A/N: Just a short one-shot about the inner workings of our favorite consulting detective!
Read All About It
I watched with curiosity the way the tall man moved about the room, seemingly like he was in the midst of a manic episode. He turned this way and that before quickly turning on his heel to go in yet another, his dark blue silk morning dressing robe swishing around his calves like a maelstrom. All the while he grimaced and muttered a string of seemingly random facts in rapid fire succession, engaging in a heated conversation with himself. The back and forth point- counterpoint reached a fevered pitch until he finally pulled up short with a satisfied sigh and placed his fingertips in a pyramid under his clean shaven chin as though he were silently thanking the gods for a solution to a problem neither I nor my colleague Dr. John Watson were privy to. A light smile crossed his full lips as his startling blue eyes twinkled with amusement. "Of course," he mused in a surprisingly deep baritone voice with such precise articulation one would assume he was a voice actor for a BBC nature program.
"I'm sorry," John meekly apologized batting his eyes rapidly as he was prone to do when he was irritated but too polite to say so, "what are you on about then? Sherlock, have you even noticed we have a guest? I told you about this a week ago. The least you could have done is bothered to get dressed." His exasperation was evident and I was a bit embarrassed to be placed in the middle of their argument. I had collaborated with John's clinic for a few years and in that time we had become friends. He told me he had a roommate that was, to use his words, "a brilliant but oblivious dick" but he felt I might enjoy meeting him in a professional sense because it seemed next to no one enjoyed him on a personal level.
The utter lack of recognition in his eyes beneath his mop of curly dark hair was something of a shock. I had only observed him for about 10 minutes and in that time I got the distinct impression not much slipped by him. The only explanation left was he did know, but just didn't care which went a long way in defining the type of man he was. "I am dressed, John." He said flatly.
"You are wearing trousers which is more than the queen got so there's that." He huffed indignantly. "But you might have gone a bit further and changed out of your night clothes. It's nearly three o'clock in the afternoon."
The tension and dynamic between them was something to behold. In John's eyes Sherlock was a wayward man-child who needed minding in basic daily living skills while Sherlock was clearly left struggling in trying to figure out how any of it mattered in any real practical sense. Yet despite the miscommunication, it was clear there was no underlying resentment or ill will between them which was what made it all fascinating to watch.
That fascination, however, turned to cautious trepidation as his keen eyes drifted toward me. The way they darted over my features felt like nothing short of being dissected and it was clear he had some repressed agitation to let out. Interestingly, I didn't have to wait long. "Yes," he hummed lightly in an unmistakably condescending tone, "A professional colleague, though likely not a medical doctor judging by the slight indentations in the thumb and middle finger- marks of someone who does a lot of writing. You haven't said a word the whole time which tells me you also spend a great deal of time listening and observing. What other type of doctor writes a lot but says little than a psychologist or psychiatrist…"
"Sherlock." John warned in a low voice
"So, a person who keeps secrets, but you have some of your own." He stated emphatically, slowly moving toward me like a big cat toying with prey.
"Don't." John again interjected with a little more impetus.
He stopped a few inches from me and his intense eyes burned holes into my personal space. A normal person may have been intimidated by his behavior or height as he stood towering over them, but I had been exposed to far more extreme behavior in psychiatric wards to be afraid. I was, however, intrigued. True geniuses were rare, but each had their blind spots and I was waiting for him to show me his. "You aren't from the UK, I'd say American based on the branding and inexpensive make of your clothes but you haven't been here long- perhaps three or four days. You were married for a long time, probably to a man as your country had only allowed equal partnerships for a few years, but only recently removed your ring- why?" He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes sharply as he tried to work it out in his head.
"Sherlock! For god's sake that's enough!" John insisted. He knew why and he was trying desperately to keep his roommate from further embarrassment, but he was also trying to spare me.
"You could be having an affair with John, but you aren't his type. He prefers rather dull women." He went on matter-of-factly. "Teachers, barmaids and the like."
It was more than he could take and he spouted, "Oh piss off you cock!"
"He left you." He concluded undeterred by his friend's admonishment. "Went off and found another lover and in order to escape it, you came here for a conference or perhaps to take a lover of your own out of revenge. Your clothes are older, but well kept while your shoes are new suggesting you can afford better which rules out divorce but you can't let go of the past entirely." He again gave a small smile while he tilted his head in a self-satisfied manner to suggest confidence in his interpretations. "Now then, if I've fulfilled my meet and greet duties I really must get back to more interesting things."
"Sherlock," John whispered in a rage as he approached him, "you will stop this minute and apologize. She did not come here for you to insult her as you did. You've not only insulted her, but you've embarrassed yourself and infinitely worse, me."
It was that moment I realized what his weak spot was. For all of his encyclopedic knowledge about economics, politics, and statistical patterns the chink in his armor was the most common among geniuses- emotional intelligence. The bewildered expression on his face confirmed my suspicions as he internally grappled with what he may have missed or how all of the details he had amassed about me at a glance had somehow led him astray. "Is she not American?" He asked baffled. "Canadian then?"
"That's not the point!" John insisted. "You were wrong and you owe her an apology for acting like an utter imbecile."
He cast his eyes downward in begrudging acceptance and took a deep sigh before he turned to me and in a low, rumbling voice contritely stated, "Please forgive me for what I am being informed is my rudeness." I graciously smiled as I watched the inner turmoil roil across his features until he couldn't withhold it any longer and he hastily asked, "Where was the error?" He was desperate to know and I knew he was the type to obsess over flaws.
"You don't have to answer him," John assured me with a kind smile before slowly turning to his roommate "because it's none of his bloody business!"
Sherlock coolly held his gaze with an air of impeccable righteousness. He knew he probably shouldn't have pushed his luck, but he wasn't sorry and obviously felt he had a right to ask. "Suicide." I quietly responded while John hung his head. I wasn't sure if it was in sympathy for me or irritation that I indulged his friend's tendencies.
"Suicide." Sherlock quietly breathed with a small nod and a faraway look as though he were cataloging it somewhere deep in the archives of his mind for potential later use. "I didn't see that one."
"Neither did I." I freely admitted. John told me his friend liked to experiment and so did I. I elected to show a little vulnerability to see what he would do with it. His reaction would tell me if he truly was the "high functioning sociopath" he supposedly claimed to be or if he was something else entirely.
Sherlock's eyes rested on mine and for just a fleeting second I saw something which vaguely resembled sadness but in a flash it was gone. "So I was right then, in a manner of speaking." He shrugged before ambling across the room to pick up a violin. I wasn't sure if his action was a means of distancing himself from an emotionally charged situation he had no idea how to navigate or if the soothing, slow tune he made the instrument sing was a deliberate attempt at a second quiet apology.
"Are we happy then?" John asked as though he were trying desperately to get a bitter taste out of his mouth. "You win, so that's that?"
For his part, Sherlock didn't pause before quietly answering in a despondent tone over the wail of his violin, "A man chose to take his life, John. Nobody wins."
And with that I had my answer.