Find Me (BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Chapter 1

'You know where to find me'. Sherlock Holmes considered the message glowing from the screen of his phone. It didn't seem quite right somehow, too provocative? Too arrogant? He dismissed that thought with a wave, it was only the literal truth, after all, but still. He deleted the message, pursed his lips and sat in silence attempting to determine the best alternative. Could he just say 'Find me', or would that appear too desperate, more of a call for help? He'd already rejected the obvious 'Dinner?' because of the connotation she'd put on it, and also because it seemed a strange response to a text that had simply read 'Happy Birthday'.

There had been no gift this year. Last year he'd received a hand delivered parcel containing a puzzle box which had defeated his best attempts to open it. It was still on the shelf with its rattling secret locked inside and he wasn't yet willing to admit defeat and smash it to pieces. The year before a piece of woven reed in the shape of a heart had been left on his doorstep, and he'd understood by the knotwork that she was in one of the southern fishing villages of Indonesia. She'd said he wouldn't be able to find her, and he hadn't tried, but every time a token arrived he knew she was still safe.

He drummed his fingers on his knee in frustration. This was John's idea. It wasn't even a very good idea, born of grief at the loss of his wife and a projection of John's own feelings onto a man who wasn't capable of them.

But he couldn't very well say no. He owed John basically, well, everything, and it was going to take a lifetime to work off the debt. Besides, wherever Sherlock's private life was concerned John was as persistent as a dog with another dog's backside, forever sniffing around. He was going to have to send her some kind of message. Maybe she wouldn't respond.

He hammered out his original wording 'You know where to find me,' then hesitated, added his initials in case she'd transferred phones and lost his number and pressed send. He put the phone back in his pocket and then took it out again, just checking that the ring tone and text alert volume were up as high as they could go. He put the phone away again.

Took it back out to check the message had actually been sent and was now showing as delivered.

Put the phone away.

Took it back out to check there was plenty of battery life.

Put it away.

Nearly jumped out of his chair when his pocket buzzed with a reply - so soon she must have been waiting for his call. His hand shook slightly as he took out the mobile with a sick feeling that was both trepidation and excitement.

It was a message from John that read 'When you're quite ready.'

He looked up. John waved from the seat directly opposite, gestured towards the consulting chair in which sat their next client, a man Sherlock couldn't remember ever seeing before in his life. His eyes slid to the clock - apparently two hours had passed since he remembered John asking him to stop playing with his mobile because the next case was walking up the stairs.

'Carry on Mr Cubitt,' John said, politely but with a sharp glare in Sherlock's direction. 'I think he's stopped working on that national emergency I was telling you about.'

Sherlock felt some kind of apology was called for and he sprang to his feet, suddenly full of a bubbling rush of energy. 'Mr Cubitt,'

'Mr Holmes, I...'

But Sherlock wasn't finished, hadn't actually even started. 'Mr Cubitt. Congratulations on your marriage, I hope you and your wife will be very happy, although you might want to get that ring adjusted before it makes your finger any more infected. Life is good, isn't it, Mr Cubitt, better than it was? You have the broken capillaries and bent nose of a man who liked a drink in his youth and the tattoo you've had lasered off your neck was probably not well considered, but given that you're wearing a handmade suit and an expensive make of boots I think the drinking never got out of hand and it was professional in nature, so you were probably a barman or a publican in your youth. Your face is tanned but it's natural, indicating you spend a good proportion of every day outside and the fact that there's mud on those flashy boots tells me you've had to walk quite a long way to get to your car so I'd say you live in a large house with several acres of land in the country. Judging by your accent and the fact that you can't stop playing with a Landrover branded keyring that still has the registration number written on it and putting that together with your background in the hospitality industry I'd say you own an extensive and prosperous guest house somewhere in Norfolk.'

He took a breath, looked around for compliments.

'Ah - Sherlock?' John's face betrayed limited patience. 'He's told us all that already. I didn't think you were listening.'

'It's a boutique hotel,' Mr Cubitt corrected. 'Look, if you're too busy I can ask someone else.'

Sherlock dropped into his chair, waved a hand, 'Carry on, carry on.'

'My wife, Elsie, she noticed it first...'

Sherlock tapped his pocket surreptitiously, checking the phone was still in place, and let the flood of words wash into one ear, and pour straight out of the other.

'When I say run - run.'

editinF|