Chapter 12

"Shit!"

It's an unimaginative start but I follow it up with a spectacular stream of add ons that even a veteran soldier would recognize as coarse expressions of anger. It does nothing to relieve my frustration so I go through the routine again with variations on a theme. I put enough energy into it that when I'm done, I am slightly light-headed and see speckles of light that burn out my slightly blurred vision.

Behind me, there's the softest of sounds. A throat clears. It is delicate. Feminine. I turn.

"Mrs Hudson." I blanch. The tips of my ears burn. "I am so sorry. Did you to hear all that …"

"Never mind, dear." She paws the air in a gesture of disregard. "I have heard almost all of it before now. You'd be surprised. Well, I see they've been here too. Did they take anything?"

"The Petrus." I say gravely.

"No." It comes out in a gasp. She understands immediately and puts her hand to the collar of her dress and fiddles until she has her cross between her thumb and forefinger.

"Yes."

"You best tell the officer in charge, then. He's still here bothering about downstairs."

"Ye-es." I start off fine but slow down in mid-word. "Hmm." I counter and smooth out the answer. Despite my earlier verbal vivisection by Lestrade about withholding information, the idea of telling the police fills me with unexpected reluctance. Since Sherlock and I started on this quest for the wines, there has been a rapid and severe series of events. Some have even had life-ending consequences. Now there is this – the Ransacking of Baker Street and the theft of four acquired bottles – twelve thousand pounds' worth. The question occurs to me how much of this is coincidence, how much is related to Arty and now much to the Petrus. Maybe some or all of it. Maybe nothing. Maybe it is all my imagination making connections where none exist.

I debate the odds in various combinations and then I look at the far wall at the obtuse yellow happy face with bullet holes for eyes and recall Sherlock's warning to be careful. He has been utterly inactive save for the Petrus and now he is being followed. That cannot be an accident. The conclusion lifts the hairs on the back of my head and I get a hinky feeling that Sherlock and I are being watched and our activities monitored.

Mrs Hudson reads my silence well. In her own way, she tries to dissuade me from my current course of action. She tilts her head to the side and sweeps herself sideways to clear my path to the door. "Well?" When I don't respond, she is left to consider my lack of action and arrives at a conclusion that does not please her. A scowl pinches the middle of her forehead and she crosses her arms. "They broke in looking for that bloody wine, didn't they? And now you're not going to say a word?"

"I can't." I say and look beyond her. I can hear footsteps coming upstairs. I hold up my phone. "That was Sherlock. He said be careful."

"Since when does not minding the police when they ask questions considered being careful? Downstairs is a shambles! Don't you think that should count for something? The police are bound to ask."

The footfalls are nearly at the top of the stairs. "Mrs Hudson. I know. I'm terribly sorry. Please? I … I just need to talk to Sherlock first. I can call Lestrade at any time. I need some time to sort everything out." I start riffing on alternatives to telling the police.

"I don't think it's right." Her hands are tucked hard into the crooks of her elbows. She pushes them back and fort until she is settled into her arms are locked and fully crossed. "Not right at all."

"Not right, ma'am?" The officer gets to the landing and steps through the doorway and repeats the tail end of the conversation. "What's not right?" He takes a once round look at the apartment and gets to the only conclusion with no effort. "You've had a right going over as well, I see."

"Yes." I say.

"Anything taken?" He comes further inside the room and takes a place beside me. The whole time he's moving, he's looking at the extent of the damage. It is similar to Mrs Hudson's place – things strewn everywhere. Furniture upturned. Drawers opened. Cushions pulled out. Books hauled down from bookcases and papers tossed aside and away without care or order. Clearly they were intent on their finding what they came for. When I don't answer, he repeats himself and looks me straight in the eye. "Anything taken?"

"I only just got here." I say and hold his gaze.

My blank expression sells it and he nods with understanding. "Nothing jumps out? Your computer is there on the desk. Nice television in the corner. Certainly weren't after electronics. You keep any valuables about? Cash? Jewelry?"

