Prologue: The Granting

"Excellent!"

John Watson is actually rubbing his hands together. Sherlock scowls, his mood turbulent as he's missed breakfast, lunch and dinner and is inescapably distracted by his latest spat with Mycroft.

"Elementary," he huffs out, kneeling down amongst dust, mouse droppings and the musty thrall of a hundred ancient cast offs. Some would have clapped with delight at this overpriced bric-a-brac, lifting up smeared teacups to read of their origins and opening up crumbling dust jackets, anticipating scrolls from the Dead Sea -

But not he.

Sherlock lifts the pot, noting its worn and scratched patina, its dented underside and its utter lack of charisma and charm and contemplates once more the shining, emotional and humbly grateful eyes of its owner as he passed it across. The only interesting thing about this case, he considered, is the reaction of this odd little fellow in regard to this unremarkable container as they were repatriated. The thief had been opportunistic and easily identifiable by his reliance on the No. 87 Southwark bus and the stripe of paint on his heel from the road markings they were laying down on the corner of Cronniwell Road. This shop itself, a jumble of hand-less clocks and eyeless dolls,with little to interest a serious collector or even a casual tourist.

"Mr Holmes, I cannot thank you enough." His voice is breathy, catching in his throat with feeling, clutching the brass pot to his chest like his livelihood lay therein. Sherlock truly hopes that it does not.

"You have more than done so," he suddenly finds himself speaking more kindly than is his natural inclination. "The case was a simple one (a three at best) albeit a welcome distraction from several others I am wrestling with at the moment."

Why was he engaging with this man? Sharing even. Sherlock checks himself, as is his constant habit.

"May I suggest up-scaling your window locks on the third floor, and please replace the chain at your back gate… with a new back gate."

He is making to leave, despairing at John scribbling notes at the door, eyes lit up (as is his habit at the denouement of any case however turgid), when the small, mole-like hand of Sherlock's latest client shoots out, grasping at his sleeve, bringing him in closer.

"No," the shopkeeper's voice is tight with emotion, sincerity and intent. "No. You do not understand Mr Holmes - " he clutches tightly at the pot with his other hand. "Had I lost this, I would have lost everything!" Again, the bright eyes, sparkling with unshed tears, above a tiny snub nose and wispy black beard which is trimmed and waxed to a point.

Contemplating the state of the place, Sherlock feels this to be a fairly accurate statement but his brain has already mentally moved out of the tiny shop and back to the perplexing issues of Mr Hilton Cubitt, his nervous wife and (predictably) his own appalling brother's meddlesome ways.

"Mr Jinny, the safety of your … stock will be greatly assured if you follow the advise myself and New Scotland Yard have given you. More gratitude is unnecessary."

John is proving irritatingly oblivious to his very clear signals to be gone and Mr Jinny seems most indomitable in his appreciation, still holding onto Sherlock's sleeve and conspiratorially moving him towards the back of the shop, where teetering piles of yellowing Woman's Own magazines stand like recipe-laden sentinels around a small, ramshackle desk. Sherlock suspects he should be wary, but instead, finds his interest piqued (a turn up for the books, in fact) as he surveys the desk, piled high with objects. He notes also that Mr Jinny is watching him carefully, greedily, searching his expression.

"You see! I know you do. You see the connection!"

He would clap if his treasure were not still grasped in his hand. Sherlock affects detachment, as is his wont.

"Three," he murmurs, paying little heed to the excited bubble of sound escaping from his odd client and turning Victorian Christmas cards over with long, pale fingers and feeling the weight of the monkey ornament in his hand. Surprisingly heavy.

"Tell me!" whispers Mr Ginny, conspiratorially, smiling in encouragement. "Explain what you see."

Sherlock rattles off a list, staccato style, as is his preference at these times:

"These cards - French hens, Ships sailing in, Wise men at the stable - three. Mawkish Toby jug in style of drunken man - three sheets to the wind in colloquial terms. Then, a snowstorm featuring the Trevi Fountain in Rome - three coins thrown in, if the song is to be believed. A Chrism, for anointing the believer in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit- the trinity, and, of course - " holding up the monkeys with hidden eyes, ears and mouth - "three monkeys who are wise. Three connects these objects. Coincidence?"

Mr Jinny's small beard quivers in appreciation, almost as if it were expected.

"Of course not Mr Holmes, sir. There is no such thing as coincidence." (Once more, Sherlock Holmes is irritatingly reminded of his brother and pushes it away immediately.)

"Three, sir, is the magic number. Throughout time, the Rule of Three has held us in its thrall."

"The Rule of Three?"

"The laws of universal harmony dictate that three is the most satisfying of groupings; more amusing, more effective, more soothing, more everything!"

Sherlock surveys Mr Jinny and considers his position as noises from the door strongly suggest John Watson is making his goodbyes.

"You laid out these objects to test me in some way?"

His client looked almost offended.

"Indeed not, sir. They were there for you to find and categorise since the universe wished it so."

Sherlock begins to move towards his escape route, mindful of his growling stomach and his numerous dead ends that needed fresh mind power.

"Goodnight Mr Jinny," he pulls up his collar against the cooling night air a mere three metres away.

"My gratitude remains Mr Holmes, and must be bestowed. Keep a keen eye out for the Rule of Three and the Universe will find you."

Small, hot fingers brush against his wrist in a facsimile of a handshake, leaving behind the memory of a touch, which grows into a prickle that bizarrely spreads, like sparks from a bonfire, through his palm, his knuckles, warming his fingernails with an almost pulsing heat that causes Sherlock to look down at his own hand, spreading out hot fingers like a glowing star.

"Have you got cramp again? I warn you every time mate - eat something, even if it's just a bloody banana!"

John falls into step beside him as they emerge into the merciful freshness of an autumnal London night, leaving dusty tomes and effusive shopkeepers behind them. Sherlock looks down at his hand again as the heat swiftly ebbs away, instantly becoming a distant memory.

He digs his hands deep into his pockets, electing the guise of stroppy, post-case detective, since he has no desire to share nor the ability to explain tonight's encounter.

"Suit yourself. Don't suppose you want to join Lestrade and me for a pint at The Three Horseshoes do you? I'll buy you a bag of crisps."

Sherlock shakes his head, more to clear it of fanciful notions than a flat out refusal. He must be exhausted; he needs to sleep.

"I'll see you later," he turns on the corner of Larkspur and Shotton Street. "Three's a crowd."

~x~

A/N: hello everyone (is there anybody out there? ;)) It's been an AGE but work is ridiculous and my kitchen is a pile of rubble at the moment so carving out precious time to write has been tortuously difficult.

However, when I have managed it, it has kept me sane and so here is a little (slightly magical) tale that allows Sherlock to admit (and possibly acquire) his heart's desires.

What could they be?

Please let me know what you think! Am always excited for feedback and I've missed you all. :)

NB: the first chapter is the introductory one, so smaller than the others. Updates will be regular .