Work Text:
Sometimes, John Watson wished he could be just a bit more of a bastard.
For instance, Mrs. Hudson was coming up the stairs with her boys, you've got another one look on her face, and he wished, just for an instant, that he had the temerity to heartlessly block her way into the flat. Sherlock was already being run ragged: even John could read the fatigue in the crinkle of his eyebrows, the droop of his dressing gown sleeves, and the multiple abandoned teacups and mugs all throughout their flat. All John wanted to do was wrap him up and take him away from the world for a while—at least until he stopped actually looking frazzled. Appearing stressed was usually reserved for lesser mortals.
"Mrs. Hudson—" began Sherlock, a note of near-panic creeping into his voice as he tore himself away from one of the two walls covered with photos, notes, and strategic bits of string.
"I know, boys, I know," said Mrs. Hudson, stopping to pile dirty, half-full cups onto a discarded tea tray. "You've been so busy lately, coming and going at all hours, staying up until God knows when. I normally wouldn't dream of bothering you--but it's Mrs. Turner, you see."
"Mrs. Turner?" Sherlock blinked, absently picking up a mug that John was positive had been sitting in the same position since Sunday. He was clearly rifling through his Mind Palace to put a person to the name.
"Yes, Mrs. Turner next door. With the Married Ones," Mrs. Hudson clarified. She saw what Sherlock was doing and gently removed the mug he was holding. Sherlock did not protest. "You're not drinking that, young man, that must be two days old at least. I'll make you a nice, fresh cuppa, how about that?"
It was gratifying to know that another person cared about Sherlock's wellbeing but Mrs. Hudson was taking too long. John had spent the last few minutes in his chair hardly daring to breathe in case he interrupted the link Sherlock was trying to make between the moss on Percy Witte's right boot and the disappearance of Joanna Yaldo, and here she was lovingly wittering about tea. John tried to hurry things along, "What's the matter with Mrs. Turner, then?"
"Oh, the poor thing." Mrs. Hudson sighed then turned to collect an empty cup by John's elbow. "Someone went and cleaned out her savings account. It was one of those scam things. She's already reported it—there's a website or a hotline or some such, and her lodgers helped her with that—but there's no guarantee she'll get anything back and she is so distressed. So I had to ask." She paused, holding the tea tray, looking from John to Sherlock in mute appeal.
"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock again, despairingly this time. John knew what the problem was. The truth was that Sherlock simply could not take on a single other thing at the moment, whether it was a case or folding laundry, yet he could no more refuse their landlady than he could remove his own left kidney.
John was different, however. He figured that he could be enough of a bastard to tell Mrs. Hudson, in no uncertain terms, that they had no time for Mrs. Turner. Not right now, anyway. He cleared his throat. "We're pretty busy right now."
"Of course, dear."
"Mycroft has been breathing down Sherlock's neck over that missing tie pin," explained John. He couldn't go into detail about that case. It seemed trivial on the surface, but was of such immense international importance that Sherlock couldn't even pretend to sneer at it. "And there's still the murder we were working on for Lestrade from before that."
"And Joanna is still missing," said Sherlock, naming one of the most reliable members of his Homeless Network. She had disappeared after Sherlock had asked her to tell him when Lestrade's murder suspect next walked his dog, and that fact was eating him alive.
"Yes," agreed John. "So it's going to be difficult to find the time."
"I understand," said Mrs. Hudson, clearly trying not to sound crestfallen.
The heartbreaking thing was that she did understand. And she would explain it to Mrs. Turner, who might understand. And part of that understanding would be that her last resort for help was too occupied with greater, more worldly matters to be concerned with the insignificant problems of an unimportant little old lady. The thought gutted John. He opened his mouth to tell Mrs. Hudson that it wasn't a no , not a definite no, just a come back tomorrow , after Sherlock had had a chance to get more than 15 minutes of sleep and maybe even shower.
And what came out was, "But of course we'll take her case."
That wasn't what he'd meant to say at all. He tried to mitigate the damage, "I mean, Sherlock is in it up to his eyebrows right now." There. That was better. "I can do it, though."
Wait, what?
Mrs. Hudson beamed at him. Sherlock looked relieved. And, looking from one face to the other, John couldn't bring himself to take it back. It was the right thing to do. Damn it.
He really couldn't be a bastard, could he?
John agreed to see Mrs. Turner that afternoon, after he'd had a catnap and had convinced Sherlock to eat most of a ploughman's. It occurred to him that he hadn't properly met Mrs. Turner in all the year's he'd lived at Baker Street. Most of his interactions with her had been in the form of comments on his blog, and that had mostly been Mrs. Hudson borrowing her account. If he had to guess, he would have assumed her to be a Mrs. Hudson 2.0, all tea and biscuits and comfort. He wasn't expecting the tarot prints all over the walls at 223A Baker Street. Or the kombucha.
