sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-19 05:00 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-19 05:00 am
Entry tags:
Finder's Fee
Title: Finder's Fee
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Repatriating a priceless cultural artefact shouldn't involve housebreaking, handcuffs, or John Watson. But it does, and it's still the right thing to do.
Notes: After I posted my Six Things About Sherlock last week, Stranded_Pearl on LJ got an idea for a fic and pointed me to the Sherlock Holmes Kink Meme where the idea was posted. I am vastly unacquainted with kink memes, other than to be aware of their existence, but I liked the idea a lot, so away we went. This is the more polished version of the fic. There is no real kink in this other than a hinted moment with a pair of handcuffs, though.
Originally Posted 8.7.10
Available AO3.
***
Once the confused shouting had subsided -- why did people always shout? Perhaps they thought being louder would help them be less stupid? -- the woman who had been wearing a priceless jade artefact in her hair slumped down at her desk and looked up at him.
"What do I do with it?" she asked, holding out her hand for him to return it. "I wouldn't even know where to sell it."
"That's quite all right," he said. He'd already pinned it into one corner of his muffler, wrapped it in the rest, and tucked it in his pocket. "You needn't trouble yourself to sell it. You see it doesn't, technically, belong to you," he added, scratching his cheek idly.
"I'm sorry?" she asked.
"Your boyfriend nicked it and gave it to you. Granted he nicked it from someone else who nicked it. But the point remains, two wrongs only make a right under certain circumstances, and this is not one of those. Though I suppose in my nicking it from you, three wrongs are about to make a right. Hm. Morality and mathematics don't agree."
"The bloody hell you will," she said, circling round the desk and going for him. He caught her wrists. She hadn't the imagination, he supposed, to try kicking.
"This is a priceless cultural treasure," he said, as she kept trying to lunge for him -- and then trying to pull away from his grip. "It will be repatriated. I shall pass on to you any reward and/or finder's fee, naturally. Although by the spirit of the thing, I actually found it. You just shoved it in your hair," he added, distaste curling his lip. He tumbled her back into her chair, let her go, and bent over, resting his palms on the chair's arms.
"After all, you wouldn't want to be tried for receiving stolen property, would you? On a nine million pound antique, that's definitely a jail-time charge," he said. She stared at him, wide-eyed. He leaned back and began pulling his gloves on. "I shall keep you up to date on the progress of the jade. I'm sure the Chinese government will be feeling suitably generous, and you've prevented a very nasty international incident. Elgin Marbles all over again, eh?"
She watched him leave, and didn't try to stop him. Sherlock allowed himself a small, private smile as he walked out of the building. Part of it was, he admitted, that he wanted an evening to study the jade before he contacted Scotland Yard about its return; also, he thought John might be amused to hold nine million pounds in his hand, and it had become almost distressingly important to him that John be amused at every possible opportunity.
He was in, for him, quite a good mood when he arrived home. This evaporated immediately on seeing who was in his flat.
"They were here when I arrived," John said, before Sherlock could demand to know why he'd been such a fool as to let Mycroft into their home.
"A bit of B&E always lifts the spirits," Mycroft said. He was standing in the middle of Sherlock's lounge, on Sherlock's rug, hands folded behind him. He was also within ten feet of John. All of these things would have been killing offences, exept that it would upset Mum.
"What do you want, Mycroft? I don't have time for petty bickering," Sherlock said. He could play the odds, walk into the kitchen, and hope Mycroft couldn't see him put his muffler in the concealed safe he'd installed. ("Sherlock, why are you drilling drywall at five in the morning?" "It was there to be done. We're both awake so I shouldn't think it would bother you. Why are you awake at five in the morning, is the better question.") On the other hand, he didn't want to give away the location of the safe even theoretically, and there were more important considerations.
He placed himself squarely between John, in the chair near the fireplace, and Mycroft, who pivoted to watch him. There was another man with him, not his usual assistant, and Sherlock took him in. Chinese by ancestry but London born, a translator by employment but not by profession (probably with political aspirations), and planning a trip to Scotland in the near future. Sherlock wondered idly what a politically-motivated translator could find of interest in Scotland.
