The Colour of Wine is one of the Sherlock fanfics that doesn’t follow the TV program’s format of adapting a canon story, although it does contain a few references for Doyle fans. It was intended to deal definitively with Sherlock’s drug use, which we disliked as a character trait in canon and in the BBC program.
It’s also the first story to which Dr. D.P. Lyle, MD (www.dplylemd.com) lent his technical knowledge to our efforts, but not the last. Dr. Lyle has more writing credits than I could possibly list here, but I was hooked when I read his fascinating books Forensics & Fiction and More Forensics & Fiction, described as“crime writers’ morbidly curious questions expertly answered.” He’s also the best-selling author of the Jake Longly and Dub Walker novel series. Dr. Lyle is a practicing cardiologist and generously and patiently answers questions submitted by writers who want to ensure the authenticity of the forensics and medicine in their stories. The Colour of Wine and most of our other Sherlock stories benefited enormously from his guidance.
John pocketed his wallet, collected his plastic bags of groceries, and worked his way through the crowds of other shoppers to the pavement outside the Sainsbury’s. It was just past nine a.m., but as the automatic doors parted the hot air hit him like he’d walked into a wall. Compared to late July in Kandahar this was a cold snap, but the heat wave had prostrated most of England, Wales, and western Europe. Even the criminals seemed reluctant to bestir themselves in these temperatures.
He shifted all three bags into his right hand, stepped to the kerb, and waved for a taxi. It was not one of London’s ubiquitous black cabs that responded to his summons, though, but a sleek, liquid-black Jaguar. It glided up beside him and the dark window rolled down just far enough to reveal Anthea tapping serenely away on her mobile. The air conditioning was turned up so high that it tousled her hair.
John was not pleased to see her. “Now’s not a good time,” he said.
“Now’s the only time,” she replied, without looking up.
“But I’ve just got the shopping. Tell Mycroft I’ll call—”
“Now,” Anthea said firmly.
* * * * *
Mycroft turned away from the window of his private Diogenes Club room when he heard the door open. “John,” he said, with his usual impeccable smoothness. “How good of you to come. Tea?”
John’s spirits sank even further. Whatever Mycroft wanted it could not be good. As a rule when he summoned John he could scarcely be bothered to look up from his paperwork. Now he was offering tea and eyeing John with one of those searching Holmes glances. Mycroft was much more subtle about these scans than his younger brother, but John knew him well enough by now to recognize the process. “What’s going on, Mycroft?” he asked. “I was in the middle of something.”
Mycroft glanced at the grocery bags. “So I see. Between cases, are you?” He gestured to the chair.
John shrugged. “Bit of a lull,” he admitted, sitting down. “Thought I’d get the shopping done before the next crisis.”
“So did Sherlock,” Mycroft said.
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t know?”
John gritted his teeth: He was in no mood to be kept guessing. “Know what?”
Mycroft didn’t answer at once. He moved away from the window, opened the laptop on his desk, and turned it so John could see the screen.
“Mycroft,” John began impatiently.
Mycroft held up his hand. “Watch,” he said.
The screen showed a slightly grainy black and white surveillance video. It was a nighttime image shot in infrared light, which accounted for the graininess, but John could see that the camera was focused on a section of alleyway. Two men stood on the far right side of the frame, one three-quarters on to the camera with a hoodie obscuring most of his face, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. John didn’t recognize him. The other man stood with his back to the camera, but his tall, slim outline was unmistakable. John watched in growing anger and disbelief as Sherlock handed over a pair of bank notes and received a tiny glassine packet in return.
Mycroft watched the color rise in John’s face and he read anger, hurt, and disappointment there, but not foreknowledge.
“When did this happen?” John demanded, his jaw tight.
“This morning,” Mycroft said. “Two thirty-seven a.m. You knew nothing about it?”
John glared at him. “If I’d known about it, don’t you think I’d have said something?”
“I don’t know,” Mycroft said simply. “You protect him.”
“Mycroft, when it comes to this we’re on the same side. You know that.” John got up and went to the window, where he looked out onto the inner courtyard. His hands were balled into fists. “You’ve made sure no one else will see this,” he said, and it was not a question.
“Of course.” Mycroft said.
“Who’s the dealer?”
“I don’t know.”
