A/N: A very warm hello to anyone still following this fanfic. Much like with my P&P WIP, I've not abandoned/forgotten this story, but I have been struggling with inspiration for quite a while. After many drafts/rewrites/rethinks, I'm finally satisfied with this chapter and its flow in the story, and am very excited to post.
Thank you to everyone who was/still is reading, for your patience and understanding, and for the lovely reviews left in the interim. Your support and encouragement really mean a great deal, and I fully intend to keep working on this story, even if updates might end up being with sporadic timing. Thanks again to everyone, and hope you all enjoy this chapter :D
Chapter 16: Well in Hand
The next day was undoubtedly a Stradivarius day.
Put another way – the case was in dire need of reevaluation, and Sherlock knew that, barring the presence of a receptive companion, playing was the most effective way of doing so. Music often became the tangible electrical conductor through which his ideas flowed, out through his fingertips and into the air around him.
He never really knew what he was going to play until he was already playing it – that was the very nature of his most productive sessions; spontaneous, instinctive, unrestricted - meandering, but never without a purpose, even if the purpose wasn't always evident to him at first. He gave the melodies free reign, letting them go wherever they pleased, allowing them to jump naturally from motif to motif, some from famous compositions, some of his own invention; and inevitably, his errant thoughts would fall in line with the curve of the music.
Almost as soon as Sherlock started playing, the phrasing became quick and sharp, and he let it take its course - short bursts of staccato, interspersed with reedy strains of annoyance. Last night had been a frustrating pastiche of turbulences, one after the other. He needed to go carefully through the events of the night once more, editing out anything which was superfluous, but this time, it was proving itself to be a harder task than usual. So much of the night had been an odd jumble of diversions and irrelevancies, a Rolodex of sharp images, flashes of memory imprinted on his mind; only the ones in sharpest relief were somehow the ones that were least useful – blinking into focus to see Molly standing over him with a serving platter, the glass case shattering cacophonously on the floor, Gruner's purring voice, almost as low as a whisper – I might even make you an offer; and that moment on the street afterwards, Molly taking a step away from him, arms crossing protectively, closed-off, hurt - as usual, the consequence of something he'd said, even if the exact source of injury was not entirely evident to him this time. Sherlock realized suddenly that his playing had become cyclical, a single clinging phrase being repeated over and over, and with an effort, he broke out of it, pushing his thoughts back in the direction of the case.
In the end, Katherine Winter had really been the only advantage to come of last night, and it had been a matter of luck he couldn't rely upon to strike again; he had made a miscalculation by searching the estate, and the only thing he'd gained from it was the certainty that wherever the evidence was, Gruner must keep it hidden close to him, never too far out of his reach. Where it was, and how to get to it, however, were not insignificant considerations; and more pressingly, he needed to consider how best to proceed now that he had lost his precious advantage of surprise. It really wouldn't do to start moving pawns around aimlessly until he knew which piece his opponent intended to put forward in response.
The night before had ended shortly after the cab ride, when he and Molly had climbed up the steps to 221B and he'd walked gratifiedly into his flat, only to find Lestrade sitting cozily in John's chair, Irene across from him in Sherlock's and staring at the inspector with a hawkish pleasure. So – Molly had texted Lestrade to meet her there after the gala. Sherlock wondered pointlessly if it had been at the start or the end of the evening.
The Inspector had stood up hastily as they entered, a guilty glance thrown towards Irene Adler as he did so, but when he turned to them, he did a visible double-take at Molly as she came in behind Sherlock.
"My God –" he'd said, his mouth falling open oafishly.
Molly had smiled shyly, pausing at the threshold, and then struck a dramatic, exaggerated pose against the doorframe. "Hooper. Molly Hooper," she'd said, her face mock-serious, though it was evident she was trying to hold back a smile.
"You – you're –" He'd cleared his throat awkwardly, "I mean, you - "
For God's sake, get it out, man, Sherlock thought irritably, shedding his coat and notching it on the hook of his stand.
"You look stunning, Molls," Lestrade finally finished with an awed sort of wonder. The pleased blush flooded over Molly's cheeks instantly.
Irene had stood up, coming over to where Sherlock was rifling through the table's papers, crumpling most of them up unceremoniously and tossing them onto the floor. "And that's," she'd whispered, leaning in towards him, "how you give a woman a compliment."