"Who says I want anything?" Mycroft asked. "Can't I pay a friendly call on my brother? I keep extending the olive branch, Sherlock, and you keep knocking it away."
"You know perfectly well why I do," Sherlock retorted. "Tell me what you want or get out, Mycroft."
Mycroft studied him for a moment, then sighed theatrically.
"We need to talk about the jade, brother."
"No," Sherlock said, relishing the syllable.
"Yes, I think so," Mycroft told him. "I know you have it."
"Yes, and you can't," Sherlock answered.
"Excuse me," John said from his chair. "You have the hairpin? The nine million pound hairpin?"
"Of course I have it, why else would Mycroft be here?" Sherlock asked, turning to him.
John shrugged. "He seems to like annoying you."
"I don't enjoy it, Dr. Watson," Mycroft called. "Well. Not gratuitously. I merely take pleasure in a job well done."
"I'm repatriating the jade," Sherlock told him. "It's stolen property. You can't have it."
"My dear brother, I don't want it." Mycroft smiled. "I'm just here to save you from making an international cock-up out of it. While I know you believe me to be the soul of evil, I don't particularly fancy a war with China this week. But return it to Scotland Yard and there are legal channels, court hearings, evidence processes."
"And your confiscating it will prevent all that?" Sherlock demanded. The other man stepped forward, casting a momentary glance at Mycroft.
"Perhaps I had better handle this, Mr. Holmes," he said, then turned to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes. My name is Thomas Lee."
"A bit like calling yourself Mr. Smith, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.
"Nevertheless, it's my name," Mr. Lee said, a hint of temper showing through. "I'm a -- "
"Translator for the government, yes," Sherlock waved a hand. "We can skip the resume. Edinburgh's wet this time of year, by the way, so you may want to pack sturdy shoes."
Mr. Lee glanced at Mycroft. "He's as good as you said. Mr. Holmes," he continued, coming forward again, "The Chinese government wants the jade back. I'm sure they'll be pleased to hear you want the jade returned to them. I'm here to facilitate that."
"A translator?"
"Occasionally I freelance to...smooth things over between parties," Mr. Lee said. "I think everyone feels that this can best be handled privately."
"Why?"
"The repatriation of the jade is likely to stir up anti-Chinese feelings in the city; the British government is not known for giving up its lootings lightly; not everyone in China agrees that high finder's fees for stolen artefacts are an appropriate use of government funds. This way, we circumvent that, and everyone walks away happy."
Sherlock considered matters. He didn't like backroom deals, but Mycroft's presence at least assured him of Mr. Lee's bona-fides; this wasn't a scam meant to recover the jade for some criminal enterprise. This way things would be taken care of neatly, and he would avoid the most egregious newspaper gossip. He didn't mind a spot of publicity, but it made the work more difficult.
"Mr. Holmes," Mr. Lee said, sounding slightly impatient, "the question isn't whether the jade should be repatriated. I think we're all in agreement on that. The question is, are you willing to respect the Chinese government's decision to handle the exchange this way, or does your magnanimous nature not extend that far?"
Oh, that had a bite to it. Sherlock grinned.
"Mycroft, get out," he said. "Mr. Lee can stay."
Mycroft made a constipated face. "You don't trust me? I'm hurt, Sherlock, deeply wounded."
"I don't like you. Significant difference," Sherlock told him. Mycroft, with another theatrical sigh, made his way to the door. Sherlock waited to be certain he'd gone down the stairs before turning back to Mr. Lee.
"What did you have in mind?" he asked.
***
-- Tomorrow morning, Lee had said, an aide from the Chinese embassy will bring two cases to your home. One of them will be given to either yourself or your companion --
-- Dr. Watson, Sherlock said.
-- Hi, Watson added, waving.
-- to be escorted to the drop point, Lee finished, looking like he was very much over dealing with Sherlock Holmes already.
"Well," John said, once the case had arrived and the jade hairpin had been placed inside it. "How do I look?"
The case had been closed, locked, and handcuffed to John's wrist. Sherlock found himself distracted by the cuff; it glinted below the sleeve of John's best shirt, metal wrapped around the delicate flesh and bone of the wrist. He imagined what it must be like to be confined that way, and what it must be like to confine John so. After all, John was an unsettling if fascinating combination of gentility and rage; a wound spring Sherlock was still working on the precise trigger for. Imagine containing all that, controlling all that, with a pair of metal bands and a chain. Imagine what one could get John Watson to do.
