The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Ten

John had never been to the posh clothing shops on Savile Row before. Even if he could afford a bespoke suit or a pair of monogrammed socks, he'd never purchase such a thing. He was perfectly content with his own clothing, thanks very much. John knew Sherlock had a personal tailor, but he'd never met him. All he knew was that Sherlock had done the man a favor in the past. While they were well compensated for the independent cases they solved, it certainly wasn't enough for Sherlock to afford an entire custom wardrobe from around here.

"Why can't we ask your tailor about the handkerchief?" John asked as they left the cab.

"Dimitri doesn't rise until the late afternoon. If I were to wake him now, he'd shorten the legs on my next suit in revenge."

"Sounds like an interesting chap."

"Yes, he can be rather temperamental, but his skill with a needle and thread is unparalleled."

Sherlock led the way to a small clothing shop. Deep blue subway tiles decorated the outside, giving it a sleek look. Sherlock tried the handle on the door, then heaved a sigh. "It's locked. This one is by appointment only."

Through a side window, John could see two men hovering around a taller man who had his arms stretched out for measurement. "There's people inside though. Can't we just knock and say we're on police business?"

"They still won't let us in. Clients pay a tremendous amount for one-on-one service, and even if I showed them Lestrade's badge, they wouldn't buy it. Tailors are observant, unlike the rest of the populace."

They continued down the street to the next shop. Thankfully, this one was accepting customers. The open floor plan and exposed black pipes overhead gave the interior a modern warehouse feel. Mannequins boasting various suit styles posed beneath bright halos of light. John followed Sherlock over to a lopsided, angular counter. It looked like the product of a drunken fling between a geometry problem and a Picasso painting. Was it art or an accident the shop couldn't afford to fix? Lights inside it illuminated a glowing display of watches, wallets, and cufflinks. A man in a pink shirt and paisley tie stood behind the strange structure, carefully weaving a silver thread through a white button. On the counter sat three other button sets, each with a different color thread. Good grief. John had never given a single thought toward the color of his button thread. He'd thought they were all the same, to be honest.

The man looked up, and hazel eyes raked over John, wincing when they reached his shoes. What was wrong with his leather Loake boots? They were a classic.

Sherlock took a step forward. The snooty git's assessing gaze shifted to Sherlock, then went wide. "I thought Dimitri retired." Alarm filled his tone.

A knowing smirk. "He has. He merely takes on a few projects now and then," Sherlock said.

Some of the tension left the man's shoulders. "I see. My name is Elliot Waverly. How may I help you gentlemen?" He glanced at John as if he assumed they were there for him. A bit rude of him, really.

"We're here to see if you can identify the tailor who monogrammed a handkerchief," John said as Sherlock handed it over.

Elliot spread it out flat on the counter, then traced the stylized initials with one finger. "Ah, yes. Andrew Ramroop is the only one who does this particular script. He's got a fine hand. You can find him at Maurice Sedwell, four doors down. Green canopy, you can't miss it." He offered it back.

They exited the shop and continued down the street.

"How did he know about your tailor?" John asked. Elliot had acted like Sherlock was wearing a neon advert for the man.