Chapter Text
3. A Drawing Band
A soft melody drew John from his sleep. He cracked one eye open and registered that the melody was coming from his mobile. A rarely used number flashed across the screen and instantly grabbed John’s attention. He reached for the mobile, and harrumphed to clear the sleep from his voice before he answered.
“Mrs. Hudson, what a lovely surprise,” he said. “You can always just come upstairs, you know.”
“Well, Sherlock’s done something to your kitchen again,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “I didn’t like to go near it. Takes days to get the smell out of my clothes.”
John squinted at the clock. Half past four. He had had a good six hours of sleep, but he still did not feel rested enough to be having this conversation. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Anyway, I was thinking,” Mrs. Hudson went on. “There’s something I’d been meaning to discuss with you boys. Why don’t you come downstairs and have tea with me? See if you can tear Sherlock away from whatever it is that he’s doing.”
“I would love that,” John said, meaning every word. Now that he thought about it, there was a faint trace of a distressing smell wafting up the stairs. “We’ll be down in a few minutes. And I’ll make sure Sherlock changes his clothes.”
Not for the first time, John was grateful for whatever mysterious hold Mrs. Hudson had over Sherlock. When the prospect of tea downstairs was dangled in front of him, he readily agreed to cover his current, rather aromatic, experiment with a bowl and put on fresh clothes, although he insisted on keeping the old ones ready so that he could change back afterwards. “No sense in infusing another set of clothes,” he said, and John had to agree.
Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them with a smile, the good china, and a plate of chocolate digestives. She squeezed Sherlock’s arm and made a little fuss about him. Sherlock rolled his eyes for show, but John could see by his faint blush that he was enjoying it. Sherlock confirmed this observation by giving John a small nod to indicate that John should sit in the armchair so that Sherlock could reserve for himself the privilege of sitting on the sofa next to Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson poured the tea and passed the biscuits.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you two for ages,” she said. “Sherlock’s got one of his experiments going again, and John, you’ve got yourself another new place."
“Yes, the Royal London Hospital A&E,” John said, taking a sip of tea. “Had my first day of work yesterday. Or night, really. Saturday night shifts are always an interesting challenge.”
“I’m sure,” Mrs. Hudson said. “They were talking on the radio this morning about that awful fire they had over in Whitechapel.”
“Yes, we got some of the wounded, but they’re going to be all right.”
“Well, I say they’re lucky to have had you as their doctor, John,” Mrs. Hudson declared. John blushed at the compliment. Sherlock sneered, although the effect was ruined by the biscuit crumbs at the corner of his mouth.
“That fire was arson,” Sherlock said. “A bit longer in the kitchen, and I’ll have an analysis of the cause for the Chief Fire Inspector. He won’t be able to blame this on a gas leak.”
“You’ll clean it up, of course?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “I don’t feel right having something all smelling of petrol in the building.”
“As opposed to all the other hazardous and flammable chemicals you keep in your cleaning cupboard?” Sherlock retorted.
John slipped another biscuit into Sherlock’s hand to distract him. “So, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “You said there was something that you wanted to discuss with us?”
Mrs. Hudson nodded. “It feels a bit silly to ask, but . . . what do you boys think of having me as a landlady?”
John blinked in surprise. That was not the question he had been expecting from Mrs. Hudson. Next to her, Sherlock went absolutely still, frozen in the act of biting down on a biscuit. Only his eyes moved, glancing frantically around the room as if searching for some clue to Mrs. Hudson’s imminent terrible demise.
Mrs. Hudson frowned at them in puzzlement for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Oh, boys,” she said. “Silly boys. It’s not like that at all. It’s just that . . . well, all I meant was . . . here, look at this.” She placed a folded newspaper on the table. It was the section that contained the real estate adverts. Several of them were circled.
Sherlock snatched up the newspaper before John could get much more than a glimpse of it. “You’re planning to purchase another building.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded. “I was having a chat with Mrs. Turner, and she told me that she was thinking of expanding. The idea hadn’t occurred to me before, but why not? People are always looking for a place to live. I could cash in some bonds, enough for a down payment. I mean, my new tenants wouldn’t be half as interesting as you two, but then, I wouldn’t live in that building.”
