Thought I'd try my hand at modernizing one of the original 56 by Arthur Conan Doyle. This one is based on 'The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax', which is from the collection called the Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. It's always been one of my personal favourite stories from the canon, because we see Holmes operating on something less than his usual level.

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the new BBC series based on it are not mine. Sadly.

The Lady Vanishes

"How's your French nowadays, John?" Sherlock asked one day, from the corner of his sofa.

"Maybe I don't speak French at all," John retorted absently. Sherlock snorted in ill-contained disbelief, and the doctor sighed. "But I see that you've already figured out that I'm fluent. Is it any use asking how you know?"

"Your shoes."

There was a long silence. Sherlock provided no further explanation.

"Why do you need to know about my French?" John asked finally. He hated to bend to the detective's silent prompts for speech, but Sherlock was just so good at invoking the uneasy quiet that John associated with primary school teachers who wanted participation in class.

"There's a plane ticket for Paris on the mantle piece. It could be yours, along with the paid hotel room awaiting at your destination," Sherlock said, gesturing exuberantly with one hand. He was facing away from John whilst lying down on the couch, as he always did when he was in a mood that was more suited to sleep. "You wouldn't have to do much while you were there. Just ask a few questions in your very good French here and there..."

"A case?"

"Well, not strictly speaking. A curiosity."

"And you think I'm going to pack up and leave, just to satisfy your curiosity?" John asked, though he felt he shouldn't be pushing his luck at this point. It wasn't every day Sherlock Holmes decided to send someone on an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris, whatever his ulterior motives.

Sherlock sighed, and rolled over to face John.

"I perfectly understand if you don't want to go. I certainly don't," he said. "Which is why I meant to send you, rather than going myself. I thought you'd see it as a holiday. You're up for one of those."

"Well, I suppose, after not working all this time, I am due," said John, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Ripping," Sherlock replied with a small smile. "Your instructions are minimal. A lady of some importance was staying in the hotel which you're to be accommodated at. Lady Frances Carfax. A sweet middle-aged woman born at the wrong period to come out of the closet in her prime, and a bit too demure nowadays to get active in those circles. Nothing you're unfamiliar with..."

"I'm sorry?" John cut in, maybe a tad too defensively. Sherlock looked up, visibly taken aback.

"Well, the lesbianism and all. Thought that would be close to your heart."

"Oh, right, right, carry on."

Sherlock stared at John for a second longer, before relaunching into his spiel.

"Anyhow, she goes vacationing in Paris, God knows why, writes to her bosom friend every week without fail, as she has done for the last three decades. Except the last two, where she hasn't sent a single line. Very distressing to her bosom friend, who came to me in the hopes that I would look into it."

"And you're sending me?"

"Well yes. I can't just up and leave London. Detective-Inspector Lestrade would be quite upset, and it's been proven that every criminal mastermind in this city waits 'til I'm gone to be interesting."

Sherlock was burrowing back into his sofa, looking exhausted from exerting himself with so much talking. John waited for him to fire up again, and when he didn't, shrugged and went to the mantle piece. Sure enough, there was a ticket in an open envelope laying there, weighted down by the skull.

"The flight is for next weekend, so you have time to pack," Sherlock muttered. "Now, if you'd kindly turn off the lights. I'm very tired, and I have no desire to get up and spoil the delightful heaviness in my limbs."

John stared, but did as he was told. He climbed up the stairs to his bedroom and tried to think of what had just happened.

Sherlock wasn't taking urgent action in this case, and generally John trusted the detective's judgement enough to know that if there was no rush to solve a problem, then there was a simple and relatively crimeless solution to the puzzle with which he had been presented.

And yet, Sherlock was just coming off of a long string of cases. His seemingly inexhaustible energy had been depleted greatly, to the point where Lestrade had thought it wiser not to include the man in crime scenes. Doing nothing but eating and sleeping was the only cure for the weariness that now consumed Sherlock.

John didn't really mind, even if Sherlock got more cantankerous without the sleep he suddenly wanted, or emptied the fridge in the span of two hours due to his newly-found appetite. If the perks of eating and sleeping Sherlock included trips to France, then John was ready to support the new regimen all the way.

From downstairs, he could hear the first rich strains of a violin being tuned halfheartedly.