John sipped at it politely as Mrs. Turner puttered about her kitchen. She looked enough like Mrs. Hudson: the landladies of Baker Street might have come in a matched set, though Mrs. Turner, with her long fringed scarves, phases-of-the-moon necklace, and crystal decor, was undoubtedly the more esoteric model.
"I feel so silly," she said, setting a plate of vividly purple biscuits in front of John. "I was just talking to my nephew Reggie about scams and things last week, and the next thing I know I've gone and fallen for one."
"It can happen to anyone," said John. "I understand they can be very convincing."
"Oh, he was!" Mrs. Turner sat down with a clatter of jewelry and a flutter of scarves. "And he was so sweet and so patient, and it didn't matter to him that I took so long finding the code thing that he wanted. He must have thought me such an easy mark."
John pursed his lips. That was probably true, and the thought of some blighter snickering behind his hands as Mrs. Turner fumbled her way through technology for him made him angry out of all proportion. He had meant to help her regardless, but now he was determined to see her case through to the end, so help him. "You said this all happened over the phone?"
Mrs. Turner nodded. "I got the call on Thursday, and my money was taken from my account the same day."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Turner," said John, meaning it. "Can you tell me anything about the caller?"
"Well, like I said, he was ever so nice." She took a nervous sip of kombucha. "He'd called to help me reset my password. I didn't think it was strange because I'd been having such trouble with it these past couple of months. I don't know how many times I called the bank about that. I usually get Reggie to help me, you see, but he's been having a bit of trouble himself and I hate to be a bother..." she trailed off. "Oh dear. I'm afraid I don't remember very much. It really didn't seem unusual at the time."
"Anything at all you can tell would be useful." John tried to give her a reassuring smile. "As Sherlock likes to say, 'To the great mind, nothing is little'."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
"Oh, let me see...It was the middle of the afternoon."
"Yes." John wrote that down. "Go on."
"I didn't know the phone number, but he spoke almost exactly like they do at my bank. He said something about a data breach and how I had to change my password for security purposes. I remember because he had to tell me twice—he had this fit of wheezing while he was explaining it to me the first time around." Mrs. Turner paused, looking thoughtful. "He had a very deep voice. And I thought he sounded Welsh. I'm sorry. That's all I have for you."
"No, that's great, Mrs. Turner, thank you." Hoping it was true, John capped his pen and helped himself to a purple biscuit, since Mrs. Turner was nudging the plate towards him in a way that was clearly meant to be inviting. It wasn't half bad. In fact, it was quite good. "I'll see what Sherlock and I can do with this. Give me a ring if you think of anything else."
"I will. Can I give you some of these biscuits for Mrs. Hudson? And Sherlock Holmes might like them too." She said Sherlock's name like somebody would name a celebrity like Judi Dench or Ian McKellen—first name and surname inseparable.
"Thank you, I'll make sure they get to him," said John, thinking that Sherlock's near terminal curiosity would lead to him at least nibbling at a corner of such strikingly colored baked goods, and that would be one way to get more calories into his system.
"Fancy me having a case looked at by Sherlock Holmes." Mrs. Turner began to divvy up the biscuits into little plastic containers. "I do enjoy your blog, Doctor Watson—"
"John, please."
"—John. Mrs. Hudson helped me set up an account so I could comment on it, but I couldn't ever think of anything clever enough to say." She smiled ruefully. "My husband always said I was a silly goose."
Gone out, back before midnight.
Give Lestrade the copper wire on the mantelpiece.
SH
The text arrived just as John got back to 221B. This was neither entirely unexpected nor highly unusual. Sherlock had spent most of last week flitting in and out of Baker Street at all hours, both with and without John. He was about to reply when he heard a familiar tread upon the stair.
“Hello, Greg,” said John without turning around.
“Hello to you too.” Lestrade paused for half an instant before continuing on into the flat. “I swear the two of you have eyes in the back of your heads. Sherlock’s not in, is he?”
“No, he’s left for a bit. And it’s the way you climb the stairs, you know: you have a pace that goes quick-quick-slow and you know to avoid the squeaky tenth step.”
"I’ll have to take your word for that,” said Lestrade. He looked at least as tired as Sherlock, if not more so. He held up his phone, showing a flurry of exchanged texts. “He said he had something for me?”
“Yeah, he just told me about it–a copper wire, right? It’s supposed to be here somewhere.” John looked over the clutter on the mantelpiece and found a bright coil lying next to the skull. “I hope this means something to you.”
“If Sherlock’s right, it means Percy Witte is going to prison for a very long time. Thanks, mate.”
John nodded. “I’ll let Sherlock know you’ve been by. Though, Greg?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a minute?”
Lestrade checked his watch. “Just about. What’s going on?”
Consulting his notes, John gave him the broad strokes of Mrs. Turner’s problem.
Lestrade gave a low whistle. “And here I thought you liked me.”
