EPIPHANY

A.N. Nealy a year with his eccentric flatmate and John Watson is still learning what it means to live and work with the genius of Sherlock Holmes. Borrowing the time frame and characterizations from the BBC Sherlock series, this little fanfic tells their enduring story. I hope you will find the ending justifies the means. Please enjoy.

SPECIAL THANKS to englishtutor who keeps me right!

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances:

if there is any reaction, both are transformed."

Carl Jung

"An acquaintance merely enjoys your company, a fair-weather companion flatters when all is well,

a true friend has your best interests at heart and the pluck to tell you what you need to hear."

E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

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"Hullo! What's this?"

John's question scarcely drew Sherlock's attention away from the raised newspaper. The detective was thoroughly engrossed, virtually hidden, when his flatmate returned from a wintry stroll and entered the sitting room.

"It looks like two tickets…. No note?" John mused aloud. The day's post of bills and pamphlets stayed tucked securely under his arm, along with his gloves. He flipped over the envelope he had hastily ripped opened and inspected the fancy handwriting and postage. A puzzled frown appeared. "Huh? …it IS addressed to ME."

"Hmmm?" Seated in his leather chair, Sherlock seemed too preoccupied to offer his companion a sidelong glance. Finally he closed the paper. "Problem?"

"Dunno. Tickets to some international strings competition," John continued reading, "at Wigmore Hall. That's nice. Early January, barely a week away."

Closing his eyes, the detective cocked his head slightly to listen, although his concentration seemed elsewhere. Abruptly he reopened his eyes, pulled out his mobile, and thumbed several searches;. His laptop on the nearby desk was too far away and inconvenient for such an immediate search. Lately, the doctor kept his own laptop in the upstairs bedroom, making it as inconvenient as possible for the prying detective to use; he could only hope he was succeeding.

Since becoming flatmates almost a year ago, John had become accustomed to the off-putting mannerisms of the disengaged thinker, the manic genius, the moody artist, the bored investigator. Most times he let the consulting detective have his space. This time, however, curiosity about the unusual mail fueled the doctor's determination.

"What do I know about classical music?" John persisted. "I mean, I know some things, but I'm no expert. If it weren't for your playing here in the flat, I'd be unable to tell one opus from another." John pulled his woolen scarf from his neck and unceremoniously dropped the rest of the mail onto the kitchen table amid test tubes and specimen jars that the scientist-in-residence had abandoned days ago.

"Well, perhaps it's time you learned." Sherlock put the paper down on his lap and leaned back thoughtfully. "Since you haven't objected to my playing, I presumed you found it agreeable. However, I did warn you…"

Did John detect a wounded tone?

"No, no!" John shook his head as he turned away, shrugged out of his winter jacket, and for the moment, folded it over a kitchen chair. "Your playing is fine. Your musical skill is remarkable, actually. It's quite soothing, sometimes invigorating, especially your original pieces…well, most of the time. If you weren't already committed to detective work, you could probably play professionally…." Surprised by his own run-on candor, John wondered what effect this flattery would have on the stoic genius—his partner, flatmate, and new friend—with whom he had been sharing living quarters and amazing adventures for less than a year. In the scheme of things, it was just a short time, yet it had made such a difference in John's life, that a part of him hoped it would be a lifetime.

If John's comments had pleased his companion, there was no way to tell. The detective's nose was once again buried in the newspaper.

"This announcement is distressing." The baritone voice rose behind the newsprint shield. "Nancy Meadows and Glen Whitmore are engaged to be married in a small civil ceremony."

John paused to listen for a moment, but refused to allow Sherlock to distract him with an unrelated nuptial announcement. He finally had his own mystery to solve. "Maybe these tickets were meant for you. Here. Look at the envelope. There's no return address. Can you deduce anything?" John stood patiently in front of the consulting detective with the evidence in his extended hand until Sherlock dropped the newspaper.

Sherlock glanced first at his partner's hand, looked up to meet the deep blue eyes of the stalwart doctor, and showed mild reluctance. Resigned, he took the envelope containing the tickets.

With a spectator's excitement, John observed how Sherlock first sniffed the envelope and pulled his magnifying glass to inspect the ink and penmanship along with the rag content of the paper. A few grunts accompanied by odd facial expressions intrigued the doctor while the Great Sherlock Holmes continued the examination. Yet, without warning, the consulting detective dropped the envelope on a side table and picked up the newspaper to resume reading.

"Well?" John stood his ground with his arms linked behind, allowing exasperation to edge his voice.

Sherlock rustled the newspaper with his own slight impatience, but relented and offered his partner a report. "Ordinarily, John, I would disclose the origin of the paper, the composition of the ink, the dominant hand and gender, even the height and weight, of the writer, and how this person might be related to the sender, along with the time of post, but unfortunately, I can't."

"Sorry?" John dropped his head in disbelief before lifting it with a sudden thought, "Can't or won't?"

"You must realize you destroyed discernible evidence when you so rashly tore it open. Yes. 'Sorry' is my answer."

Stung by the detective's criticism and blatant disinterest, John spun about, uncertain if he were being played or summarily dismissed and not liking the demeaning sensation either way. John had seen Sherlock deduce more with far less. Wordlessly he gathered up his scarf and gloves and strode back to the kitchen to retrieve his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

Isn't it obvious? He replied in his head but refused to turn around or utter a sound. Keeping his eyes averted, his anger simmered as he checked his wallet for his Oyster Card and enough quid for the bus to the Hall. To save the fare, he could even walk it.

"Don't forget this."

"What? Bloody hell, Sherlock?" John stumbled against the tall man calmly standing on the landing deliberately blocking his way. Casting a glaring scowl up toward the long face that was studying him, John was surprised to see the piercing stare that Sherlock ordinarily used on clients. Even more puzzling, the detective had already knotted his scarf as if he was about to go out. "Going somewhere?" John couldn't help asking.

"With you." As he turned to grab his own long coat, Sherlock offered the envelope with the tickets to his partner. "To Wigmore Hall. So we can get to the bottom of this ticket mystery." Somewhat unexpectedly, Sherlock unmasked a gentle smile before buttoning his coat.

Did John detect contrition in those luminous blue-grey eyes? "So," John tried not to growl, "you think you know where I'm going!"

"Of course. You didn't hang up your jacket." Sherlock remarked as he pulled on his gloves. "You're a tidy man, a trained soldier, an army doctor, a captain. You value and follow routine. These unexplained tickets are a disruption. You may have done it subconsciously, but you were planning to head back out. It wasn't difficult to deduce where."

Sighing in surprise, John felt both touched and confounded by the genius who constantly tinkered with emotions as if the soldier-doctor-captain were part of some long-term experiment.