I still avoid Mrs Hudson's gaze. I work in a bit of embarrassment that is easier than I would have wished. "Cash? No. Been a bit low the last … well … for a bit longer that I'd like, if you know what I mean. Not much beyond what's in my pocket." Then I pull back my sleeve and show him my watch. "This is all I have and it's always with me."

There's a bit of quiet and he looks around some more. Then he comes back to me and keeps at it. "Sherlock Holmes lives here?" He might not be so easy to fool after all.

"Yes. He's … abroad at the moment."

"He have anything valuable about?"

I see the violin on the sofa, the case upturned an on the floor. I point it out. "Just the violin, I think. The rest … well … what Sherlock Holmes has of value is what's up here." I tap my temple. "You can't steal that."

"Hmm." He nods in agreement. "Well. You take a good look around and as you put things back together, you might notice something. You call me at this number if you discover anything. Not sure what the focus was. Thorough job. They spent a good deal of time downstairs."

I think to myself that they started downstairs and then when they didn't find what the were looking for, they came up here. The Petrus must have been their only goal. When they found it, they left.

"I'll do that." I give him a nod and he departs. Mrs Hudson stares at me without speaking until the footfalls hit the squeaky stair two from the bottom.

"You should be ashamed." She says. "Utterly ashamed of yourself. Lying to the police like that …"

"I didn't actually lie, Mrs Hudson."

"You didn't tell them the truth, either." She counters. "What would Inspector Lestrade do if he were here? I'm sure he'd have a thing or two to say about it."

I don't answer. A thing or two is an understatement.

Xx x x xxx x xx x xx x x x xxx

Alone, I stand in the middle of the apartment and debate where to start first. Everywhere I look, the intruder - or perhaps I should say that as the plural - seems to have made a particularly aggressive job of pulling things apart. The scope of the destruction is immense; it seems almost vengeful and overwhelms me. Yet, as with all intimidating tasks without obvious beginning, the way to proceed is to simply make a start somewhere and complete a piece and then repeat until the entirety is done. This is how I proceed and eventually, the repetitiveness of bending, picking up and putting back into place create periodic moments of a meditative state. My mind goes into a peaceful quiet where I lapse into thinking of nothing. It provides the relief and mental space for so I can consider what to do next. I get almost to the point where I have a cogent plan then I look to the kitchen and remember the lost Petrus and feel sick all over again. The mental noise returns to a crescendo and crowds out any orderly thought. The wine is gone. We are back down to almost zero from being nearly half done. Sixty thousand pounds in the balance and a week gone. For Mycroft, this is not about the money. Then I think of Sherlock. He said his phone was losing power. He is always losing power and always losing chargers. Why does he have to text and natter incessantly instead of saving it for important matters.

I try to remember the conversation. He didn't say much. He mentioned his battery; that he was being followed. He warned me to be careful. He didn't get to say any more than that. I look around at our apartment. Did he know this was about to happen? I wonder. Was this even close to what he was worried about? I won't know until I talk to him. He didn't get much beyond he was being followed and to be careful. At the end – I am certain those noises were not just the power dying. He stopped talking but there was still a connection. I am sure of it. Then the phone went dead. Or he hung up. Did someone hang up for him? The superficial worry settles into my bones.

I pick up papers and place them on the table and then take them up again and move them to the desk. I move other items from here to there and start thinking of who I know in Paris. Should I go? How do I even start trying to locate him? The consulate? The police? Jesus. Am I going to have to swallow my shattered pride and ask Lestrade for help? I know for certain he is hardly in any mood to give it. If it is possible, he is even more irritated with me now than he normally is with Sherlock. As he said to me earlier this morning, at least I should know better. Then I convince myself against logic that he must be fine. I think there are few people more capable of taking care of themselves than Sherlock. I drop the stack of books I have in my arms on the desk without any order and second-guess my logic. I scroll through a long list of circumstances where he would not be at all fine.

I have lost Sherlock temporarily. But where am I going to look? I wouldn't know the first place to start if I just up and went to Paris. I carry on with this debate to-ing and fro-ing; making plans and then revising them so much that they are no plans at all. I work myself up into such a state that I must simply sit on the edge of my chair and breathe deeply. What is my most pressing issue? The wine or Sherlock? Both but I can do more immediately about the wine than Sherlock. I decide to carry on as I have been – investing a little here and a little there – moving the line forward on multiple fronts simultaneously. It's not perfect but I am one-man army at the moment. I will succeed where I can.

