This story may be read alone, but would be better understood if read after my stories entitled "Mary", "One to Spare" and "Red-Handed". I've based this on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's short story "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot"—quotes from his story are indicated by italics. My apologies to this great man for mangling his lovely plot to my own selfish ends.
000
I need an assistant. SH
You've confused your Watsons again. I'm the female one, remember? MW
John is not picking up. I need an assistant. SH
And I need to know this, why? MW
I have a case. I need an assistant. SH
John is keynote speaker at a Medical Conference this week, as you well know, my lovely idiot. MW
I know. You'll do. SH
Are you asking me to be John for you? MW
I need an assistant. SH
Why would you think I'd want to be a John-substitute? What's in it for me? MW
It could be dangerous. SH
When and where? MW
Paddington Station. 07:06 a.m. Pack a bag. We're going to Cornwall. SH
000000000000000000000000
Return my wife alive and undamaged or I'll know the reason why! JW
Sherlock read and re-read this text from John as the train pulled out of Paddington Station and began its mind-numbing five-plus-hour trek to Penzance (with one wearying change in Newton Abbot). He hated train journeys, and one reason he required an assistant in this case was to keep him from going completely mad on the way to the crime scene. John had accepted this honour of being the keynote speaker at a Medical Conference because he knew the exposure would help bring them more private casework with which to pay the bills. Sherlock wished John wouldn't worry about bills. He would really rather do without food and sundries if it meant John not being away for a week. He looked at Mary, sitting beside him by the window, reading an e-mail on her mobile and chuckling. He leaned over towards her to read what was amusing her so. She tilted it away from him and continued to scroll down. He tried to grab the phone away from her. She smacked his hand and scolded.
"Honestly, Sherlock, are you three years old?" she laughed.
"Do only three-year-olds get bored?" he demanded.
She shot him an inscrutable look. "All right, then: here." She handed him her phone, smirking. "Just remember that eavesdroppers hear no good about themselves."
The e-mail was from John. Sherlock read:
"Job Description for Sherlock's Assistant:
Administer medical help as needed.
Provide expert medical opinions on crime scene as required."
So far, so good. Very straightforward. Sherlock approved.
"Serve as referee between Sherlock and any law enforcement authorities.
Interview witnesses. DO NOT allow Sherlock to speak to anyone unsupervised.
Reinterpret insulting comments as unfortunately misunderstood and potentially valuable observations."
Sherlock felt his hackles go up over these three statements; and yet, in all fairness, he had to admit to the real need for such interference. He read on:
"Try to prevent him taking off on his own. Wear running shoes to this end.
Watch his back—I hope you remembered the you-know-what."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow over this last one. He knew John had been teaching Mary how to fire his (illegal) weapon. Was Mary proficient enough for it to be of use? He wondered.
"Try to get him to eat and sleep occasionally.
Pay for everything. KEEP YOUR RECEIPTS!
Prevent his getting bored at all costs.
Keep copious notes for blog entry."
He handed the phone back, sobered. He knew John was invaluable to him, but he'd never seen all that John did for him spelled out so succinctly before. Mary smiled affectionately. "Did he send you any instructions on my care and feeding?" she asked.
"Just one." He gave her his mobile and she read the text message, still on the screen. She chuckled.
"Don't worry, sweetheart, I won't let him hurt you," she said, patting his arm reassuringly. Then she added thoughtfully, "Of course, if I'm dead, I can't do anything to stop him killing you. I suppose it's in your own best interests to keep me alive." Her dimples deepened sweetly.
Sherlock frowned. He had never felt responsible for anyone else's safety before-not even John's. He was prepared to do anything he had to in order to prevent John being hurt, but his friend was so much more proficient in protecting himself than Sherlock was that it rarely was an issue. In fact, there were those who considered John to be Sherlock's personal bodyguard as well as personal physician and personal biographer. Now Sherlock looked sidelong at Mary and wondered if she would, in fact, be a sufficient substitute for her husband. She was a good doctor and would be a good note-taker for the blog; she could undoubtedly intervene in any verbal squabbles with others. But physically, he wondered if she was right for the job. She was shorter than John and slightly built. He thought that if she were in a wrestling match with a new-born kitten, the outcome might be dubious.
