in person to repeat what he could have known from her. Why had they taken his case? Such behaviour didn't deserve it. Then, opening the folder, he protested, "Jacob and Weslyn Sigerson?" What kind of names are those? Did you delete every character of the movies I made you watch? There are plenty aliases to pick there. I always did – before."
"Oh yes, because going like Mr Oliver and Mrs Barbara Rose wouldn't sound fake at all," she snarled. And well, she might have a point – with these names.
"Fine, not Rose, but still – your names are ridiculous!" her partner objected loudly.
"Siger means victory in Swedish," she pointed out, shrugging his complaint away.
"So miss logic picks auspicious aliases?" he replied, a smile tugging at his lips.
"It's not superstition," she spit out, angrily. "I just…I liked it."
"Oh fine, Sigerson it is," John caved in, smiling. "You don't have to get so defensive, you know – it was all in good humour. I know you, Sherlock."
Two hours later saw them on a golf course, but it wasn't long after their arrive that Straker left' the girls' to play (and how awfully Judith Straker played, too) with the not-even-excuse of a 'business meeting' with Mr Sigerson.
"Thank you for having made time to see me despite your undoubtedly busy schedule," Straker said, leading him towards the bar annexed to the course. "It is so…inconvenient that I should be targeted right now. I mean to retire soon. The continual experience of other's people pain and bitterness is so…exhausting. I long for a simpler, quieter life. But someone is determined not to let me get to that. three days ago, I got into my car and it had been rigged so that the exhausted fumes would get back inside the vehicle. Luckily I noticed it before I lost consciousness, and abandoned the car."
"Do you have any suspects?" John – no, Jacob now – asked – softly, so not to be overheard.
"I am following four divorce trials at the moment. All the wives of my clients would love to see me out of commission. They know that they have no chance to win the lion's share with me against them," the lawyer replied smugly.
"And cheers for modesty," John couldn't help but quip.
"I am the best – and I came to you because you are, too. Underestimating oneself benefits no one," Straker declared, shrugging.
"Right, of course. Now, I suppose these women can be met in court. Will you be working tomorrow?" the detective agreed, not seeing the point in starting a discussion about proper attitude.
"Yes, of course," the lawyer answered simply.
"We'll be there – and play our cards," John decided, then leaving the man to himself.
The following day, in the late afternoon, saw them all in court. The lawyer had just left the courtroom after a sharp, witty summation, when John accosted him. "Mr Straker, when is my hearing going to come?" he asked impatiently.
Just then, Sherlock arrived, marching with long, angry strides. Yelling, "You double faced, betraying, idiotic hobbit!" (John had helped her out a bit with the script). She swung her purse angrily, but both Straker and John ducked flawlessly.
"Practice makes perfect," the lawyer quipped with a complicit look at his fake client, who was already replying, just as loud, "Maybe if you weren't such an emotionally stumped, arrogant, oblivious bitch!"
The sleuth had to refrain from smiling. Good performance, John. Good performance. Very believable. A short-haired blonde with a powder blue pants suit that had left the courtroom just in time to watch the exchange came to her and put a gentle hand on her arm. The detective had to make herself not balk at the touch.
"Believe me, sister, he's not worth it. they're never worth it. come with me – you're officially part pf the club now," the strange woman prompted kindly.
"The club?" Sherlock asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
"The you're going to be ruined by Straker club. It's my hearing that just ended. Eva – Eva Brackenstall," the blonde explained with a grim smile.
"Weslyn Sigerson. I suppose I should meet your club members," she agreed with a shrug and a smile of her own. Perfect! Everything was going according to plan.
Eva led her to a nearby bar, and Sherlock was introduced to all the other club members. Mary Fraser, a slim redhead with bright eyes, who was divorcing a famous car racer. Hilda Trewlaney, a Mediterranean beauty, soon to be ex-wife of a wealthy banker. And Annie Harrison, whom her politician husband with a promising career suddenly found inadequate, once an older and more powerful congressman's daughter had winked at him.
It seemed the only reason for the club's meetings was to drown the respective sorrows in as much alcohol as one could stand. It did make for an easy source into a wealth of knowledge. Hilda rated each drink – she'd started a wine bar with the funds she had of her own, still nothing comparable to what she felt she should obtain from her husband. Mary had fallen back on her knowledge of shiatsu massage to find a job. Annie was helping a cousin with her flower shop. As for Eva, she'd married her university professor and now that that had fallen into ruin, she was looking into publishing a romance book based on her autobiography – minus the pitiful ending.