It doesn't look it but I am half way done before I hear a knock a knock at the door. I keep going and call out for them to come in.

I hear the hinges give way and I check over my shoulder long enough for me to register a face and then I look away and pick up the pillow at my feet. All at once, I recognize him. I rise and turn to face him. In the doorway and not yet in stands Rickie.

"Oh, hello," I say and properly stop what I am doing. "Come in."

I mash the Union Jack cushion and drop back into place and when I look up again, he is still at the door.

I nod and say in a voice that is about the tone of convincing a shy pet, "Come in."

He doesn't.

"What happened?" I ask and cross the floor to reach him. "Are you alright?"

"What did you tell the police?" He says it quietly enough that I can't quite distinguish the tone. Rickie has always been good at emotional containment. Except of course, when someone trips a reaction and it explodes.

"I …" I lick my lips and pull my thumbnail across frown lines. "I had an interview with them this morning."

"Did you tell them about Arty?" He is utterly still; his arms hang at his sides. His hands are open in a classic pre-combat pose. I don't come any closer.

He would not ask the question if he didn't know. I have no other option but to come clean. "I … had not choice Why? What happened?" then it occurs to me. "Did they come to see you?"

He waits a long time before he answers. When he finally speaks, a film of tears has risen and subsided from his eyes. He lifts his chin and says simply. "I lost my job."

"What?" The news startles me. I retreat a couple steps. "Rickie. Come in. Sit down." When he still doesn't, I kick it with a final add on that is both gentle and serious. "Want me to make it an order?"

He debates it and eventually reaches the right conclusion. He comes in and I go to close the door after him. When I turn back, he is sitting in Sherlock's place, back straight and not settled back to use the back of the chair.

I puff up the Union Jack again and jam it into its place before I sit. I get no chance for a preamble.

"You pissed them off." He says without preamble. "I don't know what you told them. But they came looking for me. And they were right pissed. It cost me my job."

"Wait. What? How? Slow down." The direction is for me as much as anyone. I shut my eyes and try to make order from what he is saying. I open them and he is still sitting ramrod straight, a simmering stillness. "Who came to see you?"

"A couple of them. One was a detective inspector." He doesn't give the name. "He don't think much of you. What the hell did you do to piss him off?"

"I …" I dip my chin to consider how I can make that a one or two word answer. "Lestrade? There were several points of failure to disclose on my part. We have … differing priorities at the moment. It doesn't help that he has three bodies in the morgue."

He nods and I have the distinct impression this somewhat redeems me. Not by much but enough that he realizes what happened. "You covered for Arty, didn't you."

"I may have … left out a few details. Yes."

"Well. What you left out, I'm pretty sure that inspector knows now. He threatened to arrest me. I can't afford trouble. I need to get my life back." Rickie blinks. "Arty didn't do it, you know."

I put it to him squarely. "I know. And that's with nothing more to go on than knowing him and knowing you. Still, Scotland Yard doesn't have the benefit or privilege of serving with you. They don't know any better. They are driven by evidence. Lestrade is accumulating a circumstantial case against him. I give him credit, though. It's got a lot of merit. That case would be viewed by many as sound and only lacking one or two final elements. If he gets a break in the case … " My voice trails off.

"Yeah." Rickie says. "And one of them breaks is finding Arty himself. Captain, I … I am begging you. Please, can you help me find Arty before the police do? If they arrest him … or try to … it's not going to be good for anyone."

"Least of all Arty." I say.

"Can you help me find him?"

There is one piece of unfinished business between us. I need to know. "Why did you lose your job?"

"They showed up at work. Mrs Fong said she didn't need this kind of trouble and sacked me on the spot after they had gone."

"Mrs Fong?"

"She is the owner. A noodle shop. Outskirts of Chinatown."

"What do you do?"

He takes a deep breath then takes shreds of his personal pride and makes a mantle of it. His chin lifts again. "I wash dishes."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D