John turned angrily from the window. “Bullsh—”
“John,” Mycroft said reasonably. “There’s nothing to be served now by damaging him, and a moment’s reflection will tell you that he’s not the only drug dealer in London. There will always be a supplier willing to meet demand.”
John held up his hands in a reluctant gesture of concession.
Mycroft gestured to the chair and John sat down again. “When was the last time he had a case?” Mycroft asked.
John considered. “Last week? We finished the thing with the six Thatcher statues on…Thursday, was it? Yeah. Bit quiet since then. Clients don’t always come round on the weekends.”
“So he made it as far as Sunday night.”
John slumped in the chair. “I don’t believe this.”
“John. Is there anything else? Anything unusual going on?”
“No. Christ, no, there’s nothing. He’s the same as he’s always been. Yeah, he’s bored between cases, but…He’s been doing real well with the cigarettes. Bribed every shop in a two mile radius around the flat to not sell him any more. Nicotine patches…And we’ve been pretty busy with the work, too. He turns down most of it, you know. ‘Boring.’”
“Yes. I know. He’s never been able to tolerate boredom. Ever.”
“Is that all this is about? I mean, really all it’s about?”
Mycroft shrugged. “What else?”
“I don’t know. I just…You know that my sister’s an alcoholic.” Mycroft nodded; he knew that John knew he had his file. “She’s got one reason after another why she drinks. And…Well, I know her background. I know why she started, and what that was like for the rest of the family, for her partners. With Sherlock, I’ve no idea what he was like before I met him. I only see him as he is now, Mycroft, and looking at him now I cannot for the life of me understand why he’s drawn to the stuff.”
“I don’t think he is,” Mycroft said. “I think he’s driven to it.”
“But you’re not. I mean, to hear him tell it, you’re cleverer than he is–” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that “–so if you can tolerate boredom, why can’t he?”
“John, if you were to describe me to someone who didn’t know me, would the word ‘impulsive’ form any part of your description?”
John gave short, bitter laugh. “No. No, there is that. Sherlock’s impulse control is a little random.”
“If you’re thinking that he sustained some sort of deep-seated psychological damage as a child that would explain his drug use, think again. He had as normal and happy a childhood as any boy can who is as clever and energetic as he was.”
“Wasn’t traumatized by a clown, then.”
Mycroft frowned. “A clown?”
“Forget it. Look: If that’s all this is–just him being bored out of his mind–then I don’t see how he’s ever going to get past it. Do you? I mean, has he gotten any better over the years?”
“He’s gotten better over the last two years,” Mycroft said, and now it was John’s turn to frown. “You’ve been good for him, John. I wasn’t sure at first, and to be perfectly honest I still have my doubts. The two of you together have the maturity level of first formers. But he’s been more…settled.”
“Settled? This is him being settled?”
“I’m afraid so.” Mycroft closed the laptop and returned to his chair behind the desk. “You know,” he said, “I’ve spent most of my life worrying about my brother. I’ve refined it to an art form.” He patted the laptop. “I don’t believe that Sherlock is desperate the way he was when he left university. He was ‘all to seek,’ as they say, for something to do with himself, for mental stimulation, for the ‘rush,’ as he so elegantly puts it, of really using his mind. The euphoria of intellectual stimulation. He was desperate then. I don’t believe that that’s the case now. Have you seen any evidence that he’s actually been taking anything?”
John’s answer was immediate and certain. “No. No, I’d have noticed.”
“Nevertheless, he made the purchase. You know as well as I do that cocaine can kill on the first use or the thousandth.”
“Cardiac arrest,” John said grimly.
“Exactly.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him yet today, but I don’t imagine he took it last night because he was asleep when I left this morning. So what do you want to do?”
“I was rather hoping that you’d tell me.”
“Me? Why?”
Mycroft smiled. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that my brother and I tend to antagonize each other somewhat.”
John sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll…talk to him, I guess,” he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “I don’t imagine he’ll listen, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Just…give me some time. I know,” he added, as Mycroft started to protest, “I don’t mean time to find the stuff. I mean time to figure out how to approach him. By the way, I don’t suppose you can arrange something for him to look into, get him out of the flat for a while?”
“I’m sure something will come to hand.”
“Thanks. That’ll help. The sooner the better, yeah?” John stood and collected the grocery bags. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do,” Mycroft said.
* * * * *
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