A/N: No A/N at this time. Can't think of anything to state here. -csf
Two.
I spent the day with Sherlock, watching him grow exponentially tetchy, as he got better acquainted with his sudden client that taunted the detective with a request to keep anonymous. Or should I better say, with the too few, too vague hints the client left behind. Sherlock was not bound to tolerate such inversion of roles for long. As the detective in charge, Sherlock was the brattish, demanding, extraordinary diva to be accounted for, not the client that had worked his way through the detective's curiosity.
The mystery surrounding a concealed identity was quickly overtaking the promise of wonder and awe in an uncommon and antique object to be posted to us.
At this point I had to admit expressly that if that mask did not turn up, and it did not yield mystery and myth within, the disappointment alone could break the detective, doing him irreparable damage.
Sherlock was so strung up for a case at this point that this client's taunt was hitting epic proportions in the restless investigator's mind. Sherlock does have a tendency to obsess. I should know. It only came as a surprise that the obsession started even before the appraisal of the object-centric mystery that had yet to be delivered. The more Sherlock spent his day investigating lost societies, strange cults and twisted cultural habits of old, the more I worried the object coming to our hands was going to fail to match the expectations by default of an over-achiever's imaginative mind. And I mean Sherlock's. I'm known to be easily impressed.
Defending my mate, I rushed to blame the anonymous hero-to-villain client that successfully picked up Sherlock's mood, and could so easily crush it down again.
'Sherlock you could focus on another case, you know? Take your mind off it?' I try to divert the eager monomaniac from his research in open encyclopaedic volumes, multiple tabs on a laptop, and a bunch of electronic junk pilled on the living room table.
'There is no other case', he answers. Curt, nasty, vulnerable.
'Have you checked your inbox?'
He positively glares at me, like a kid being asked to do homework during the summer holidays. As if I couldn't grasp the magnitude of the pull he was suffering.
'My inbox has not pinged in 36 hours and 16 minutes, John. There is absolutely nothing else out there for me, John!' he wails, and huffs too, for good measure. Lord forbid he be all dramatic...
I drop my book – who was I kidding? I haven't been focused enough to read a full page for days – and come closer, shortening the physical distance between us. I really, really want to reach out to the isolated genius.
'What have you got there then?' I try to sound cheerful. He blasts me with a dark look, but won't ever keep me from reach – he will do that to all and sundry, but not to me – so he dutifully answers.
'Spy cameras, pressure pads, warning lights, and trip wire type laser beams. John, I'm catching this client red handed!'
I blink.
'What if he's just... shy?'
Fair enough, could just as easily be a woman we're discussing. But Sherlock and I have settled for the male pronouns as a temporary generalization, to make it easier overall.
'What's he hiding?' Sherlock counters, shrewdly.
'Maybe he just can't afford us. Lots of people are struggling right now. I can't possibly invoice an anonymous client, can I?'
Sherlock rebels with the well fed soul of the upper class.
'Oh, I've got money, I don't care to be paid! Why are supermarkets, petrol stations and landladies such mercenaries? I can do without being paid, and so should they!' He waves his hands about in artistic exasperation, but suddenly squints and jumps forward to stand an inch from my face. I hold my ground, I'm an army captain; luckily I remember that just in time. 'I lay down the rules, John. Not the client. That's what is at stake. So tonight I will be ready, I will catch the client on the act, at the drop off. I will have that front step rigged, and you and I will be occupying that vacant flat across the road, waiting on his arrival. We will catch him.'
'We are waiting across the road? How are we even getting in?'
'I've got the keys, John. I have got the keys to half of London, in fact', he informs me, nonchalant.
I sigh, defeated. 'Fine, we'll do it your way. Ignore me away, study your literature and get all prepared. I'll be sitting on our stairs, talking to Mrs Hudson, if you need me.'
He rolls his eyes at me, in superiority. 'Discussing the latest episode of Corrie, are we?'
I give him a glare and leave him alone, as he so much wishes. Sherlock couldn't discuss a soap opera even if he tried.
.
Never felt so weirdly homesick as now, watching our homely flat with warm diffuse glow lamps behind the tall windows, as I sit uncomfortably on the hard floorboards of an empty modern flat across the Street.
We've been here for hours. Night has descended upon the street. London is eerily quiet, but that's familiar these days. It still puts me on edge.
Sherlock keeps grunting under his breath, his temper worsening with every passing half hour.
A sudden electronic noise rouses us both. It's my phone, ringing. That got my heart racing and my blood pumping.
'Mrs Hudson?' I take the call, on loudspeaker.
'John, dear, there's a box sitting here by the door. I think it's for Sherlock. Or Sherlock's. See that you don't forget it as you come back home from your break-in across the road, will you?'
Nothing phases our landlady. Meanwhile Sherlock's eyes widen. He's been duped.
The awaited case has been enigmatic ally delivered. Not through the front door, we didn't see anyone, Sherlock's traps did not get set off.
The detective dashes off in a sprint. I try to politely hang up the call and follow him just as fast. Awake. Alive.
