A Study In Reverse - A Three-Cups Problem

by The Consulting Storyteller

"Is that… three cups?" "It's a three-cups problem," he justified himself, joining his hands under his chin. This pose, and I didn't know it yet, would become part of my daily life more than I could ever imagine.

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Notes: Unbeta'd and unbritpicked this time, so all mistakes are mine. Don't hesitate to report them if you see one!

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A Three Cups Problem

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Baker Street,

come at once,

if convenient.

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If inconvenient,

come anyway.

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Can be dangerous.

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The texts were on a loop, kept repeating in my head while I was climbing the 221B Baker Street stairs as fast as my disabled leg allowed it. My gun had a reassuring weight and presence on my back, making me almost forget my hateful cane. The game is on! I couldn't imagine a truer remark. After months of forced inactivity, adrenaline pulsing through my veins again, I felt ready for any adventure John would invite me in.

When I entered the room, however, it was far from the hustle and bustle that I expected. I still remembered the doctor's excitement at the announcement of the fourth suicide, which had, for a moment, made him look like a teenager. This time, instead of the so marked enthusiasm, I suddenly found myself face to face with the calm and the deepest apathy: John was lying on the sofa, ecstatically enjoying a cup of tea.

My surprise at this unexpected view, to be honest, was very deep.

"What are you doing?" I asked, perplexed.

John didn't even turn his eyes towards me.

"Caffeine," he explained, putting his cup on the coffee table. "Helps me think. Impossible to free myself from the qualities of this stuff these days. Bad news for brain work."

"It's good news for relaxing," I however argued.

"Oh," he smiled indulgently, "relaxing! Relaxing is boring."

As he was speaking, I walked toward him, and then I saw them, lined up one next to another. Had he really…

"Is that… three cups?"

"It's a three cups problem," he justified himself, joining his hands under his chin. This pose, and I didn't know it yet, would become part of my daily life more than I could ever imagine.

What I'd also eventually learn about this pose was that it was also a byword for deathly silence. Motionless, obviously deep in thought, he seemed to have all but forgotten my presence.

"Well," I began, deliberately trying to provoke a reaction.

My failure was complete. He didn't move a muscle.

"You asked me to come," I urged him then, "I'm assuming it's important."

My words had the virtue to immediately get him out of his musing. He suddenly opened his eyes, as if he suddenly remembered the reason of my coming.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

I frowned.

"My phone?" I repeated.

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."

His remark was perfectly logical, but it still didn't explain to me why he needed mine.

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone," I protested.

"Yeah. She's downstairs," he joked, "I tried shouting, but she didn't hear me."

"I was on the other side of London," I defended myself stiffly.

I didn't understand anything. He brought me here… to ask for my phone?

"There was no hurry," pointed out John who didn't seem to understand the reason of my annoyance.

His answer immediately made my tense shoulders fall. He was actually right. He indeed had asked me to come immediately, but nothing in his message stated that the situation was urgent. I couldn't help my brain not to call me a fool. Once again, I had acted before thinking.

Defeated, I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my mobile phone.

"Here."

The doctor didn't move, but just silently hold out his hand. As I guessed it was better not to interrupt his stream of thought, I put the object in his hand that he placed again against the other under his chin. He didn't say a word, but I thought I distinguish a "thank you" in his gesture, which relaxed me to a lesser extend.

Then I turned away. John needed my mobile phone. But what for?

"So what's this about?" I wanted to know. "The case?"

"Her case…," the doctor whispered.

"Her case?" I repeated to encourage him to continue.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

It surprised me. Why taking his victim's suitcase was a mistake?

"Okay, he took her case. So?" I asked innocently.

But John didn't seem to have heard my remark. Focused on his thoughts again, he was talking to himself:

"It's no use. There's no other way. We'll have to risk it. On my desk," he announced then, "there's a number. I want you to send a text."

Then he handed me the mobile phone I had just gave him.

I looked at him, unable to blow to the evidence.

"You brought me here… to send a text," I articulated.

"Text. Yes. The number on my desk."