Something violent had suddenly roared in Sherlock's chest – petulant and volatile and mercurial – and then had snuffed out just as quickly.
He'd made the ill-advised decision of glancing out the window as Lestrade and Molly came out onto the sidewalk and had the misfortune of seeing Lestrade grab Molly by the waist, swinging her round ridiculously while he kissed her. They'd broken away from each other, and somehow, even from all the way up there, Sherlock could see Molly's unguarded grin, could hear her breathless laughter.
He'd flicked the curtain closed, returning to discarding all the useless papers that had led up to the preparation for the gala.
The curtains were still closed this morning – somehow, the bright light outside had felt intrusive to his thoughts as he scraped away at his violin. He became aware once more of his playing, which had turned onto a floating, searching sort of melody, soft and exploring and uncertain.
"Suggestive, isn't it?"
Sherlock unintentionally skipped a note at the unexpected interjection but continued playing, not bothering to turn towards Irene. She had stayed out of his way so far this morning, but he had hardly expected the peace to last even this long. "Regarding?" he responded.
"Your coat," she said, her tone inscrutable, baiting. "Molly not wanting to take it from you. Don't you think?"
Sherlock missed another note, and then, suddenly, dragged his bow across the strings in a painful screech of displeasure, ending his playing as he finally turned to face her. She was curled into John's chair, wearing an unfamiliar lilac pencil dress, as if she were planning to go out, her hands wrapped around a mug. She blew across the surface of her coffee and then looked back up at Sherlock innocently. "Well, surely, it's quite revealing, isn't it? I'm curious, actually -" she leaned forwards slightly, "- as to what you read from it?"
Sherlock laid his violin and bow down onto his chair carelessly, going over to sit in front of his laptop on the table. He'd known Irene would have attempted to wheedle something out of it sooner or later – she wasn't one to let a disconcerting moment slip her by. The more someone tried to avoid it, the more she would simply dig in, like a cat burying its unyielding claws into skin.
"Well, I suppose I gathered that she didn't want my coat," he said churlishly, flicking through his various open tabs.
"Oh, come, Sherlock," Irene said, as if he were being a stubbornly obtuse pupil, and set down her mug. "Why? Why didn't she want your coat?"
Sherlock swiveled in his chair towards Irene sharply. "Honestly, Irene, if you're trying to lead me to the shocking revelation that the refusal of a coat is a woman's way of indicating her romantic disinterest, consider me un-astounded."
"Really? Is that what you took from it?" Irene said, her eyebrow raising in wonderment. "How interesting…." she continued thoughtfully. "You're usually so good when it comes to making deductions. Then again," she picked up her mug once more, taking a small sip and gazing at him pointedly, "you do also have a history of occasionally missing the obvious."
Sherlock was saved from having to reply by the sound of Mrs. Hudson noisily clomping up the steps before peeking her head in. "Sherlock, you have a visitor! He's sent up his card," she held up a small gilt business card gingerly between two fingertips, peering at it. "It says here he's a…" she lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper, "…a viscount."
Sherlock stood abruptly, shutting his laptop. Well then – it seemed Gruner would save him the suspense after all. "Upstairs," he said in a low tone to Irene as he wrenched apart the curtains, letting the sunlight flood in. "And don't come out." For once, she obeyed, grabbing her mug and disappearing silently up the steps to the spare room.
He grabbed his violin and bow from his seat, setting them on the table before he settled in their place. "Send him up," he said to Mrs. Hudson, his fingers tapping on the arm of his chair.
It wasn't long before Viscount Adelbert Gruner appeared on the threshold. He was dressed with an air of careless grandeur, the genteel sort of casualness that could be afforded when your bank accounts had innumerable trailing zeros to them. A dark blue sweater, thin and taut, grey trousers and sleek loafers, a Vacheron Constantin watch.
His eyes flashed almost silver in the sunlight. "Mr. Holmes. I was so hoping I could catch you while you were in."
Sherlock gave him a thin-lipped smile. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Gruner came in, his hands tucked causally in his pockets, and made a show of surveying the sitting room and its state of refined bedlam. "Ah. So this is where all the clever mysteries get solved, I gather."
"Some of them," Sherlock said, lifting his chin. Gruner smiled at him easily, uncaringly, and then settled into John's chair, leaning back into it comfortably, and crossed his hands in his lap. There was nothing definably ominous about his manner, nothing in his expression, and yet his calm affability was too stiff, too preternatural.