John couldn’t suppress a little giggle of relief. “Expanding. You’re expanding your business. I think that’s a lovely idea.”
“So you’re satisfied with me as landlady?” Mrs. Hudson said.
Sherlock opened his mouth, but John beat him to it. “More than satisfied, Mrs. Hudson. I think you’ll do very well with your new tenants.”
“You will, of course, maintain your primary residence in Baker Street,” Sherlock said, affecting indifference almost convincingly.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, wrapping one arm around Sherlock. “How many other tenants would know so many amusing things to do with grapes? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
To the untrained eye, nothing changed. But John knew Sherlock, and he was glad to see him relax into Mrs. Hudson’s embrace. “Let’s see those adverts,” he said. “What sort of buildings are you thinking about?”
Sherlock spread the newspaper over the coffee table. Mrs. Hudson showed them the pictures of buildings, and they spent an enjoyable hour deciphering the agents’ code and weighing the merits of each property. By the time they finished their tea and all the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson had selected three buildings that she wanted to examine personally. She underlined the telephone numbers listed in the adverts and said that she would phone the agencies first thing in the morning.
When they returned to their own flat, Sherlock insisted on changing back into his old clothes and continuing his noxious-smelling work. John sighed, opened the windows in the sitting room, and began to flip through the file that contained their stash of takeaway menus. He was contemplating the question of whether to order takeaway or simply go out to eat when Sherlock sprang to his feet with a satisfied “Ha!”
“Found what you were after?” John asked.
“Generic supermarket petrol,” Sherlock replied. “Probably Asda. No help there. But it’s pure.”
“And the Dormouse said to Alice, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’”
That brought Sherlock up short. “What?”
John smiled at him. “Don’t tell me you deleted Alice in Wonderland.”
“Of course not. Far better than that idiotic Winnie the Pooh that Mycroft used to read to me. But why are you misquoting Alice at me?”
“Just trying for – oh, I don’t know. What do you mean, it’s pure? Is that important in supermarket petrol?”
“Signature combination of additives and detergents. It tells us that the petrol used to ignite the building in Whitechapel was never mixed with any other brand,” Sherlock said. “Either purchased specifically for the purpose, or from a dedicated customer who never used any other brand in the car. And it matches the remnants of the milk jug. There are faint traces of a serial number, which come from a factory that makes milk jugs for Asda supermarkets.”
“Fantastic.” John sighed. “So you know that the arsonist likes to shop at the Asda. That narrows it down to, what, how many Asdas are there in London?”
“Ten, maybe fifteen supermarkets,” Sherlock said.
“So you’re going to check them all? What about shops outside of London? How do you know your arsonist is a Londoner?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Arson is either a personal or a financial crime. A derelict building like that, meeting grounds for junkies, there’s no insurance to collect on it. No, someone wanted this building to burn. The question is why. Once we know why, we know who.”
He sank down into his armchair, but bounced up again a moment later. “Post-mortem results. John, I need post-mortem results on those two bodies. How can I be expected to work without evidence?”
“Settle down, soldier,” John said. He reached out and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, stopping him before he could begin to pace. “Look, even without the weekend interfering, some evidence takes time. You’re a scientist, you know that. Post-mortems take time. People have to search databases to match dental records. You can’t rush it. You have to wait.”
“I can’t wait, John!” Sherlock cried. “I’ve done everything I possibly can, and there still isn’t enough to keep my brain occupied.” He glanced at the music stand in the corner.
John looked around the flat, but Sherlock’s violin was not in its usual place next to the stack of sheet music. Nor was it propped against the armchairs, lying on the sofa or lurking beneath the coffee table.
“I sent it out to have the bow re-haired,” Sherlock explained with a groan. “Even that takes too much time. I should buy a jig and learn how to do it myself.”