I froze before his casualness. I began to understand Sergeant Donovan's warnings. Absorbed in an investigation, John didn't really look like the man I met in the lab of St Barts. He was focused, without any attention to external disturbances. But, I supposed, so should it be for a doctor lined with a kind of detective, stay focused.

I walked toward him, taking the phone in his hand. Then I took a look outside through the window behind me. It became a reflex because of Mycroft's concerns who sent his minions to monitor my doings at all hours of day and night. I was almost sure that 221B Baker Street was entitled to the same processing.

I thought about the conversation with my brother, his proposal. What interest could he possibly have in John Watson?

He also noticed my glance and looked up at me.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

Caught off guard by the window, my stomach clenched and my brain had only seconds to take a decision. Given Mycroft's interest toward John, perhaps it was better not to share my filial bond with the man who, obviously, had tried to secure his assistance on numerous occasions.

"Just met a friend of yours," I answered then.

"A friend?"

My answer seemed to deeply offend him, which surprised me a little. A man such as him hadn't yet seemed unfamiliar to the concept of friendship.

"An enemy," so I ventured to correct myself.

"Oh!" He seemed almost reassured. "Which one?"

His question provoked different reactions in me. Surprise came first, at the idea that he might be more accustomed to enemies than friends, but given his occupation, it wasn't actually that surprising. Then discomfort at the idea that I was going to mention Mycroft without him to understand the nature of my relationship with him.

"Well, your arch-enemy," I tried so, remembering his words in the warehouse, and then I nervously cleared my throat. "According to him. Do people have arch-enemy?"

This last question was purely rhetorical, more inclined to put the subject of Mycroft away as fast and as far as possible. I just wished that my voice sounded a little less wrong.

But the doctor obviously knew exactly who I was talking about. He looked me straight in the eyes, to the point that I was afraid of being revealed.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

His question caught me a bit by surprise. Either he knew what it was about or Mycroft's proposal wasn't at its first attempt. The second option made me smile inside.

"Yes," I however ended up answering.

"Did you take it?"

I had a pause again. More than the anguish of his reaction depending on the answer I could give, it was the thoughtlessness in his remarks that made me think. How could he talk about the possibility of being spied for money so calmly?

"No," I claimed then.

"Pity," he regretted in response, "we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

I received his remark quite hard. And a second later, it took me all the efforts I was able to mobilize not to laugh. So much for Mycroft's ego and his sacred paranoia about secrecy. The man he coveted not only knew for his bribes, but encouraged them to share them with the person in charge of spying him. John Watson was definitely not an ordinary man. I was curious to know what he knew about Mycroft.

"Who is he?" I asked for this purpose.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number."

I had only one desire: to record the conversation and to make my dear elder listen to it again and again. He who had always boasted about his importance and his ability to scare people, I wanted him to deal with the casualness of the doctor who wasn't impressed by him at all.

Leaning on my cane, I walked toward the desk on which awaited me a name and a phone number scribbled on a card.

"Jennifer Wilson…," I read, and the name was strangely familiar. "That was… Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes," John quietly confirmed, "that's not important. Just enter the number."

I did so without a word.

"Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah, hang on!" I got irritated at his impatience.

"These words, exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come'."

Typing the text, I suddenly stopped hearing what he dictated to me. Must have blacked out. He had blacked out? Where? When?

"You blacked out?" I wanted to know.

Which made him frown and break the thread of his thoughts.

"What? No… No!"

He stood up from the couch and crossed the coffee table in my direction.

"Type and send it," he exhorted me. "Quickly."

I hastened to obey, quickly drumming my fingers on the phone. Meanwhile, the doctor walked into the kitchen and came back to grab a chair next to me.

"Have you send it?"

"What's the address?" I asked him.

"22 Northumberland Street," he urged me. "Hurry up."

I finished sending the text, hearing on my left the sound of a zipper. Turning my head, I finally understood what he was doing, then froze seeing the pink suitcase opened on the chair and understanding to whom it belonged.

"That's… That's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

Despite myself, I stiffened before what the presence of this suitcase involved. A little over an hour before the object was reported missing, and now here it was, in front my very eyes, under the roof of the same person who had proved its mere existence.

"Yes, obviously," replied John who hadn't noticed my reaction.