Each felt deeply wronged by her husband, and perhaps more so from the bloody lawyer twisting facts against them. "What the fuck is Straker doing here?" Hilda hissed, when the lawyer himself entered the bar, John trailing behind him.
"Never mind that – who's the eye candy with him?" Mary quipped, openly ogling.
"He's mine. You go to find your own," Sherlock protested immediately, sullen and perhaps too loud.
"You're divorcing that muffin? Why?" Annie quipped, refilling for the umpteenth time the sleuth's glass.
"He flirts with anything that breathes. For all I know, he flirted with Straker, too!" Sherlock moaned, letting her head fall on the table, barely cushioned by her arms.
Eva sized her up with a long look, before getting up to order a stronger drink for her. "You poor thing. You're still besotted," she declared, patting her sympathetically on the shoulder.
" 'M not" the sleuth protested, slurring her words.
"Look, I was the same. I didn't want to divorce. I wanted Tom to stop treating me like one of his trophies. But when I complained, he went to Straker, and in a hour he was convinced that a divorce was the only sensible thing. Straker talked to me. afterwards, and he convinced me of the same too, no matter how much I didn't want to give Tom up. He's like an used car salesman," Mary narrated, sighing deeply.
"I don't love him," the detective protested again, with a bit of a mewl in her voice.
"Sure, sure, sister, whatever you say. You need another drink now, though," Hilda said, laughing loudly.
"He's coming here!" Annie whispered excitedly.
"I'd say you've had quite enough to drink, Wes," John murmured, helping Sherlock up by the arm.
"What do you care?" the sleuth whined, confrontational.
"I want a divorce, not to become a widow due to alcohol poisoning. It wouldn't be half as fun," he quipped, looking reproachfully to the gathering of half-smashed women at the table. "Come on, I'll bring you home," he prompted quietly.
Sherlock stumbled and half-nuzzled him, even while she murmured, "Don't like you. I've made friends."
"Home, Wes," John insisted again, holding her up and trying to manoeuver her away from their suspects.
"Fine," she finally huffed. "Bye, girls." She waved exaggeratedly, and her new acquaintances waved back. Sherlock was just a few paces away, but could still hear Eva declare giggling, "He still cares for her. How sweet!"
"I'd 'lmost solved that," the sleuth complained in a whine, once safe in the cab.
"You were going to give yourself away – or pass out. That's what drunks do. Believe me, I know," John replied, unamused.
" 'mnot," Sherlock slurred sullenly.
"Then deduce the cabbie for me," her partner challenged, quirking a smile.
"He's…a man?" the detective said, squinting her eyes.
"Aren't we sure about that?" John teased good-humouredly.
"Oi!" the outraged, bearded cabbie protested loudly.
"Sorry, my friend's drunk," the former thief apologized automatically, then goading her, "What else?"
"Maybe I'm tipsy. A bit," Sherlock conceded, which clearly meant she had nothing to add.
"Yeah. Maybe," John agreed, smirking.
"The world's shaking…steady me?" she requested, plaintive.
"Yes, of course," he agreed.
The sleuth somehow ended up curled up all over John. "That's better," she sighed, content.
"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Much." And damn him for having enough of a conscience not to take advantage of the situation (well, if he did that he'd ultimately get surely evicted and maybe jailed, so keeping his instincts under control was for the better). He could card his hand gently though her hair, though, that wasn't a mistake. She purred at that.
At home, though, it was some water and then bed for her. Alone, even if she tried to keep a hold of him, but she fell asleep soon enough. Still, there was no doubt that she'd have a ferocious headache when she'd wake up, no doubt.
When Straker called, in a panic, at three in the morning, saying he just woke up to hear someone tampering with his car, John tried to tell Sherlock that she could sit this out. "It was probably a nightmare anyway," he claimed.
But the phone call had woken her up, and she wouldn't hear of it, despite still being unsteady on her feet. "You forget who's the actual detective out of the two of us," she hissed, cranky. It was clearly the hangover, and John didn't hold it against her.
When they arrived, they were welcomed by the furious barking of two white, lean, strong, luckily chained up dogs. "Sandor! Gregor! Heel! Shut up! Oh my – I'm sorry, the only one these beasts respond to is my wife, and yesterday she got a call from a hysterical friend, asking her to spend the night," the lawyer yelled over the racket.
"Now, Mr Straker, are we certain that you didn't just have a nightmare? Being threatened can do things to people's nerves," John said oh-so-very reasonably.
