Part 89 - Diversion is the Better Part of Valour

[wiseheart]

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD

by Soledad

Interlude #2 – The Diary

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: This story takes place directly before "The Great Game" and is centred on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn't necessary – but could be helpful.

I'm not sure that one is tired and irascible after getting Retconned, but it seemed fitting. Maud was the middle name of Victoria Waterfield, of course.

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Part 89 – Diversion is the Better Part of Valour

"All right, John, enough is enough," Sherlock declared two days later, when his flatmate finally returned to Baker Street, after a night spent at Mary's and a double shift at the surgery. "Tell me!"

"Tell you what?" John was tired, had a headache and desperately needed a cuppa.

What he didn't need was playing twenty questions with a bored Sherlock.

"The letters, the ones I found under the front cover of the diary of Molly's grandmother," Sherlock specified. "What was in them?"

"Oh, those!"

John had already forgotten about them. They hadn't been particularly interesting. But he couldn't resist teasing Sherlock a bit.

"I'm not sure I should tell you," he declared with great (and totally fake) dignity. "That would be Molly's place, not mine."

"Yes, but it would be advantageous to tell me anyway," Sherlock returned without missing a beat.

John raised an eyebrow. "Define advantageous!"

"You could be reasonably sure that I wouldn't grow anything unsavoury in your RAMC mug while you were away working the next time you fix yourself a cuppa," Sherlock said promptly.

"That's blackmail!" John protested half-heartedly.

In theory, he would not put something like that beyond the idiot he cohabited with, but somehow he doubted that Sherlock would do so deliberately. Out of absent-minded ignorance, yes. But not with the express intention to harm him.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock agreed amiably. "Is it working?"

John shook his head ruefully. "When does it not? Was I ever able to keep anything from you that you wanted to know?"

"Of course not, John, don't be ridiculous; that's what I do!" Sherlock threw himself into his favourite armchair and drummed on the floor with his bare feet impatiently. "Now tell me about those letters!"

John, being tired and headache-y, decided to torture his flatmate some more as well-earned punishment and made himself a mug of tea first, taking his sweet time. He'd learned the hard way that giving in to Sherlock's demands without resistance was the way that led to madness. Not that going mad wasn't a constant danger when one lived with Sherlock, but it was the principle of the thing.

Finally, when Sherlock was nearly climbing the walls, John made himself comfortable in his own chair, signalling that he was now willing to talk.

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," he confessed. "Those letters were written by Maud Harris, Molly's grandmother, to a bloke who wasn't Molly's grandfather. Written and apparently never sent."

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed on the highest level of offence. "Are you telling me that it was just some romantic nonsense?"

"Afraid so," John replied contentedly, enjoying his tea. It was Darjeeling, courtesy of Mary, not his usual cheap blend from Tesco's.

"But-but that doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock protested. "Why would anybody hide such irrelevant letters? Whomever she might have written them, they're most likely dead, and unless Molly's mother was from this mysterious other man, why would anybody care?"

"People have this strange concept calling reputation," John answered dryly.

Sherlock made an impatient gesture. "Oh, come on, John, who cares about reputation?"

"Everybody who isn't you, apparently," John replied in the same dry manner. "Allow us, ordinary mortals, our mundane little concerns, Sherlock. We can't all be mad geniuses."

"Dull!" Sherlock declared impatiently. "Have you found anything else in that stupid diary? Anything potentially interesting?"

"No," John admitted, frowning. "But why are you so obsessed with it? If there's any family secret hidden in that diary, it wouldn't be anything of the sort you'd usually bother with."

Sherlock gave him his patented nobody-can-possibly-be-such-an-idiot look. The one usually reserved for the police in general and for Anderson in particular.

"I'm bored, John!" he said, as if pointing out the obvious for the particularly feeble-minded. From his point of view, he probably was. But John wasn't playing along. Not tonight when he was feeling shitty enough already.

"Try to pick up a hobby," he said tiredly, carrying his mug back to the kitchen and putting it into the sink, together with the now cold rest of his tea.

As interesting as life in Baker Street was, it did have its frustrating elements. Not being able to have a cuppa in peace when deadly tired because of Sherlock's constant nagging was one of those. One of the worst ones, actually.

"I'm going to bed," he then announced. "I need sleep the worst way. "And God help me, Sherlock, if you start screeching on your violin in the middle of the night, or blow up anything before I'd wake up on my own, I'll move out of here and back with Mary in that very hour!".

With that, he stormed off and up to his bedroom, not giving Sherlock the chance to as much as open his mouth.

---

"This is not good," Mycroft Holmes said grimly.

He was working on several independent crisises at the same time – each capable of and likely to escalate if untended-to – while watching the live feed from 221B with half an eye.

"No," Ianto agreed. "Sherlock is making a mistake, taking Dr Watson for granted. That might have been true at the beginning of their… companionship, when Dr Watson had no alternatives. He has one now. If Ms Morstan sells the house she's inherited from her father's aunt, they can make up that alternate medical practice and make enough for a living whether they choose to remarry or not."

"Which is why I was concerned about the reappearance of Ms Morstan in Dr Watson's life," Mycroft reminded him. "But, of course, you had to get on your moral high horse about it and give me an ultimatum."

He still sounded offended by that.

"And I stand to it, sir," Ianto said, still completely unfazed. "Dr Watson isn't just a war hero; he's also a good, decent man who deserves to make his own choices. That said, I doubt that he'd move out of 221B for good. He just enjoys the fact that now he has a place to escape to when Sherlock's bored and at his most annoying."

"Speaking of which," Mycroft said, "a bored Sherlock is a potentially dangerous Sherlock – both for himself and for his surroundings. Is there any potential case to lure him out of his den, at least temporarily?"

"Hmmm," Ianto consulted his PDA. "Nothing that would attract him in England at the moment, but what about Belarus? There's that Barry Berwick bloke, sitting in prison in Minsk, facing execution, that had commented on Dr Watson's blog, asking for help."

"Good Lord!" Mycroft was mildly scandalised. "What is he facing execution for?"

"For stabbing and killing his wife while on holiday in Belarus," Ianto told him blandly. "Perhaps Sherlock will find that a suitable challenge."

"That depends," Mycroft held out his hand for the PDA: "Is the man guilty?"

Ianto nodded. "I'm fairly sure that he is, sir. But I can fake a message – with Mummy's help, of course – in which he begs for Sherlock's help again, stating how Sherlock is the only one to prove the police wrong and save him. According to my research, the Doctor could rarely resist when people appealed to his vanity."

Mycroft thought about that for a moment.

"That could work," he finally decided. "But you'll have to go with him, in case he gets in trouble and the only way to save him would be to release him from that fob watch. I do have some influence in Belarus, but not enough to act in time."

Ianto suppressed a sigh. According to weather forecast, temperatures in Belarus were still freezing, and the last thing he wanted was to spend more time in Sherlock's – the Doctor's – company than absolutely necessary. But he'd accepted the responsibility when the chameleon arch had been activated and couldn't back off now.

"Of course, sir," he said unhappily.

~TBC~

Comments

[sammydragoncat]

Poor Ianto - and you know Sherlock is not going to want him along.