"Sherlock?" John's voice intruded. "Still in there?"
"Hm? Yes? You look semiotically untrustworthy," Sherlock told him. John made his best I-don't-get-you-but-I'm-trying face. Sherlock stepped up into his personal space and undid the top button of his shirt, fingers brushing John's pulse-point casually. "In the TV box where the tiny people dance for your amusement," he drawled, as he worked the button, "a top-button fastened without a tie is a semiotic indicator of an untrustworthy man."
"Oh," John said.
"There, now you look perfectly normal except for the armoured briefcase handcuffed to your wrist," Sherlock added. He took a risk and touched John's wrist, lifting it up, case and all. "Do you know, in British intelligence, what they do when they capture a counterspy with a handcuffed case?"
"I sense you're going to tell me," John drawled.
"Well, they can always pick the lock or cut the chain, but they find it usually more expedient to simply remove the hand," Sherlock told him. "So, if for some reason you do find yourself pursued by malevolents of either government, or some independent interest...try not to get caught."
"That's very comforting, you're so comforting," John told him.
"He's perfectly safe with me," Mr. Lee said, standing in the doorway. "You needn't worry, Mr. Holmes."
"I'm not worried," Sherlock replied, puzzled. John seemed equally puzzled, but he sensed it was not at the same thing.
"Dr. Watson, we should go," Mr. Lee added.
-- The case will be escorted to Thames House, where its escort will be meeting with the Chinese Ambassador, Lee continued. One aide will remain with the other case at your home. During this meeting, the jade will be identified and authenticated by a neutral third-party expert.
"I'm really not very experienced with this level of James Bond intrigue," John told Mr. Lee, as they waited on the far side of the room for the evaluator to authenticate the jade.
"Intrigue? This is barely even politics," Mr. Lee replied. "If you want intrigue, you're running with the wrong Holmes brother."
"No, I don't want intrigue, but I seem to be getting it nonetheless," John said. Mr. Lee grinned.
"Relax, Dr. Watson. You're doing fine."
-- Neutral's pushing the definition a bit, I think, Sherlock said. How many neutral art appraisers do you know?
-- In this case, all we want is for her to ensure that the piece isn't a forgery.
-- Your trust is touching.
-- With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, we're leaving you in custody of the jade for an evening, Lee said, looking around at the frankly not-very-secure seeming flat. Do try not to lose it or conveniently have it stolen. Once the jade has been authenticated, they will make a call to your flat, where the finder's fee will be officially turned over to you by the Embassy's aide.
Mr. Lee called the aide; the aide handed over the money; John, knowing better than to expect a telephone call, watched for a text from Sherlock to confirm it. When the text came through, he nodded at Mr. Lee and watched as the nine million pound jade hair-pin was locked away in a secure box and handed to the Chinese Ambassador.
Nine million pounds. They weren't even going to get the finder's fee, because Sherlock had promised it to the woman he'd taken the jade off, to keep her quiet about it. Being an upstanding citizen was very unpleasant sometimes.
"Dr. Watson," the Ambassador said. "I hope this concludes our business."
"Yeah, uh, me too," John replied, uncertain how one addressed an ambassador. There was an awkward silence. "So, I'll go, shall I?"
Out in the street he leaned against the wall and exhaled deeply. Another text showed up on his phone.
SHERLOCK HOLMES: All clear?
He tapped a reply. They looked happy to see the back of me.
SHERLOCK HOLMES: Off to drop the cash by the office. Meet for lunch?
You're buying. I did all the heavy lifting.
SHERLOCK HOLMES: Yes, but I did all the heavy thinking. Besides, handcuffs are a good look on you.
John laughed, a little insanely, and pressed the edge of his phone to his forehead. It beeped again.
SHERLOCK HOLMES: It seems to be a workable situation for us, don't you think? Lunch? I think I know a place in Chinatown.
On the one hand, Sherlock was going to be the death of him; on the other hand, there were worse ways to die.