"So, Sherlock…" he began amiably, "- oh, you don't mind if I call you that, do you? It's just, I've always thought you can drop a certain formality once someone's come to visit you in your home… as you so graciously did with me last night." His eyes hardened suddenly, like molten mercury freezing over. "I really do wish you had just asked for an invitation, by the way – I'd have happily added you to the list."
"Oh, you know, didn't want to be an imposition," Sherlock said coolly, to which Gruner gave an indulgent smile, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the case of his watch.
"It's my understanding," Gruner continued, "– and do feel free to correct me if I'm wrong – but it's my understanding, Sherlock, that you've been hired by my in-laws to dissolve my engagement. Now, don't misconstrue me, they're lovely people – they really do mean well – but…." He tilted his head, his expression inviting sympathy, "you can probably also see how, from my end, it's beginning to be somewhat of a nuisance."
"Mm," Sherlock said, as if this were a new consideration for him. "I suppose I can see how it might be rather inconvenient for you."
Gruner gave another genial smile, though his eyes were blue flint. "Yes. Especially…especially, when you break one of the most priceless pieces in my collection." His finger abruptly stopped its tapping.
"Now that," Sherlock said, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair, "I take full responsibility for. You might be tempted to place some of the blame on your security, but really, I accept the fault entirely."
Gruner's returning smile was humorless. "I've come here as a friend, Sherlock. I'm willing to look past the horrible blight you've put on my beloved collection. In fact, I'm even willing to give you a bit of good-natured advice. So, here it is, from my heart to yours: give it up, old chap. You've given it a fair effort, but now, I'm afraid, it's time for you to fold."
"Interestingly enough, Gruner," Sherlock said, a smile twitching at a corner of his lips, "that was just the advice I was about to give you. Is this girl really worth the risk? The risk of having all your crimes uncovered, your reputation ruined?"
An amused smile lit up Gruner's face, quite sincere. "Oh, that's good, Sherlock. Very good." He unclasped his hands, leaning forwards. "But you can also see why I can't quite take you seriously, can't you? Seeing as you don't have any cards to your name, it's rather difficult to be intimidated by the threat of your hand. I'm sure you're already aware, but my darling Violet has had every which argument presented to her, and I assure you, she knows without a glimmer of a doubt that her place is at my side."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Tricky business, trying to predict someone's hand before they've played it."
"Oh, I don't think so," Gruner said softly, his eyes burning into Sherlock's for a moment before relaxing his gaze. He pushed himself to standing at last, giving a vaguely disappointed sigh, as if he had resigned himself to some unfortunate truth.
"Well, so be it, Sherlock. If you really do insist on playing, let's play the game. By the by, have you heard of the French politician Le Brun?"
"The regional councillor, you mean?" Sherlock said. "Viciously beaten by a group of thugs on the streets of Marseille. Crippled for life, if I recall correctly."
"You do indeed. Do you also know, by an odd coincidence, he was poking around in my personal affairs only a few weeks preceding that attack? Odd, how those things work out sometimes." Gruner stopped at the threshold, his eyes unyielding stone. "Do take care, Sherlock. It's an unpredictable world out there."
And with that final parting remark, he was gone. Sherlock stood, going over to the window, watching Gruner as he ducked into a black town car, though not before shooting a final look up at the window, a knowing, assured smile still on his face.
Sherlock turned away. He had been right to not contact Katherine Winter yet – Gruner didn't strike him as the sort of person who bothered to hold his cards close to his chest; if he'd already taken care of Katherine or suspected any plan to reach out to her, he wouldn't have hesitated to throw the knowledge in Sherlock's face.
All the same, it meant Sherlock had to be all the more careful in trying to find Katherine Winter, so as not to raise Gruner's attention. If she was at all clever, she was laying low at the moment, but she was in danger nevertheless – Gruner didn't take kindly to being threatened. He was bound to deal with her sooner or later.
Still, Sherlock rather thought she had a bit more time. For a reason he couldn't quite verbalize, he had the distinct feeling that it was his own name that currently had the honor of being at the top of Gruner's list.
It popped up on Molly's phone as a simple news notification, an undecorated two-sentence headline.
She had been eating lunch in the cafeteria at the time – a rather uninspiring Pret salad. Greg had had to cancel on her last-minute, citing an unexpected lead in one of his cases.