My cramping joints are less than compliant in following the detective rushing across the street. Luckily traffic as long died down in London. I watch my friend kick his circuit box of tricks and get his key out, unlocking the front door. Mrs Hudson is waiting by her flat's door, looking concerned. At the detective's feet is an open cardboard box with a yellow mask inside.
It's been delivered.
.
That Sherlock is so incensed that he insists on speed dialling Lestrade for backup is a surprise even to me.
That the inspector is there in under five minutes flat, is a sign of how much the fatherly detective inspector cares for the Baker Street investigator, or how much he still fears Sherlock will go off the rails one day.
Sherlock is still manipulating feverishly the conjured mask when our friend's police car turns the corner. I appreciate the foresight of the old inspector for having the emergency lights on, but no sound. We don't need to attract even more attention right now. I'm sure Sherlock and I are already the preferred spectacle of the lockdown-bored neighbours.
The detective hands me the mask briskly just as Greg parks the car. I take the curious object in my hands and tilt my head, observing it carefully.
So this is what it takes to fully grasp Sherlock's attention?
A concave piece of wood, painted mostly in ochre yellow and earthy browns, covered in a crackling smoky varnish. Two opening slits for the eyes, one for the mouth. The painted on expression of a witch doctor of sorts.
It takes a big effort not to try it on. I mean, not until Sherlock dispels the idea that it could be coated with poison on the inside, for instance.
As far as I can tell this could have been an ordinary stage prop, a child's toy, or a souvenir from an exotic journey. But does it really hold a proper mystery in its dry wood casing?
Sherlock has been spending his time showing the inspector the letter. He looks excitable and tense, but throughout keeps to the recommended social distancing, this proving to all of us that he still keeps his wits about.
'Vanished in the thin air!'
'What will you have me do, Sherlock?'
'Go find this intruder that mocks me, Lestrade!'
The older man seems amused. 'I'll get right on it. Let me just have a quick word with John.'
Sherlock huffs and heads back inside, and up the stairs to the flat, in a proper sulk.
At Baker Street's front door, Lestrade leans closer to me. He clears his throat and asks, carefully, in a quiet voice:
'John, didn't you once say you could write with both your hands?'
I nod, suppressing a smirk. 'Yeah, I'm left handed and I bust my left shoulder in Afghanistan, remember? I had to make my way with my right hand.' I look the inspector right on before I add: 'Funnily enough, my right hand handwriting is similar but not entirely the same. Sherlock would say something about predominant musculoskeletal ligaments or something...'
'John, did you write that letter?' the inspector squints right at me.
I shrug. Busted.
'Yeah, I did. Sherlock needed a case', I admit.
Can't lie; Greg having asked politely and all.
It's a devious scheme, sure, but Sherlock wouldn't take just any case, too slumped in his own depression. I had to trick him into taking a care that was exactly what he needed to act like himself.
I had once found this mask in a charity shop. I thought it alluring in some odd way, as if it carried a secret past anxiously waiting for release. Before I could show it to Sherlock he went deep with some other case, a real case, and I ended up joining that investigation and forgetting all about my purchase. It lay gathering dust on a box, atop my wardrobe. The same box I have down here tonight.
'So, it's all a lie?'
There's anger in his words now. The inspector is less than pleased. He really has a soft spot for protecting our detective.
I shake my head. 'Just a way to get Sherlock interested in this case. I forget where I found that mask, a long time ago. But it probably isn't important. Who the owner was, I mean. Hence, an anonymous letter.'
'Why just not tell the case to Sherlock, ask him to take it?'
I frown. 'He really didn't want to take cases, remember? They were all dull, and London was dull, and we were all duller than dull. And look at him now? Bright eyed and bushy tailed. I will apologise for the deception one day, Greg. Just not anytime soon. First I'll let him do what he does best; be Sherlock Holmes.'
Greg Lestrade is still looking at me funny. I guess he didn't quite think I had it in me.
That's where he got it wrong. To help my best mate keep his sanity I will source cases no matter what, and I'm the writer of the duo, right? It really isn't that much of a stretch of the imagination that I could create an imaginary case.
'He will be mad at you, John', the inspector concludes, grimly.
'I hope not. It's a risk I must take, that he will eventually find out. I mean, he is who he is, there's no other outcome', I assume, looking over to the excited detective inspecting the yellowed mask, in a sharp silhouette at the first floor windows.
Greg sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable, I notice out of the corner of my eye.
I sincerely hope he doesn't tell-tale on me and ruin Sherlock's diversion too soon. This is what the housebound detective needs right now, this is doing him a world of good.
'So how did you make the mask appear inside Baker Street when no one came to the door? You were with Sherlock at all times. He said so.'
'Oh, that. Mrs Hudson is in on it. I knew Sherlock would only rig the outer steps so I asked her to deliver the goods. Which she did easily, from the inside.'
Greg Lestrade chuckles.
'You're disturbingly good at deceiving Sherlock and having others help you with it, John', he points out, squinting at me. I shrug. 'Keep him from calling me again on this case of yours, will you?' Greg demands as he leaves.
He still looks peeved, though.
I look back onto the familiar front door of 221 Baker Street.
No matter what Greg thinks, home is complete now it bubbles with a mysterious case.
.
TBC
