John casually leaned against a mantle in a small, private room just behind the bar. Sherlock stood beside him as Greg and Molly went over the financial records, the medical file lying closed under Molly's elbow. Gary and Billy sat nervously across from them, fear and anxiousness slipping through. It had taken at least fifteen minutes before the men had started acting rationally and managed to pull their log book together.
Now, Greg and Molly were looking to see just how long the vegetarians had been buying meat. Greg searched, pointing out the invoices while Molly took note of the date and what was purchased. This had been going on for nearly an hour now.
Sherlock moved to one of the coffee makers. John allowed his ears to idly listen to the soothing sounds of coffee being prepared. It helped to deal with the high level of nerves and tension in the room. The trickle of water as it streamed into the cup. The gentle rasp of metal on ceramic as a spoon churned the coffee to be certain everything had been properly dissolved and mixed. The pings of the spoon being tapped to remove any clinging drops, effectively covering any tiny splashes the drops created. The faint rattles as the cup was carried on its saucer.
He was pulled from his momentary escape when he noticed Sherlock holding the cup out to him. "What's this?" he asked. He had assumed Sherlock had been making himself a cup.
"Coffee," Sherlock said. "I made coffee." Regret and the desire to make things right rippled from him.
"You never make coffee," John said. He could almost sense something under the other emotions. But Sherlock was somehow managing to hide it.
"I just did," Sherlock said. "Don't you want it?"
"You don't have to keep apologizing," John said with a reassuring smile.
Sherlock looked away, reminding John of a rejected puppy. No wonder he'd tried to pull that look yesterday morning when trying to find his "secret" supply of cigarettes. John had a weakness for sad, pleading puppies. He could never resist them.
He breathed a light sigh, holding a hand out with a smile.
Sherlock brightened a bit as he handed the cup and saucer to him.
"Thank you," John said. He took a sip and couldn't catch the grimace before it slipped out for a second. Sugar. At least two lumps. Surely Sherlock should have observed that he wasn't fond of sweeteners, hardly ate or drank anything sugared. But seeing his best friend's face wavering between worried and pleased, he forced himself to have a few more swallows. "Thanks for the thought," he said. "It was good." He'd allow Sherlock the possibility of a memory slip. Sometimes people forgot little details when trying to make an apology. John had certainly made a couple slipups like that before.
"These records go back nearly two months," Greg said, apparently finding the end of the Undershaw receipts. "Is that when you had the idea? After the tv show went out?"
"It's me," Billy said. "It was me. I'm sorry, Gary – I couldn't help it. I had a bacon sandwich at Cal's wedding and one thing just led to another—"
"Unless you went straight from vegetarian to eating one to two pounds of meat a day," Molly said, "that doesn't add up. Unless there are records of your body going through some minor shock to the sudden diet change."
"Look," Gary said, "we were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know? A great big dog run wild up on the moor – it was heaven sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness Monster."
"Where do you keep it?" Greg asked.
"There's an old mineshaft," Gary answered. "It's not too far. It was alright there."
YOU ARE READING
The Question of Faith in Baskerville
General FictionIt's been nearly a year since John became a Christian. Sherlock studies his flatmate and his supposed change. It's merely a distraction between cases, and then a client offers not only an unusual case about a hound but the potential of the perfect t...