Lunch. See you in an hour.
END
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Repatriating a priceless cultural artefact shouldn't involve housebreaking, handcuffs, or John Watson. But it does, and it's still the right thing to do.
Notes: After I posted my Six Things About Sherlock last week, Stranded_Pearl on LJ got an idea for a fic and pointed me to the Sherlock Holmes Kink Meme where the idea was posted. I am vastly unacquainted with kink memes, other than to be aware of their existence, but I liked the idea a lot, so away we went. This is the more polished version of the fic. There is no real kink in this other than a hinted moment with a pair of handcuffs, though.
Originally Posted 8.7.10
Available AO3.
***
Once the confused shouting had subsided -- why did people always shout? Perhaps they thought being louder would help them be less stupid? -- the woman who had been wearing a priceless jade artefact in her hair slumped down at her desk and looked up at him.
"What do I do with it?" she asked, holding out her hand for him to return it. "I wouldn't even know where to sell it."
"That's quite all right," he said. He'd already pinned it into one corner of his muffler, wrapped it in the rest, and tucked it in his pocket. "You needn't trouble yourself to sell it. You see it doesn't, technically, belong to you," he added, scratching his cheek idly.
"I'm sorry?" she asked.
"Your boyfriend nicked it and gave it to you. Granted he nicked it from someone else who nicked it. But the point remains, two wrongs only make a right under certain circumstances, and this is not one of those. Though I suppose in my nicking it from you, three wrongs are about to make a right. Hm. Morality and mathematics don't agree."
"The bloody hell you will," she said, circling round the desk and going for him. He caught her wrists. She hadn't the imagination, he supposed, to try kicking.
"This is a priceless cultural treasure," he said, as she kept trying to lunge for him -- and then trying to pull away from his grip. "It will be repatriated. I shall pass on to you any reward and/or finder's fee, naturally. Although by the spirit of the thing, I actually found it. You just shoved it in your hair," he added, distaste curling his lip. He tumbled her back into her chair, let her go, and bent over, resting his palms on the chair's arms.
"After all, you wouldn't want to be tried for receiving stolen property, would you? On a nine million pound antique, that's definitely a jail-time charge," he said. She stared at him, wide-eyed. He leaned back and began pulling his gloves on. "I shall keep you up to date on the progress of the jade. I'm sure the Chinese government will be feeling suitably generous, and you've prevented a very nasty international incident. Elgin Marbles all over again, eh?"
She watched him leave, and didn't try to stop him. Sherlock allowed himself a small, private smile as he walked out of the building. Part of it was, he admitted, that he wanted an evening to study the jade before he contacted Scotland Yard about its return; also, he thought John might be amused to hold nine million pounds in his hand, and it had become almost distressingly important to him that John be amused at every possible opportunity.
He was in, for him, quite a good mood when he arrived home. This evaporated immediately on seeing who was in his flat.
"They were here when I arrived," John said, before Sherlock could demand to know why he'd been such a fool as to let Mycroft into their home.
"A bit of B&E always lifts the spirits," Mycroft said. He was standing in the middle of Sherlock's lounge, on Sherlock's rug, hands folded behind him. He was also within ten feet of John. All of these things would have been killing offences, exept that it would upset Mum.
"What do you want, Mycroft? I don't have time for petty bickering," Sherlock said. He could play the odds, walk into the kitchen, and hope Mycroft couldn't see him put his muffler in the concealed safe he'd installed. ("Sherlock, why are you drilling drywall at five in the morning?" "It was there to be done. We're both awake so I shouldn't think it would bother you. Why are you awake at five in the morning, is the better question.") On the other hand, he didn't want to give away the location of the safe even theoretically, and there were more important considerations.
He placed himself squarely between John, in the chair near the fireplace, and Mycroft, who pivoted to watch him. There was another man with him, not his usual assistant, and Sherlock took him in. Chinese by ancestry but London born, a translator by employment but not by profession (probably with political aspirations), and planning a trip to Scotland in the near future. Sherlock wondered idly what a politically-motivated translator could find of interest in Scotland.
"Who says I want anything?" Mycroft asked. "Can't I pay a friendly call on my brother? I keep extending the olive branch, Sherlock, and you keep knocking it away."