"Make it up to you with dinner this week?" he'd said over the phone. "One of those posh places you like? You know the type - men in tuxedoes, women in ball gowns, silent auctions…"
Greg had been using any excuse he could that week to tease Molly about the gala, and while she knew it was all good-natured, she still felt a little shock of residual guilt shoot through her each time he brought it up, possibly because she hadn't been as forthcoming on all the night's details as she could've been. Details like how she'd knocked a man out cold with a serving platter, for example; or how she'd stared into Gruner's steel-blue eyes and felt tremors dance across her skin. Details like how she'd never felt more alive, more magnificently free than the moment she'd been running for her life across a dew-soaked lawn, heels in one hand, Sherlock's in her other – all those inconvenient little details – how could she have included any of them in her retelling over their morning coffee the next day?
"Pick up the Waitrose wine I like, and we'll call it close enough," Molly had said over the phone, trying to keep her tone light.
So instead, to put a little distance between herself and the night at the gala, she'd ended up using their cancelled lunch to start putting together plans for Greg's birthday. It was always so tricky, these relationship milestones, how little or how much you were supposed to do and when, made even more complicated for them by how long they had already known each other before getting together. The truth was she already knew how Greg would want to celebrate – a quiet night at the pub with the Yard, his smattering of other friends, with her, obviously – but then, that was how he celebrated every year; back then, she'd still been just one of those very friends, stopping by for a few drinks, a tipsy kiss on the cheek as she wished him many happy returns; had she felt an attraction to him then? What she remembered most was feeling attractive, because of the way he looked at her, because of how she'd made him blush with a simple peck; that was the sort of power she'd never had over men before.
Of course, she'd never really read too much into it, then; it hadn't ever occurred to her to try to pursue anything – too complicated, too messy, too late in their friendship – and then, one night, getting drinks together after work, he'd kissed her. There had been no big speech, none of those monumental, put-everything-into-perspective moments usually required for inspiring sudden life-altering epiphanies; no swelling orchestral music, or sweeping, romantic sunset. No – just a regular Thursday evening, a few too many pints, caught under the unflattering streetlights outside the pub, her hair still tucked into a hasty bun; she'd been digging through her purse, trying to find her Oyster card; she'd just looked up to give him a rueful smile, and say, "Gosh, my bag's always such a mess, isn't it?" – and then, before she even could open her mouth, just like that, he'd leaned in and kissed her.
It had been the last thing she'd expected and also the first time she'd been so truly caught off-guard by someone who wasn't the world's only consulting detective; it was the fact that it was Greg, someone who'd always seemed so pragmatic, so even-keeled, so…sensible. Hardly the sort of person you'd expect to let themselves be suddenly overrun by their passions.
"God, I've wanted to do that for ages." It was hardly the most original thing he could have said; in fact, there were some who might have even hazarded to say it was decidedly unoriginal; but it had made her heart swoop in such a distinct and thrilling way, had set her alight so quickly, so instantly; so that if he'd been meaning to say something else after that, well – he never got the chance to.
And it was good of her to remind herself of that, Molly thought; Greg could surprise her; Greg could make her feel just as heady and exhilarated as a night at a gala. True, maybe the initial headiness had all too quickly settled into something more like constancy, firmness, comfort – but that didn't mean it couldn't return – didn't mean it wouldn't still crop up, at unexpected, little moments, wedged perfectly between the days of solidity and agreement.
Like the night of the gala – catching him off-guard at 221B in that dress, the makeup; and also, for instance, like a birthday. No, a pub wouldn't do at all, Molly decided. She would think of something better, less predictable. They knew each other as well as two friends with their years of history could, but that didn't mean she couldn't still find ways to surprise him.
Satisfied with this conclusion, Molly picked up her phone to start browsing for ideas; but she was stopped short by a recommended news notification that swung down from the top of her mobile screen. Is this of interest to you?
"BBC News: Famous London detective Sherlock Holmes suffers brutal attack on London streets at hands of unknown assailants," it stated. "Reports say he is currently in critical condition at nearby hospital, location undisclosed."
Molly blinked at her phone dumbly, and then, after a few seconds' delay, was bowled over by an intense, blind panic, which almost knocked the wind out of her lungs. Immediately, without thinking, she pulled up her text threads and messaged Sherlock: Are you alright?