"I was awake! Don't you think I know the difference between awake and asleep? And someone. Was. Tinkering. With. My. Car!" Straker insisted, outraged.
"I'll look it over, but I'm not a mechanic, mind," the former thief warned with a shrug. "It looks fine," he declared after a quick exam, "but the only way to be sure is to make a trial run." "Say a little prayer for me," he added in a whisper against his partner's ear.
Her eyes telegraphed fear. "Should you…?" they asked wordlessly, but John didn't let himself be strayed by her concern. He was already in the car. The moment he tried to engage reverse, the car jumped forward – and a moment later it exploded.
The soot and smoke obscured the shocked onlookers' vision…and at the same time, Sherlock lost the contents of her stomach. Straker looked as disgusted by that as he was from John's emerging whole and hale, apparently having jumped out just in time, and with a sheepish grin on his face.
"The gears were switched – and it activated the bomb," John explained. "I'd never seen one like that." Which was the absolute truth. He was more an expert in grenades and mines.
"It looked fine, eh? I had a nightmare, eh? And your associate – she's drunk. Know what, Mr Watson, I believe I made a mistake considering you the best. You're fired," the lawyer growled angrily.
"But…" John tried to object.
"Fired, Mr Watson," Straker reiterated, rather vehemently.
"Your loss," Sherlock quipped. Getting back up and starting to leave with all the poise of a (still slightly unsteady) princess. Straker choked, rendered wordless by his own outrage, and John could only trot hurriedly behind her.
"Are we really giving up the case?" he queried, shocked. The sleuth loved her work.
"He'll come back on his knees," she assured smirking.
As always, she was right. Three days later, the lawyer called in what could only be described only as abject panic. "There's a sniper in front of my house!" he mewled. "She's shouting at me!"
"You've fired us, Mr Straker. Why should we care?" Sherlock, who'd answered the call, replied, smugly.
"You're hired back!" he shouted. "Just tell Mr Watson to get here before I'm dead!"
They hurried to the rescue, John grinning at the prospect to have a shoot-out. Sadly the shots ended as soon as they arrived, and while they could determine where the sniper had been hiding, she – or he, they supposed, it could have been a hired gun – had already fled by the time they reached it.
"Any clues?" John asked, clearly expecting her to solve the case.
"Our sniper hasn't been kind. No footprints, no hairs, no fingerprints. I can't work without data," Sherlock complained, frustrated.
"At least we know that she knows our real identities, and does not believe us to be Mr and Mrs Sigerson. She wouldn't have fled as soon as she was us, if she believed we were just clients coming to consult a lawyer," the doctor pointed out. But what did this mean for their case?
"I told you that your eagerness for fame might end in good advertising and indeed bring in more cases but would have been a nightmare for actual work. For all we know everyone involved recognized you and is being too polite to mention it," the sleuth chided sharply. Articles on them? Bloody comics? That's what it came to. Missing their target.
John shrugged, and led her to Straker's – maybe the lawyer had some intel. Once again, as soon as they rang the bell, the dogs started a racket.
"I'm sorry to say, she's escaped us. But we were hoping you could tell us something more," the doctor said when the man opened the door.
"No, I've not anything to tell – I was making myself a coffee, when the first shot almost got me. I had enough sense to duck and stay as much out of the windows' opening as possible, and then called you. Never mind that you didn't catch her, never mind that – you saved my life with your prompt intervention. I have no doubt that she'd get tired of randomly shooting and she'd break in and murder me if you hadn't come. Let's celebrate. Coffee is not right for now – I don't want to get more agitated. But an anonymous, grateful client left this at my office. It's my favourite," the lawyer chatted away, talking quite quickly – still half-hysterical – and offering them a bottle of vintage wine.
Sherlock quickly snatched the bottle out of his hands. "Nobody drinks this before I've experimented on it," she declared loudly.
"What?" Straker blurted out, clearly uncomprehending.
"She's right, you know. Any anonymous gifts are more than a little suspect right now. What if it's poisoned?" John explained calmly, even if he thought it should really have been obvious to anyone with two brain cells (his partner was rubbing off on him).
The lawyer blanched. "Do you think –" he choked out, terrified.
"I won't think anything until the analysis' results. I promise we won't waste much of it, and that we'll return it to you if it's safe to drink," John replied. So maybe he'd stolen the sleuth's method of never theorizing before the data, but it was a good one.
"The earlier we leave, the earlier we'll have results," the sleuth pointed out, clearly impatient.