"You know perfectly well why I do," Sherlock retorted. "Tell me what you want or get out, Mycroft."
Mycroft studied him for a moment, then sighed theatrically.
"We need to talk about the jade, brother."
"No," Sherlock said, relishing the syllable.
"Yes, I think so," Mycroft told him. "I know you have it."
"Yes, and you can't," Sherlock answered.
"Excuse me," John said from his chair. "You have the hairpin? The nine million pound hairpin?"
"Of course I have it, why else would Mycroft be here?" Sherlock asked, turning to him.
John shrugged. "He seems to like annoying you."
"I don't enjoy it, Dr. Watson," Mycroft called. "Well. Not gratuitously. I merely take pleasure in a job well done."
"I'm repatriating the jade," Sherlock told him. "It's stolen property. You can't have it."
"My dear brother, I don't want it." Mycroft smiled. "I'm just here to save you from making an international cock-up out of it. While I know you believe me to be the soul of evil, I don't particularly fancy a war with China this week. But return it to Scotland Yard and there are legal channels, court hearings, evidence processes."
"And your confiscating it will prevent all that?" Sherlock demanded. The other man stepped forward, casting a momentary glance at Mycroft.
"Perhaps I had better handle this, Mr. Holmes," he said, then turned to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes. My name is Thomas Lee."
"A bit like calling yourself Mr. Smith, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.
"Nevertheless, it's my name," Mr. Lee said, a hint of temper showing through. "I'm a -- "
"Translator for the government, yes," Sherlock waved a hand. "We can skip the resume. Edinburgh's wet this time of year, by the way, so you may want to pack sturdy shoes."
Mr. Lee glanced at Mycroft. "He's as good as you said. Mr. Holmes," he continued, coming forward again, "The Chinese government wants the jade back. I'm sure they'll be pleased to hear you want the jade returned to them. I'm here to facilitate that."
"A translator?"
"Occasionally I freelance to...smooth things over between parties," Mr. Lee said. "I think everyone feels that this can best be handled privately."
"Why?"
"The repatriation of the jade is likely to stir up anti-Chinese feelings in the city; the British government is not known for giving up its lootings lightly; not everyone in China agrees that high finder's fees for stolen artefacts are an appropriate use of government funds. This way, we circumvent that, and everyone walks away happy."
Sherlock considered matters. He didn't like backroom deals, but Mycroft's presence at least assured him of Mr. Lee's bona-fides; this wasn't a scam meant to recover the jade for some criminal enterprise. This way things would be taken care of neatly, and he would avoid the most egregious newspaper gossip. He didn't mind a spot of publicity, but it made the work more difficult.
"Mr. Holmes," Mr. Lee said, sounding slightly impatient, "the question isn't whether the jade should be repatriated. I think we're all in agreement on that. The question is, are you willing to respect the Chinese government's decision to handle the exchange this way, or does your magnanimous nature not extend that far?"
Oh, that had a bite to it. Sherlock grinned.
"Mycroft, get out," he said. "Mr. Lee can stay."
Mycroft made a constipated face. "You don't trust me? I'm hurt, Sherlock, deeply wounded."
"I don't like you. Significant difference," Sherlock told him. Mycroft, with another theatrical sigh, made his way to the door. Sherlock waited to be certain he'd gone down the stairs before turning back to Mr. Lee.
"What did you have in mind?" he asked.
***
-- Tomorrow morning, Lee had said, an aide from the Chinese embassy will bring two cases to your home. One of them will be given to either yourself or your companion --
-- Dr. Watson, Sherlock said.
-- Hi, Watson added, waving.
-- to be escorted to the drop point, Lee finished, looking like he was very much over dealing with Sherlock Holmes already.
"Well," John said, once the case had arrived and the jade hairpin had been placed inside it. "How do I look?"
The case had been closed, locked, and handcuffed to John's wrist. Sherlock found himself distracted by the cuff; it glinted below the sleeve of John's best shirt, metal wrapped around the delicate flesh and bone of the wrist. He imagined what it must be like to be confined that way, and what it must be like to confine John so. After all, John was an unsettling if fascinating combination of gentility and rage; a wound spring Sherlock was still working on the precise trigger for. Imagine containing all that, controlling all that, with a pair of metal bands and a chain. Imagine what one could get John Watson to do.