Then he noticed it, and his face broke into an indulgent smile.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her?" He added.

"I never said you did," I defended myself carefully.

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

He had said it as if my suspicions were the most natural and sensible ones in the world. What they were, but it was barely as if he took offence.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

This was certainly the case, because his face suddenly wore the smile of a man who was quite used to it.

"Now and then, yes," he found amusing and he bolted up in his chair and sat on the back.

I was definitely in for a surprise. Not content with being a genius of deduction, as he had repeatedly proved it, lined with a perfect knowledge of the attention that was brought to him, he was perfectly aware of what people thought of him, and he couldn't even care less.

"Okay…," I agreed, frowning.

Then I decided that this was ridiculous, and that ridicule wasn't needed in the current situation. I mentally gave myself a slap, shaking my neurons, and came to the second chair to face him. It wasn't the right time for hazardous assumptions.

"How did you get this?" I wanted to know.

"By looking."

"Where?" I asked, taking a seat.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," John explained. "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in a car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. It took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

How could an average person be able to talk so long and so fast? It was almost inhuman.

"Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" I however just pointed out.

The doctor opened his hands as if the answer was obvious.

"It had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that?" I asked myself.

Pink coat, pink shoes, pink umbrella, pink nail polish. Indeed, her suitcase could only be pink. For a man who claimed to be a detective, I was far from effective.

"Because you're an idiot," answered John, who, noticing my expression, quickly added: "No, no, don't look like that, practically everyone is."

Despite my apparent calm, I couldn't help but prevent the blame from tickling my stomach.

"Now," the doctor carried on as if he hadn't said anything, "look: do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?" I hissed.

But he didn't react to my temper, or he didn't let it show. He merely observed a second of silence before showing the obvious:

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there was no phone in the case. We know she had one. You just texted it."

I didn't see how the absence of this phone was significant. There could be many reasons why the victim hadn't had her phone with her.

"Maybe she left it at home?" I suggested.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it," John reminded me getting up from the back of the chair and sitting back in it. "She never leaves her phone at home."

Said like that, it was actually logical. Especially if she was married. However, this didn't explain… Then my eyes fell on my own phone, put on the armrest of my chair.

"Er…," I wanted to know. "Why did I just send that text?"

But he just patiently looked at me.

"Well, the question is: where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it?" I supposed.

"Yes, or?" He encouraged me.

I had a split second sufficient enough to notice that it was the first time he approved me.

Or? I repeated in my head before the answer appeared to me.

"The murderer… You think the murderer has the phone?"

The doctor had an appreciative pout.

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

And I finally understood. Me, called away, to send a text on Jennifer Wilson's disappeared phone.

"Sorry… what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?"

I just had time to finish my sentence. Suddenly, my phone rang, reducing us all to silence.

I took it in hand, reading the caller's name. Anonymous call.

"A few hours after the last victim," John then calmly explained, "and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that. But the murderer… would panic!"

He pronounced these words with obviousness and punctuated them by closing the suitcase with a gesture, before getting up to take his coat.

I had a few seconds of hesitation before the situation that was shown to me. We had at hand the means of finding the perpetrator of four murders, as well as the personal belongings of his last victim. It was far from the business I was used to and I had to admit, I didn't really feel comfortable. Of course, we had the satisfaction of being the only ones to have been so far in the solving of this case, but its ins and outs didn't prevent us from taking a minimum of care.

"Have you talked to the police?" I asked him, trying to remain professional.

"Four people are dead," the doctor replied as if that explained everything. "There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to me?" I insisted.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

Taken aback by his answer, I turned my head towards the fireplace where, indeed, the skull that I had previously identified was conspicuous by its absence.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?" I concluded, a little disappointed.

"Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well… you could just sit there and… watch telly."

He couldn't suppress a face at the mention of the TV.

"You want me to come with you?" I understood.

"I like company when I go out and, uh, I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…"

My poor attempt to retain a laugh interrupted him.

"Problem?" He wanted to know.

"Yes, Sergeant Donovan."

His face fell a bit.

"What about her?" He still asked me, but I felt that it was more for informational purposes than real interest.

"She said you get off on this, you enjoy it."

