Sherlock strode into the office with the appropriately dramatic amount of swishing coat tails and sank his hands down on Stamford's desk. "Presumably you have witnessed multiple persons on the brink of death."
"Not of late." Stamford carefully pulled a pile of crap essays out of Sherlock's range and smiled up good-naturedly. "Teaching holds much more appeal. Fewer high stakes."
"Yet you worked my case."
"I was informed I would be," Stamford shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "What did you see?"
This was why Sherlock approached Stamford. He knew how to get to the point. Sherlock began pacing as he reeled off his information.
"A man, 168 centimeters, no more than nine and a half stones. He's fond of writing, but his hand cramps up easily, so he tends not to write very much. He had had medical training—"
"Is this an actual person?" Stamford interrupted, holding up a hand in attempt to stop the potentially endless description.
"He was completely covered in blood. His left shoulder—dominant side—had a gunshot wound. He was undergoing surgery as I watched."
"A vision, then," Stamford mused. "Seeing people is not uncommon."
"I know," Sherlock scoffed. He flounced across the room and span to lean against the wall. "He sees me too."
"Hallucinations are sometimes responsive." Stamford began tapping a pen against the crux between his left thumb and forefinger. "Has he appeared in dreams? What about him is haunting you?"
Sherlock nodded to his right. "He's here."
"Still? Has he been here the entire time?" Stamford asked, staring at the spot that Sherlock had indicated.
"Not consistently. He appears for five or six hours at a time, spaced about eight hours apart. He always disappears the same way; he tenses up and thrashes about for a moment, and then vanishes."
"And his appearance? Spectral? Solid? "
"Solid." Sherlock reached out with his right hand and clenched at empty air. His fist didn't close completely. His hand jerked further in that direction, and Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Stop!" he ordered sharply, tugging his fist closer to his side.
"May I?" Stamford rose: half-hesitant, half-earnest. Sherlock made a little acquiescing gesture and stepped back. Stamford held out a hand.
Sherlock's eyebrows leapt into his curls. "He's calling you Mike. This is the first time he's said anything."
Stamford reached forward cautiously.
"He says that you two went to Barts together. Ohh, fascinating! Your hand just went through his face." Stamford hastily withdrew his hand.
"And you're saying that he's corporeal to you?"
"May I?" Sherlock's voice was barbed and patronizing as he held out an expectant hand to his right. "It's for science. Thank you. And Stamford?" Stamford held out a hand and Sherlock grabbed his wrist and shoved it over his right hand. Stamford froze. His palm definitely was resting on scratchy wool sweater draped over a bony chest.
"Incredible! This is—" He froze again as the chest moved and vibrated; a puff of air raised the hair on his arm. "What did he say?"
"He wants to know if you recognize him." Sherlock dropped his hands back to his sides. Stamford stumbled forwards a bit as the chest disappeared from beneath his hand, all traces of body heat vanishing in an instant.
"I can't bloody well see him, now can I?"
"According to him, you were roommates in second year…worked together on at least half of your projects…'Why are you still in school; you've never cracked a book in your life."
"Marty? Marty Fenswick?"
"Watson. John Watson."
"Fairly common name," Stamford shrugged. He moved back to his desk. "I'm not coming up with a face."
"Open it yourself if you want out," Sherlock snapped over his shoulder, slipping past an office plant to seize Stamford's desk chair before he could get there.
"I'll get it," Stamford offered, changing track to open his office door. "It was nice to meet you, John."
Sherlock sniffed disapprovingly, and if John had a reply, he didn't pass it on.
"I've never heard of anything this tangible before." Stamford casted a small, sad look at the only chair left in the office—leaning sideways and lacking any form of cushioning—and sat gingerly. "And I haven't been exactly keeping notes on these types of circumstances; I'm mostly dealing with the patients when they're unconscious."
"You did feel him." Sherlock leaned back and kicked his feet up on top of the desk.
"I worked under a private-practice doctor in Glastonbury during the summers throughout my years at university. He was a bit kooky, but very science-minded. He's got theories on the subconscious and the unconscious and drifting souls and loads more…less than substantial fields. I know for fact that he kept notes on such occurrences and he's drawn some connections among them."
"Name?"
"Something common…I can't recall, but I'll dig around and see what I can find."
"I'll need an address and phone number as well," Sherlock said, hopping to his feet. "Thank you for your expediency in this matter." He straightened his coat and strode primly out the door.
"Peculiar, peculiar," Stamford murmered to no one in particular, looking down and flexing the hand that had touched John.
This was why Sherlock had approached Stamford. As long as Sherlock had a shred of evidence, Stamford would believe anything he said.
This was also why Sherlock hadn't told Stamford everything.