“I do like you. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Well, you have to understand, it’s not my division. That’s the boys at the NCSC, and if she’s already reported it, she’s done the best she can.” Lestrade pocketed the bit of copper wire, looking thoughtful. “What I do know is that a lot of these scams are run by international rings and it’s bloody hard to get a conviction, much less their money back.”
“Ah,” said John, who had feared as much.
“Though she said he sounded Welsh?” Lestrade’s phone buzzed. He checked it, then looked back at John. “Sorry, I need to go. But, listen, what I can do is ask some of the cyber security boys I know to look further into the case.I can’t make any promises, but if it’s a local job, they’ve got a better chance of catching him. I’ll be seeing you, mate.”
Sherlock may have been back before midnight, but he was gone again before the crack of dawn. Going by the state of the sofa cushions, he might have had a quick kip there before heading out, and he'd also eaten Mrs. Turner's biscuits, which John had placed strategically (i.e., unavoidably in the way) on the desk. John would have much preferred to have actually seen the man, because one tended to like seeing the love of one's life even in the middle of the night, but it was good to know he'd gotten a bit of rest and some calories in before haring off again.
John's phone buzzed as he was trying to read up on scams and mostly finding out how to avoid them.
Out again, may have found Joanna.
Bring hair clip on desk to Molly, she's expecting it.
SH
And John had just located the long, silvery barrette, which had been carefully stowed in a resealable snack bag, when a second message came in.
Please
SH
The please did him in. He was going to do it anyway, but Sherlock actually saying it gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling that made the trip to Bart's that much less of a chore, never mind the crowding on the Tube.
"Sherlock's running himself ragged, isn't he?" asked Molly when she saw John alone. "He usually likes to do this sort of thing himself. Or stand over me while I do it for him when I won't let him get into the ethidium bromide. Is this for the Witte case? Or the other one?"
"The other one, I think. Greg got a bit of wire for the Witte case yesterday and I thought that might have wrapped it up. And Sherlock is still looking for Joanna Yaldo."
"Oh, yes, her. He was in here the other day looking at our Jane Does on the off chance that she might be one of them--which she wasn't, thank goodness. What does he have for me, then?"
John handed her the clip in its plastic bag. Molly frowned at it.
"I'll be lucky if I find a usable hair follicle on this, but I'll do my best. I'll text him if I find anything."
"Thanks, Molly, you're a saint." Then, because it was on his mind and you never knew, John asked, "What do you know about phone scams?"
"Only that you shouldn't fall for them. Don't tell me Sherlock's taken on another case!"
" He hasn't. I have."
"Oh." It was gratifying that Molly didn't express utter and profound disbelief at this. She set the clip down on her lab bench and began to pull on pair of bright blue nitrile gloves. "And you're asking me?"
"You know a lot."
"About dead bodies. If you want a cause of death, I'm your woman, but this stuff...all I have is a story about an aunt who made at least four Western Union transfers to persons unknown because they'd bullied her into believing she was wanted for tax fraud."
"Jesus, that's terrible."
"I know. It's funny what they can get you to do — not funny haha, but funny aren't-people-awful," said Molly as she stood a row of small plastic vials in a rack in front of her. "I hope they didn't scare whoever it was too badly."
John shook his head. "They didn't scare her at all. She said they were nice."
"Oh, that's good. Or wait, that's bad. Because if they'd been horrid, she might have realized it was a scam. Could you pass me that pen, please? Not that one, the one with the finer tip—yes, thank you."
"She might have done, yes. Western Union transfers, eh?"
"Irrevocable and hard to trace once the money's been picked up." Molly looked up from the vials she was painstakingly labeling with tiny letters. "Or so I've been told."
"Hm." John considered things. "Thanks, Molly. I think I need to go talk to Mrs. Turner again."
When he got back to Baker Street, he nearly overshot 223 out of habit but managed to double back before he actually got his keys into the lock of 221's front door. Mrs. Turner answered the door on the first ring and brightened considerably when she saw John.
"Oh, I thought you were Reggie--my nephew, you know."
"Yes, I remember." John had written it down in his notebook.
"He left his inhaler behind when he came to help me with my email today. I thought he'd come back for it." Mrs. Turner waved John inside. "But it's good to see you. I don't suppose you've found out anything yet?"
"Not as such, no, but there was something I forgot to ask you. Could I take a look at your transaction history?"
"My what now?"
John explained what he wanted, as gently as he could. And he sat with Mrs. Turner in front of her old laptop to help her navigate the password and the security questions and the myriad other things on the Barclays website until they got to what he needed.
"Well, look at that," he said.
"What are we looking at?" Mrs. Turner sounded bewildered.
"They transferred your money directly to another Barclays account." John felt his mind buzzing. Was this, he wondered, an approximation of what it was like in Sherlock's head? "And they were nice to you. That doesn't sound like a typical scammer ring. Mrs. Turner, we might be able to lay hands on your villain after all."
"Was there ever any doubt?" asked Mrs. Turner serenely. "I drew the Ten of Pentacles last night. Would you like some kefir?"