Curiously, reporting Sergeant Donovan's words displeased me. She made me feel bad too. However, I could only find some truth in her words, judging by the doctor's enthusiasm before the case. Four murders, a criminal within reach, and he was like a child in front of his Christmas gifts.

His reaction, however, wasn't one I would have expected. He gave me a little smile of complicity, tying his scarf.

"And I said 'dangerous', and here you are."

And he left the room, his footsteps disappearing down the stairs.

He got me.

"Damnit!"

I don't usually swear. Despite my unorthodox past, my education had ensured it. But at that moment, I didn't see at all what else I could say.

I got up nervously and went after him.

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We crossed the street and went along the pavement. It was already dark, and people were moving around us. A woman was phoning, others walking, a very common evening in London.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here," John replied.

Northumberland Street. It was the address given in the text for Jennifer Wilson's murderer.

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" I laughed.

"No, I think he's brilliant enough," the doctor disabused me. "I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation!" He explained. "Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Sherlock. It needs an audience."

"Yeah," I mouthed for form's sake.

In spite of myself, I couldn't help but draw a parallel between him and his description. After all, he was more willing to talk to a living being than to a skull, which already showed a liking for the show.

"This is his hunting ground," John carried on. "Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Don't know. Who?" I pressed, thinking he would provide the answer.

"Haven't the faintest," he admitted with a smile. "Hungry?"

At these words, he increased his pace. Taken aback by his confession and his sudden acceleration, it took me two seconds to keep pace and stay at his level.

We walked toward a small enlightened white front. John opened the door and entered. A waiter focused on saving a bill immediately indicated us the table in the window.

"Thank you, Billy," thanked John.

We took up the table, setting us in silence on the blue bench. The waiter – Billy – came back to remove the little 'reserved' sign.

"22 Northumberland Street," John indicated, sitting comfortably in his chair. "Keep your eyes on it."

"He's not just going to ring the doorbell, is he?" I smirked, removing my coat. "He'd have to be mad."

"He has killed four people," John reminded me as if that justified everything.

I stiffened at his answer, convinced of the merits of my thinking, but I resolved not to insist.

"Okay," I surrendered.

I straightened my seat, and at this juncture, a man came to us. Tall and ample, with a beard, black hair tied on his neck and a blue tie on a white shirt. Obviously the owner.

"John!" He greeted warmly, shaking his hand before he gave us menus. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date."

This immediately made me look up. Did he just…?

"Do you want to eat?" John asked.

"I'm not his date," was all that I was able to answer.

"This man got me off a murder charge," told me the owner pointing to John.

"This is Angelo," John introduced us, and the owner – Angelo – shook my hand. "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name!" Proclaimed a cheerful and grateful Angelo.

"I cleared it a bit," John corrected him. "Anything happening outside?"

"Nothing," he declared before returning to me. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," John reminded him.

"I'll get a candle for the table," Angelo said as if John didn't say anything, "It's more romantic."

And he walked away.

"I'm not his date," I felt the need to remind him, but it was obviously useless.

John was focused on the street outside, merely pushed back the menu.

"You may as well eat," he however advised me. "We might have a long wait."

Angelo came back with the promised candle, which he placed on the table before waving me his thumb in encouragement.

"Thank," I managed to say.

And I returned to the menu, wondering what the hell came over me. Assisting John Watson, I was fully in. But being taken for his "date", I was much less enthusiastic. With the landlady and Mycroft earlier in the day, it was the third time one took me for a… partner. But perhaps this was the case when two men appeared together in public.

The meal was pleasant. I had to admit that the food was good and the setting was nice. But apart from family dinners and common meals during my school years, I wasn't very well-versed in social interactions. And even less in eating with for only company a guest focused on the street behind the window.

I ate slowly, remembering my work as a detective. How long had I myself spent in hideout, motionless, waiting for my target to show up?

John was facing the window, his attention gathered on the 22 Northumberland Street in front of him, on the other side of the pavement. Patient and concentrated, he reminded me of a sentry. Then I remembered Mycroft, once again. Our insipid conversation in this hangar. How dared he put his nose in my business? Because he had interests in John didn't give him the right to dictate my behaviour.

