BBC Sherlock: A Whimsical Case

There are two ways of spreading light:

to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.

- Edith Wharton

***888***

***888***

Chapter 1

***888***

***888***

February 2019

Meet me? Baker St. - SH

Sherlock's text pleasantly surprised John. It had been phrased as a request and its timing could not have been better. John had nearly completed his early shift in the surgery and had only to finish up his paperwork before leaving. Normally, he would have headed home straightaway where his soon-to-be three-year-old Rosie and her childminder were expecting him, but Sherlock's text changed his plans—a case with Sherlock was important work, too. He rang Erika about his delay and then texted his friend: On my way.

Within short order John found himself in a place so familiar it was as though he had never left. The crackling fire warmed the sitting room and kept the February chill from frosting the large windows facing Baker Street. It was like old times: sharing a cuppa in the late afternoon, although so much had changed since those early days—tragic loss and familial obligations notwithstanding—requiring more effort on both their parts to arrange a tête-à-tête.

Now seated in the club chair across from Sherlock, John studied a hand-scripted note on stationery personalized with a coat of arms. "This's a new one," he remarked to his friend. "So, it's not a case for a member of the peerage, but a letter of introduction from one."

"About his son, Peter," Sherlock nodded.

"Not familiar with this family represented by mice and a domestic cat. And what does this motto say? As My Wimsey Takes Me? Who's this?" John asked as he handed the letter back.

"The Duke of Denver. Arms: sable three mice courant, argent: crest, a domestic cat crouched as to spring," Sherlock refolded the letter carefully, slid it into its cream-colored embossed envelope, and tucked it into his jacket's breast pocket. "An old friend of the family. Of Mycroft's, actually, from Oxford… You see," Sherlock raised his tea mug to his lips and sipped before resuming, "the Duke's second son, Peter, is the namesake of his great-grandfather, Lord Peter Wimsey who ascended to the dukedom in 1951 after the Duke passed...the Duke's son predeceased him—died, if I remember, over France in 1943—"

"—Wait, Sherlock," John stopped him with a shake of his head, plunking his mug down with a loud thud on the side table. "Not sure I'm following this…"

"Anyway, this letter…. It's a formality, really, because…well, I once solved a mystery for his son, this same Lord Peter Wimsey, when he was a lad of four."

The arch of John's brows—expressing his curiosity—encouraged Sherlock to continue. "Mycroft was at Balliol with Lord Paul Wimsey—now the Duke—but they both had more use for each other when they met again at Downing Street a few years later. The Peer and the Pear, I liked to call them, such was Mycroft's shape back then."

Sherlock brushed aside his irrelevant tangent with a wave of his hand. "I had gone to Mycroft to voice my complaint in person about an irritating report in the news. The course of an MI5 investigation—this was well before I launched my current career and could only follow such matters from the fringe—compelled me to warn them against disastrous errors they were making. That was when I encountered Denver with his son—Peter—distracted, near tears, and tugging urgently on his father's trouser knee, demanding both his father and my brother's attention.

"For the sake of propriety and political obligations, Mycroft feigned interest in the Duke's conversation with Peter as the child had become distraught—something to do with a kitten called Seneca, missing all day. My brief eavesdropping provided me the facts I needed. I gave them the solution, and after a quick call to the residence, the cat was rescued and little Lord Peter was eternally grateful to me." Sherlock selected an iced biscuit from the assortment in the nearby plate and crunched on one as he continued. "The grouse we enjoyed on Boxing Day, remember*? I receive it annually as a gift from the ducal estate in Yorkshire as a more tangible expression of his eternal gratitude."

"All for a pet!"

"For other services that needs must remain secret, Mycroft gets champagne…."

John chuckled and chewed thoughtfully on a scone. After a beat, he sighed, "So tell me. Where was the cat?"

"Well, cats are notorious for slinking off and curling up in tight places…." Sherlock glanced at John with a faraway smile. "I suggested they check the chest of drawers … which was where they found the thing and freed it before it suffocated…." After another bite of biscuit, Sherlock added. "An exotic pet…oh, maybe a snake or lizard, even a tarantula, would have been less trouble…. I told the young boy so, but he seemed quite attached to his cat."

"A happy ending, thanks to you."

"A lost 'pet' and a little boy desperate to find it," Sherlock muttered, noting the parallel to his own darker, more disturbing childhood surrounding the loss of Redbeard.

Observing Sherlock's pained expression, John re-directed the topic, "When was this … cat mystery solved?"

"Twenty-three years ago," Sherlock nodded and shook off the shadow of his regrets.

"So you were…?"

"Twenty-one… a fourth-year MChem …getting into serious trouble trying to find my purpose in life…"

"Things haven't changed much, have they?" John teased him with a twinkle in his eye.

"A bit. Now I have a friend who gets into trouble with me," Sherlock chuckled softly, crossing one long leg over the other, "and also gets me out of it, although on some days my purpose in life might still be a bit dubious…"

Like dust motes in the late afternoon sunshine, their mirth danced gently between them until Sherlock cleared his throat and dispersed the levity. "This note," he tapped his breast pocket, "has kindled my interest in meeting Wimsey again. I'm actually looking forward to it. And from what I've heard from unnamed circles—all right, from Mycroft—he's intelligent and athletic, quick witted, with a proven eye for detail; he had shown unexpected promise when recently he helped recover the Attenbury Emeralds."