John laughed. “I’ll get you a tin whistle for Christmas. That way, you’ll have something to play while your violin is in the shop.” An idea struck him, and he released Sherlock long enough to dig Sherlock’s laptop out of the pile of old newspapers next to the sofa.
“Here. Why don’t you do Mrs. Hudson a favour? Look up those buildings she’s thinking about, see what you can find out about them. That’ll give her something to go on when she goes out to inspect the properties.”
Sherlock looked down his nose at the laptop, but he did not immediately reject the idea out of hand. John interpreted this to mean that his suggestion had been suitably entertaining, but that there was no way that Sherlock would admit as much out loud. Still, it seemed to be safe to leave Sherlock alone for a few minutes so that John could order supper without having to worry about finding violent redecoration in the sitting room when he returned.
He left the sitting room to fetch his mobile, which he had left charging upstairs in his bedroom. He paused just outside the door, and listened until he heard the soft clicking of laptop keys. Smiling to himself, he went upstairs.
As luck would have it, John had just decided on saag paneer from the new Indian place up on Park Road when his mobile rang. The screen displayed Sarah’s number, and John instantly decided that the saag paneer could wait.
“Hello, Sarah.”
“John, I’m so glad I caught you.”
John could practically hear the smile on Sarah’s face. “I’m glad you caught me, too. What’s going on?”
Sarah huffed out a little sigh. “Listen, I know it’s totally last minute, but are you working tomorrow?”
John scrabbled through the drawer in his bedside table until he found his notebook. He flipped through the pages until he came to the terms that he had written down when he had taken his most recent locum position. “Er . . . not tomorrow, no. I’ve got a stint at the Royal London for the next few weeks, but it’s Sundays and Mondays off. Why?”
“I’ve just had a call from Dr. Milligan. Her wife’s gone into labour, and they’re off to the hospital now.”
“Well, congratulations to both of them, in advance.”
Sarah chuckled. “Yes, thank you, I’ll be sure to tell Dr. Milligan when I see her again. But that won’t be till Tuesday – she’s asked for tomorrow off, which I gave her, of course –“
“Of course."
“—And I need someone to come in and cover for her. Just for tomorrow, and I’d really prefer having someone who knows the place, so I don’t have to spend hours orientating them just for the one day, and I know it’s awfully late to call, and it’s still your weekend, but—“
John considered the refrigerator, which currently contained more food than body parts, and the flat, which he suspected would smell of pure ASDA-brand petrol for much of the next morning. Then he considered the friendly smells of Sarah’s shampoo and her surgery, where children and old people came with minor complaints. “I’d love to,” he said. “Sherlock’s on a case, and I could do with a change of scene.”
“Oh, he is, is he?” A sly note crept into Sarah’s voice. “Good to know. I’ll bet he’s been running you ragged.”
John shrugged, though he knew that Sarah couldn’t see it. “Not yet. But it’s inevitable.”
“Bet he hasn’t let you get a bite to eat, either. One of my nurses just told me that there’s a new Indian place near you. Apparently they do a marvellous saag paneer.”
John laughed. “I was just about to phone them for takeaway.”
“No sense in letting Sherlock get his hands on it, not in the middle of a case. Care to join me? I can meet you there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be there.” John ended the call, dragged a comb through his hair, and went back downstairs. When he stopped off in the sitting room to fetch his jacket, he saw Sherlock on the sofa, looking thoughtfully at his laptop.
“Enjoy your dinner with Sarah,” Sherlock said, without looking up.
“What? How did you --?” John blinked. “Was it my hair? Something about my trousers?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. This e-mail I just received.” He turned the screen so that John could see it over his shoulder.
The e-mail was from Sarah, short and to the point.
Dear Sherlock,
John and I are going out for a bite, and then he will be working for me tomorrow. If you disrupt this plan, I will see to it that you become his next patient.
Kisses,
Sarah
John gave a snort of laughter. “Why is it always you who gets the kisses?” he said. He gave Sherlock a quick pat on the shoulder, shrugged into his jacket, and left for dinner.