"Yes, yes, of course. Go – and thank you. You might have saved my life twice in an hour," Straker replied, smiling gratefully at them.
Back to their flat, Sherlock was having fun studying the wine. "I knew!" she blurted out, enthusiastic. "There's enough N,N′-dimethyl-4,4′-bipyridinium dichloride in this to murder an entire party."
"Dimethyl what?" John echoed, frustrated. He was a doctor, but he didn't know the formula of every poison out there.
"An herbicide," she explained for the dim-witted.
"This is getting odder and odder," he remarked, frowning. "after that attempt with the car, I'd have bet on the car racer's wife, but this…this points to both Mrs Trewlaney, the wine seller, and Annie Harrison, with the flowers' shop. She certainly has herbicides on hand. There's only one thing to do now, you realise."
"And that would be?" the sleuth queried. John's initiatives were always something to consider attentively.
"I'll buy a bottle exactly like this one and try to get our suspects to toast with me. Only the murderer won't want to," he revealed, with a look that told that he believed it was obvious.
"And anyone else will want to drink with you? Think you are irresistible, do you?" Sherlock teased, grinning at him.
"I have my ways," John assured confidently.
The detective figured he had enough experience backing his confidence up, and repressed the useless, illogic irritation this caused her.
John stumbled into the flat hours later, clearly drunk. " 'T's not fair!" he whined.
"What?" she queried mildly amused – and very happy that they weren't drunk at the same time (God knew what might happen then).
"Nobody drank a drop with me! I flirted, and cajoled, and challenged, and teased. I went all out. Not. One. Drop. Anyone," John revealed, clearly affronted by this slight at his seductive power. "I had to drink the whole bottle by myself," he explained, mournful. "Would you drink with me?" he added, sounding unsure.
"I will. Here," the sleuth said, pushing a glass towards him.
"That's water," John protested, with a(n adorable) pout.
"You can toast with water too, and you really shouldn't have more alcohol. Come on, John. To us!" she prompted, taking a sip of water herself, hoping that it would work (it did).
"To us!" he agreed, gulping down his water. They toasted together a few other times, always with water, to solving this case and to Mrs Hudson and to interesting murderers. Then John queried, "Lockie?"
"Lockie?" she echoed, baffled, not knowing how she should take her new nickname.
"I really, really like you," her partner confessed, smiling in a dazed way.
She sighed. "I like you too, John." More than she should, or than it would be wise, that was for sure. "Now off to bed with you," she prompted, taking him by the arm and helping him up the stairs to his bedroom. The last thing she wanted was for to him to take a tumble down them and get hurt.
Still, when he grinned and landed a butterfly kiss on her shoulder, she almost threw him down herself. Warn a woman, would you? Wasn't that the polite thing to do? "To sleep, John!" Sherlock growled sternly. "Don't make me regret being kind."
The drunk man pouted once again. " But Sheeer," he whined.
Thank God they were in his bedroom already. "Here we are. Behave, John!" the sleuth said firmly. Now she only had to leave.
"Will you at least sing me to sleep?" John queried softly.
She kept in a laugh, but couldn't stop a smile. He'd gone from Don Juan to five years old in under a minute. She thought she had the exclusive on that trick. "I'll do better," she promised. He protested, holding out a hand from where he'd collapsed on the bed, when she made to leave, but she had to. A moment later a soft, sweet violin lullaby resonated in the house.
"That's it. We're holding a reunion of the suspects. At Straker's. I solved it," John declared the following day, when he'd stopped feeling like death warmed over.
"Did you?" the sleuth queried, raising a rather incredulous eyebrow. How can getting drunk be conducive to case-solving?
"I'll give you a clue: Some of us, in the words of the divine Greta Garbo, want to be alone. It's not from a Garbo movie, but I did make you watch this one – and I think you might remember the quote. It looks just up your street," the doctor said, with a lopsided grin.
"I don't need clues. I solved it, too," she huffed haughtily.
"Of course you did, what was I thinking. I'm informing our client he'll have to play host," John replied, shaking his head.
At Straker's, they were welcomed by the usual chorus of the dogs – but this time it was short lived. "Heel," Judith Straker hissed, and they quietened immediately. At least until the first guest arrived, Hilda Trewlaney, with a grim smile on her face. Every time someone came even near the house, the dogs started their ruckus back, and a now snappish Mrs Straket had to shut them up.
"So? What did you want?" Eva Brackenstall demanded when the reunion was complete.