"Yeah. I recall hearing something about that in the news. That was this fellow, then? Impressive," John agreed.

"Since receiving Denver's missive this morning, John, I've researched the son. There is potential there, despite his aristocratic lifestyle. Along with some frivolity the nobility are known for, he has a weakness for incunabula … books from the earliest stages of printing… before 1501... and is reputed to have an exceptional appetite for first editions. I'm told he has accrued quite a collection despite his youth, and, I understand, he has a predilection for investigative fiction. I've learnt he's been an avid follower of your blogs since the beginning."

"My blogs are not fiction—"

"—Well," Sherlock countered with a skewed grin, raising yet again their ongoing debate, "at best, they're romanticized fact…"

"Dry facts given a creative spin make more interesting stories for our readers," John grumbled. He leant back in his soft chair and sipped his tea, "and your future clients..."

Sherlock noted the sudden tetchiness in the tilt of John's head and abandoned the perpetually sensitive topic. "I asked you here …to…to …to share information that involves us. His Grace is suggesting that his son might benefit from 'apprenticing'—his word—with a preeminent detective…."

"Apprentice? Seriously? Since when do you take on apprentices—ever?"

"True. But, in this case, I'm…disposed to make an exception."

"Why?"

Sherlock took another sip before replying. "It's complicated. His Grace thought sleuthing would do his son good…It's the only thing he's shown any real interest in since his return to civilian life."

"Former military then?" John sensed where this was going.

"In The Rifles, First Battalion, rose in the ranks to Major. Later he was appointed an Intelligence Officer. Apparently a good one, knowledgeable in major world languages, steganography, and deciphering code…"

"Oh, I see a pattern developing here. Invalided soldier needing adventure...," John's stomach clenched. He grimaced at the fleeting thought that he could be replaced and then sighed in resignation, "…And perhaps your new recruit. Can't say I blame you. With Rosie and all, I know I haven't been able to—"

"—While it's true everyone can be replaced at some point, John," Sherlock interrupted, looking hard at his friend with his narrowed eyes, "your value to me cannot."

John darted a relieved look toward Sherlock and met the laser stare with nod of acknowledgement.

Assured that John understood him, Sherlock's expression softened. "I should add that Lord Peter is not as serious minded or driven by the science of deduction as I deem necessary for pursuing this as a career. According to his father, solving mysteries amuses him. It's why His Grace prefers his son to seek some formal guidance—actually our advice—if he is to begin this 'silly hobby' of investigation, as his father calls it, in earnest."

"Couldn't be much of a silly hobby if he is an experienced Intelligence Officer," John pondered, "But why you? Given what you've described, he's far more skilled than an apprentice. Why not work for Mycroft, as an attaché to the Foreign Office or MI6?"

"His….nerves," Sherlock paused and glanced down at the half-filled mug in his hands, "PTSD...correction, PTSS—Syndrome—makes him unsuitable." He raised his steady gaze to John's. "His tour was interrupted by traumatic injury, like another good man I know. He was ill for many months, and his recovery has been slow—sometimes he confuses time and place."

John gave a low whistle and grimaced in full sympathy. "Combat stress flashbacks! Poor bugger."

"To my mind, we could always use assistance battling the criminal classes. Besides, I think you and I can help set him right," Sherlock added softly, "because I know you have done that for me."

And you for me, John thought. A sad half-smile flickered as he gazed into his cup. "Sherlock, do you think it was you—that long-ago 'kitten case'—that inspired him to pursue investigation as a hobby?"

"Thought had occurred. Well, and what of it? Rather, I think your blogs of our exploits have been the deciding factor in earning his interest in us. Even so, whatever his motives for becoming an investigator, frivolous or not, I shall see him, and of course, hope you might join me."

"Just so happens," John brightened at the prospect, "my schedule can be massaged a bit. Erika's back from holiday, so maintaining Rosie's routine should be a tad easier to get sorted than it had been while she was away." He checked his watch, downed the rest of his tea, and rose from his chair, "I'd like to meet this Lord Peter Wimsey…sounds like an interesting guy."

"It's settled, then," Sherlock jumped up in delight. "Lord Peter Wimsey's flat, 110 Piccadilly, near Half Moon Street, tomorrow evening, say half seven?"

***888***

Author Notes:

*To read about the grouse and the Boxing Day meal, see my FF "The Schemer's Pit."

The missing cat story was borrowed from a BBC radio programme broadcast on 8 January 1954 as "A Tribute to Sherlock Holmes on the Occasion of his 100th Birthday" In this programme, "Lord Peter" is being interviewed and he recounts how Sherlock Holmes once saved his cat. The radio script was reprinted in Sayers on Holmes, but you can check it out if you search for "DLS does crack; or, The Young Lord Peter Consults Sherlock Holmes."

I am ever grateful to my FF friends englishtutor and scrub456 who keep encouraging me to write. However, I especially want to thank my Canon Expert-she doesn't want to be named-but who has shared her keen eye and wisdom about Holmes and Wimsey. She has given me confidence and insights to write this Wimsey crossover. I remain greatly indebted to her!