The odd thing was, this worried him. He really didn't want anything bad to happen to Mary. At first, when John started dating Mary, Sherlock had just thought of her as an extension of John—as if John had inexplicably elected to grow a second head. Sherlock respected John enough to accept his bizarre decision and incorporated this new development into his life. But soon, Mary had asserted herself in his mind as an important individual in her own right. Sherlock knew exactly when this had happened: when he had accidentally stabbed John in the back, Mary- instead of becoming angry or hysterical-had calmly taken care of Sherlock. She understood how devastated he was, and put her own feelings aside to help him deal with the situation. Sherlock had come to love John as the only person who had troubled himself to understand him; now Mary had also proven herself to be such a friend. Sherlock would do anything for a friend who truly tried to understand him. It made him feel a heavy weight of responsibility for her safety—a new feeling for him.
Mary had finished writing her e-mail in response to John's list. "Okay, now, tell me about this case," she said.
"Three siblings, alone in a room, poisoned by means unknown. The sister is dead. The two brothers are comatose. A third brother swears he left them alive and well, perfectly normal, at half past ten the night before. They were found this way at eight in the morning, still sitting precisely as they were when the brother left."
"No drugs in their systems?"
"No known drugs were discernible."
"So, the police must suspect the third brother, yeah?"
"Of course. But with no cause of death and no motive, they can't make an arrest. And it is always a mistake, before gathering all the facts, to draw any sort of conclusions prematurely."
"Because one tends to see only the facts that substantiate one's theory, and ignore those that won't support it," Mary concluded.
Sherlock was surprised into smiling. "John's been teaching you my methods," he commented. A little muscle in Mary's cheek twitched, a sure sign that she was irritated. Sherlock was puzzled. "What?"
Mary sighed. "No, John has NOT been 'teaching' me anything. First of all, John is not the only intelligent non-genius on earth, you realize! I am hardly a drooling idiot."
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but she held up the index finger of her right hand, and somehow this rendered him incapable of speech. "Second of all, John and I do not spend our free time talking about you, or your methods, or The Work, or crime, or anything whatever to do with you."
A burning question swelled within Sherlock's chest, bursting to be asked, but he dared not speak until Mary lowered her threatening finger. What else of interest could two people talk about, other than The Work? "What DO you talk about, then?" he demanded when at last she allowed him to respond.
This dispelled her irritation, and she laughed at him fondly. "You're so cute," she chuckled.
She spent the rest of the trip trying to keep him occupied with deducing their fellow travellers (quietly!); encouraging him to describe his latest experiments; reading and laughing about comments on John's blog; beguiling him with sandwiches and biscuits for lunch. She also had to deflect four separate admirers (three male, one female) who tried to foist their attentions upon her and two passers-by who obviously tried to grope her on their way down the aisle while trying to make it seem like an accident. She fended the intruders off with grace and good humour; but their impertinence annoyed Sherlock more than he could have imagined. Why should an intelligent, compassionate young woman like Mary have to deal with such impudence? Clearly none of these shameless idiots were worth a second of her time. Sherlock was beginning to see that protecting Mary might consist of more than simply deflecting bullets and preventing her being kidnapped by mad bombers.
He remembered that John had once given a man a thorough thrashing for insulting Mary with lewd suggestions and wandering hands. Would she expect Sherlock to defend her in this way? She seemed to be dealing with things perfectly well on her own, without a show of violence. Sherlock sighed. This friendship lark was more difficult to navigate with Mary than with John. He hoped that protecting Mary would not prove a distraction to solving this case.