"I've been asked to determine which one of you four ladies, which our victim suspected, was responsible for the attempts to murder Mr Straker. I've had the hardest time, then I realised that I was considering the wrong angle. There wasn't only one of you involved. It was a conspiration between all four of you – like in Murder on the Orient Express," John declared, looking rather smug.
Sherlock managed not to roll her eyes. Solved the case, indeed. She interjected quickly, "That's what police captain Lestrade would think, taking the hints at face value – the wine, the herbicide, the manumission of the car. But you've explained to me that this would be an even more crass error, boss."
"Did I?" John almost asked, baffled. But he was used enough to adapt plans on the spot that instead he agreed, without missing a beat, "Of course I did. Do you want to tell us?"
"Our most important clue is the curious incident of the dogs in the night-time – and in daylight, too," the sleuth revealed – if such an enigmatic sentence could even be classed as that.
"What?" Straker blurted out, comprehensibly perplexed. John was very glad someone had asked, since for acting's sake he couldn't do so himself.
"When you woke up to someone in your yard, messing up with your car, did you hear the dogs barking?" the detective asked, wondering how anyone could miss such big hints.
"What – no – I just heard the murderer mechanic. Or bomber. Or whatever," the lawyer replied, somehow uncharacteristically for someone who should be very eloquent.
"And when we came to deal with the sniper, the dogs were quiet – until they saw us. Can you imagine guard dogs not making a peep against gunshots much more, at someone invading their yard, their territory? Especially nervous ones like these?" Sherlock pointed out reasonably.
"Well, they were quiet," Mr Straker remarked, looking more and more bewildered.
"Because the one person who could control them calmed them, like she did today, isn't that true, Mrs Straker?" the detective concluded, turning to the lawyer's wife with a decidedly predatory expression.
"Judith wouldn't –" the lawyer objected, but his wife cut him in sharply, "I worked my ass off to pay for your studies. And now that you're famous and rich and I'm finally enjoying my life you want to retire God knows where. What did you tell me? 'In the midst of the desert, far away from humans and their silly troubles'? I invested on you, and now you want to rob me of my gain!" Her accusation was thrown in an angry hiss.
"Not all guilty – all innocents. We can go now, I texted Lestrade and he'll be here to collect her soon. I think Mrs Straker will be too busy arguing with her husband to flee," the sleuth remarked with a smirk.
"I'm borrowing him for a moment," Annie Harrison said with a mischievous grin, dragging John in a nearby room. After a short time, the former thief was back (and oddly, he didn't look shagged or kissed or anything-ed – not that Sherlock was complaining about that).
They were on the road in front of Straker's mansion, waiting for a cab, when John murmured against his partner's lips, "If you want to save my life, go along with this." And he kissed her. On the mouth. Passionately. She did go along with it – having him die would be terribly inconvenient (and fine, she was enjoying herself quite a bit too much). The former suspects whistled happily at the scene.
A cab stopped for them once they paused to regain breath, and that pause dragged long enough to tell the destination and for John to explain, "Nobody drank with me because they didn't want to hurt you by accepting my flirting. They said, and I quote, 'we obviously still love each other', so if I didn't start behaving and made you happy they would conspire. For my demise." And then he kissed her anew. They continued kissing all the way home, with some –short – pauses for breath interspersed in. And then John kissed her again against their home's door.
"Are we still pretending?" she queried, breathless. "They can't see you anymore, you know."
"Sorry, I got a little carried away. But I'm not kissing you for pretence – never have been. I'm kissing you because I've always loved you, and stopping didn't even cross my mind," he admitted, shrugging lightly.
"You. Love. Me?" Sherlock choked out, incredulous.
"Obviously," John replied cheekily. Hadn't it been bloody self-evident since day one?
"Then tell me the truth about you. I'm afraid I might love you back, but if I can't trust you, how can I give in?" she demanded.
"You're afraid?" the former thief echoed. This had to be the oddest declaration he'd received – and he did have quite a lot of experience on the matter.
"I am," she confessed honestly, a slight trembling in her voice.
"I will tell you anything that ever happened to me, I swear," John promised ardently. Of course, he didn't have much to gloat about regarding his life, but if full disclosure would get him Sherlock, then it was a small price to pay. He'd always thought that keeping his mystery would ensure she didn't bore of him, but apparently he'd been wrong.
"You will?" the sleuth wondered, incredulous.
"On one condition: you'll let me continue to be John Watson afterwards. I'm rather fond of him," he replied, smiling.
"I'm rather fond of him as well. Shall we continue the…conversation inside?" Sherlock offered, smiling back.