Clique of 221B

Chapter 10: Cases and Clients

You're sat at the very top of the stairs looking down at the landing where DI Hopkins is stood outside the closed door. She turns as Greg comes up the stairs and stands next to her. I don't think either of them have noticed me.
"Oh, hi Stella," Greg says.
"Greg."
"You, uh...you, um..." He points at the door.
"Uh, yeah. He's just got a client, so..."
"R-right, right, right." They both glance around awkwardly. They still haven't seen me.
"Uh, so see a lot of each other, do you?"
"It's nothing. I mean, it's nothing serious."
"No, no."
"I just pop round every now and again for a chat."
"Yeah, 'course."
"I mean, he loves a really tricky case." He laughs very loudly,
"Yeah, he does! So what are you hear for?"
"Well, uh, Interpol think the Borgia Pearl trail leads back to London, so..." Urgh! Not that pearl again!
"The Borgia Pearl. Are they... they still after that, are they?"
"Yeah. So how did, uh, you two first meet?"
"Oh, it was a-a case about, um, ten years ago nobody could figure out. There was an old lady found dead in a sauna."
"Oh yeah? How'd she die?"
"Hypothermia." She frowns,
"What?"
"I know! But then I met Sherlock-" His voice is getting louder. "It was so simple, the way..." Sherlock hurls the door open and glares at them.
"Will you two please keep it down? You coming in?" Sherlock says, the last part directed at you. You nod and skip down the stairs smiling at the two DIs. They're thinking that I've probably been there through their whole conversation. That's awkward for them. Sherlock slams the door behind him. You look in the room to see a client sat in the middle of the room. Sherlock sits down in his seat and you perch on the arm as usual. "Now, you haven't always been in life insurance, have you? You started out in manual labour." He raises his hands when the man opens his mouth in surprise. "Oh, don't bother being astonished. Your right hand's almost an entire size bigger than your left. Hard manual work does that."
"I was a carpenter, uh, like me dad."
"And you're trying to give up smoking, unsuccessfully, and you once had a Japanese girlfriend that meant a lot to you but now you feel indifferent about."
"How the hell?" He looks down into the pocket on his shirt and the several small cylindrical items in there. He smiles across to Sherlock. "Ah. E-cigarettes."
"Not just that – ten individual e-cigarettes. Now, if you just wanted to smoke indoors, you would have invested in one of those irritating electronic pipe things, but you're convinced you can give up, so you don't want to buy a pipe because that means you're not serious about quitting, so instead you buy individual cigarettes, always sure that each will be your last. Anything to add, John?" He glances briefly towards John's chair, then does a startled double-take. "John?" You look over and see that floating at head height in John's chair is a red balloon with a face drawn on it. The balloon is held in place by a piece of string wrapped around a book on the seat. A moment later the real John pops his head round the kitchen door.
"Er, yeah, yeah, listening."
"What is that?" John comes into the living room.
"That is me. Well, it's a me-substitute."
"Don't be so hard on yourself. You know I value your little contributions."
"Yeah? It's been there since nine this morning." You laugh at that.
"Has it? Where were you?"
"Helping Mrs H with her Sudoku."
"What about my girlfriend?" The client interrupts.
"What?" Sherlock asks.
"You said I had an ex."
"You've got a Japanese tattoo in the crook of your elbow in the name 'Akako.' It's obvious you've tried to have it removed." The man looks down at his tattoo,
"But surely that means I wanna forget her, not that I'm indifferent." You raise your eyebrows at Sherlock,
"May I?" He nods at you, "If she'd really hurt your feelings, you would have had the word obliterated, but the first attempt wasn't successful and you haven't tried again, so it seems you can live with the slightly blurred memory of Akako, hence the indifference." You elaborate. The man laughs,
"Sorry. I-I thought you'd done something clever." Sherlock turns to him. "No, no. Ah, but now you've explained it, it's dead simple, innit?" John smiles at this. Sherlock takes in a deep breath before saying,
"I've withheld this information from you until now, Mr Kingsley, but I think it's time you knew the truth."
"What d'you mean?"
"Have you ever wondered if your wife was a little bit out of your league?"
"Well..."
"You thought she was having an affair. I'm afraid it's far worse than that. Your wife is a spy."
"What?!"
"That's right. Her real name is Greta Bengtsdotter. Swedish by birth and probably the most dangerous spy in the world." Well that's a lie for starters, I bet he's making all this up. "She's been operating deep undercover for the past four years now as your wife for one reason only: to get near the American embassy which is across the road from your flat. Tomorrow the US president will be at the embassy as part of an official state visit. As the president greets members of staff, Greta Bengtsdotter, disguised as a twenty-two stone cleaner, will inject the president in the back of the neck with a dangerous new drug hidden inside a secret compartment inside her padded armpit. This drug will then render the president entirely susceptible to the will of their new master, none other than James Moriarty." Oh, wow, Sherly's really outdoing himself.
"What?!"
"Moriarty will then use the president as a pawn to destabilise the United Nations General Assembly which is due to vote on a nuclear non-proliferation treaty, tipping the balance in favour of a first strike policy against Russia. This chain of events will then prove unstoppable, thus precipitating... World War Three." What a drama queen. John chuckles,
"Are you serious?"
"No of course not. His wife left him because his breath stinks and he likes to wear her lingerie."
"I don't!" John quirks an eyebrow at him. "Just the bras!" You shake your head to hide your smile from the man. Sherlock opens the door,
"Get out." Mr Kingsley stands up and leaves the room, walking between the waiting inspectors. Sherlock pushes the door shut again.
"So. What's this all about, then?" John asks him.
"Having fun."
"Fun?"
"While I can."
"Mm-hm."
There's knock on the door and DI Hopkins walks in.
"Um, Sherlock..." He turns her around and pushes her back through the door.
"Borgia Pearl, boring, go." Knew it.
"Uh, but, uh.." She protests.
"Go!" He pushes the door shut. Immediately after Greg opens the door.
"This had better be good," Sherlock says.
"Oh, I think you'll like it." Greg says. From a paper bag he pulls out a clear plastic bag and holds it up. Inside are shattered pieces of white plaster, and some of the larger pieces show that this was a Thatcher bust. Sherlock takes hold of the bottom of the bag and looks at it closely.
"That is the bust, isn't it? The one that was broken," you ask.
"No, it isn't. It's another one. Different owner, different part of town. You were right! This is a...this is a thing. Something's going on." Greg tells you. Sherlock's gaze becomes intense. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be pleased."
"I am pleased."
"You don't look pleased."
"This is my game face." He raises his eyes with a slight smile. "And the game is on." And there's the bloody catchphrase again!