Almost as soon as she sent it, she felt rather stupid – if he really was in critical condition, he wouldn't very well be checking his phone, would he? John – she could call John – reliable, straightforward John. Surely, he would know what was going on. Of course, she would have liked to think John would text her if something truly serious happened, but then, she still remembered the time that Sherlock had been almost fatally shot – there had been no texts, no phone calls that time. She had had to learn it from the news playing in the breakroom – hadn't been willing to believe it, as a matter of fact, until the moment Greg had shown up at her work, his face ashen and drawn – so much could change in a matter of seconds, so much could change without her even knowing.
She had just pulled up John's name on her mobile, her finger hovering over the contact bubble, when her phone began buzzing with an unknown number. Her heart leapt instinctively, and it wasn't until she'd tapped the answer button that she became conscious of her certainty that she was about to be greeted by Sherlock's voice on the other end, comfortingly brusque and unapologetic and very much not in critical condition.
But the voice that came down the line was silky and careless, unmistakable in its inflection. "Hope I'm not interrupting," Irene said. There was a faint background coming from her end, as if she were somewhere outside.
Molly swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. "Irene, where is he? What's happened?"
"Ah, so they finally ran the story he sent them, then," Irene said, her tone entirely blasé. "'Brutal attack.' That's what he went with, was it? He has always had a penchant for the dramatic, but then again," Molly could perfectly imagine Irene pausing to smile to herself, "I'm hardly one to judge on that front, am I?"
Molly exhaled slowly, closed her eyes, counted to three – God, how horribly she wanted to believe Irene, believe it was all a part of some careful plan. It would hardly be unlike Sherlock to not bother letting her know the truth of it – trivial little things like not giving his friends cardiac arrest tended to slip his mind when he was on a case. "Does he need something?" Molly said, and then, lowering her voice, even though a quick glance told her no one around her seemed even remotely interested in her conversation, "Is he in hiding, then? At Baker Street?"
"81 Deaconhurst Road," Irene said sweetly. "Be there in an hour, darling." And the call was ended.
Well, Molly thought frustratedly, that didn't really help anything, did it? Was that address meant to be where Sherlock was hiding, or was it somewhere he needed her to go? And was this even part of his plan at all, or was this something entirely of Irene's own agenda? Somehow, the latter seemed likelier, as past history seemed to imply that Irene wasn't generally so helpfully accommodating, but really, there was no way to know, was there, because – Molly almost huffed with the unfairness of it – there was no bloody answer from his phone. As a last resort, she put in a call to John, but she wasn't particularly surprised when it rang out. "Just let me know if he's alright," she told an unsympathetic voicemail message, and hung up.
She looked absentmindedly at the people around her, feeling stuck in painful indecision, and then, with a sudden burst of resolve, she stood up, tossing the remainder of her salad as she left the cafeteria. A few minutes to gather her things, to guilt one of her coworkers for covering the rest of her shift for her – "How was that surprise weekend trip from Jason, by the way? I never got to ask…" – and she was out of St. Barts and settling into a cab.
She searched the address on her phone on the way there, but it didn't give her much; the picture showed a grungy, uninviting pawnbrokers' storefront, its advertisements peeling away from the smudged windows.
It wasn't until thirty or so minutes later that her phone finally dinged - once, and then a second time, two messages in rapid succession –
But by that time, the cab was already pulling away, and she was standing in front of a run-down pawn shop, and Irene Adler was putting out her cigarette where she'd been leaning against a streetlight, beginning to walk towards her with her usual air, of satisfaction, of having gotten precisely what she wanted.
Molly pulled out her phone to look at the new messages:
Perfectly fine, as a matter of fact. -SH
Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. -SH
She huffed out a laugh despite herself, even as she finally allowed the tidal wave of relief to crash over her, even as she finally admitted to herself that Sherlock most definitely wasn't inside the building she was currently standing in front of.
"Irene," Molly said, crossing her arms, "why are we at a pawn shop?"
Irene took a moment to tuck away her lighter into her bag, as unhurried as always, and then said, "As a matter of fact, it's not the shop we're interested in." And she let her gaze meaningfully go upwards towards the flat above the shop, dark curtains drawn over its single window, and then back down to meet Molly's, her eyes glinting cat-like, the sure promise of peril and misadventure and less-than-ideal decision-making.
"So, to the matter at hand – should you like to do the honors of breaking in, or shall I?"