"Sherlock?" John's voice intruded. "Still in there?"
"Hm? Yes? You look semiotically untrustworthy," Sherlock told him. John made his best I-don't-get-you-but-I'm-trying face. Sherlock stepped up into his personal space and undid the top button of his shirt, fingers brushing John's pulse-point casually. "In the TV box where the tiny people dance for your amusement," he drawled, as he worked the button, "a top-button fastened without a tie is a semiotic indicator of an untrustworthy man."
"Oh," John said.
"There, now you look perfectly normal except for the armoured briefcase handcuffed to your wrist," Sherlock added. He took a risk and touched John's wrist, lifting it up, case and all. "Do you know, in British intelligence, what they do when they capture a counterspy with a handcuffed case?"
"I sense you're going to tell me," John drawled.
"Well, they can always pick the lock or cut the chain, but they find it usually more expedient to simply remove the hand," Sherlock told him. "So, if for some reason you do find yourself pursued by malevolents of either government, or some independent interest...try not to get caught."
"That's very comforting, you're so comforting," John told him.
"He's perfectly safe with me," Mr. Lee said, standing in the doorway. "You needn't worry, Mr. Holmes."
"I'm not worried," Sherlock replied, puzzled. John seemed equally puzzled, but he sensed it was not at the same thing.
"Dr. Watson, we should go," Mr. Lee added.
-- The case will be escorted to Thames House, where its escort will be meeting with the Chinese Ambassador, Lee continued. One aide will remain with the other case at your home. During this meeting, the jade will be identified and authenticated by a neutral third-party expert.
"I'm really not very experienced with this level of James Bond intrigue," John told Mr. Lee, as they waited on the far side of the room for the evaluator to authenticate the jade.
"Intrigue? This is barely even politics," Mr. Lee replied. "If you want intrigue, you're running with the wrong Holmes brother."
"No, I don't want intrigue, but I seem to be getting it nonetheless," John said. Mr. Lee grinned.
"Relax, Dr. Watson. You're doing fine."
-- Neutral's pushing the definition a bit, I think, Sherlock said. How many neutral art appraisers do you know?
-- In this case, all we want is for her to ensure that the piece isn't a forgery.
-- Your trust is touching.
-- With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, we're leaving you in custody of the jade for an evening, Lee said, looking around at the frankly not-very-secure seeming flat. Do try not to lose it or conveniently have it stolen. Once the jade has been authenticated, they will make a call to your flat, where the finder's fee will be officially turned over to you by the Embassy's aide.
Mr. Lee called the aide; the aide handed over the money; John, knowing better than to expect a telephone call, watched for a text from Sherlock to confirm it. When the text came through, he nodded at Mr. Lee and watched as the nine million pound jade hair-pin was locked away in a secure box and handed to the Chinese Ambassador.
Nine million pounds. They weren't even going to get the finder's fee, because Sherlock had promised it to the woman he'd taken the jade off, to keep her quiet about it. Being an upstanding citizen was very unpleasant sometimes.
"Dr. Watson," the Ambassador said. "I hope this concludes our business."
"Yeah, uh, me too," John replied, uncertain how one addressed an ambassador. There was an awkward silence. "So, I'll go, shall I?"
Out in the street he leaned against the wall and exhaled deeply. Another text showed up on his phone.
SHERLOCK HOLMES: All clear?
He tapped a reply. They looked happy to see the back of me.
SHERLOCK HOLMES: Off to drop the cash by the office. Meet for lunch?
You're buying. I did all the heavy lifting.
SHERLOCK HOLMES: Yes, but I did all the heavy thinking. Besides, handcuffs are a good look on you.
John laughed, a little insanely, and pressed the edge of his phone to his forehead. It beeped again.
SHERLOCK HOLMES: It seems to be a workable situation for us, don't you think? Lunch? I think I know a place in Chinatown.
On the one hand, Sherlock was going to be the death of him; on the other hand, there were worse ways to die.
Lunch. See you in an hour.
END
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-08-09 08:40 pm (UTC)(link)