I had never understood this trend to civilize me like this. From an early age, he disguised his operations behind the innocent mask of benevolence. His ascension in the government didn't help his habits. And now he gave me the ridiculous oxymoron of the arch-enemy. Perhaps I did love to be dramatic, but he too wasn't far behind. And his assistant, always on her phone. They made quite a pair, both as unsympathetic as the other.

"People don't have arch-enemies," I claimed then.

"I'm sorry?"

He turned to me questioningly, and I realized that I had spoken aloud without realizing it.

Cursing Mycroft, I had to bring myself to take a decision. And pretend I hadn't said anything didn't seem clever.

"In real life," so I carried on, without knowing in what direction the conversation was going. "There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" John looked naively surprised. "Sounds a bit dull."

Dull ? It was dull not having arch-enemies? I looked at the doctor, trying to hide my surprise. Was he so little impressed by Mycroft to be able to say that with so much conviction?

What did he know about Mycroft, exactly? I longed to know.

"So who did I meet?" I insisted.

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?" John asked in response.

It was said that my curiosity would never be satisfied. John really didn't want to broach the subject, or he found it completely uninteresting.

Understanding that insisting wouldn't only be inappropriate, but also suspicious, I was compelled to drop the subject and focus on the current question: what do people have in their real life? What could they have apart from an arch-enemy ?

"Friends," I finally supposed. "Or people they know, people they like, people they don't like…"

I looked down at my plate. The subject was so unfamiliar to me that I felt ridiculous to say all this. With the notable exception of my family and, perhaps, Stamford, relationships weren't really my forte.

"Girlfriends, boyfriends…" I still added nonetheless.

"Yeah, well, as I was saying," John concluded very simply. "Dull."

Which made me look up.

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" I asked, surprised.

John didn't yet give the impression of being a loner.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

Oh?

Oh.

"Mm. Oh, right," I understood, trying to keep a neutral expression. "Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way," I felt forced to add.

"I know it's fine," he reassured me.

"So you've got a boyfriend, then?"

What did I care whether he had a companion or not? Why did I feel the need to ask this question? But it didn't disturb John who didn't show the slightest discomfort.

"No," he simply stated.

I brought myself not to insist.

"Right. Okay," I surrender. "You're unattached. Like me."

I cleared my throat awkwardly, unable to know what I could add.

"Fine. Good." I finished pitifully.

I had been deceived by appearances which, judging by the look of the doctor and his personality, had made me believe that he should be more what one called a "bon vivant". But it was obvious that we were alike him and me.

He looked at me struggling in my nonsense with a smile that it wasn't difficult to identify as compassionate. He seemed to have a few seconds of hesitation, and then leaned slightly toward me:

"Sherlock, um…,"he reassured me. "I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any…"

His smile widened as he spoke and I felt myself go pale.

"No," I tensed up. "I'm… not asking, no."

I forced myself to look at him in the eyes.

"I'm just saying, it's all fine."

But John didn't depart from smiling. He was neither mean nor mocking, even if I guessed he was finding my embarrassment amusing. Just a gentle understanding smile that merely closed the debate.

"Good. Thank you."

Thank you? Thank you for what? I frowned at this obscure gratitude, but before I could say a word, John pointed to the outside with a tilt of the head.

"Look across the street. Taxi."

I turned to the window to actually see a taxi parked in front of the address we were monitoring.

"It's stopped. Nobody getting in, nobody getting out."

It was a "black cab" all that common in London, with its brake lights on. I thought I noticed a passenger in the vehicle who watched the building next which he had stopped.

"Why a taxi?" Wondered John who seemed to be talking to himself. "Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?" I asked.

We were both turned to the window, completely focused on this car, so common that it was almost invisible.

"Don't stare," John ordered me.

"You're staring," I protested.

"We can't both stare," John made me understand, rising and taking his coat.

He went before me and opened the door of the restaurant, going into the street. Immediately taking my own coat, I followed him.

Once outside, John wasted no time to get dressed without losing sight of the taxi as I put my scarf. I tried to do it in the most natural way, making us appear like two friends leaving the table.

Remembering John's words, I forced myself not to watch the taxi. I couldn't, however, retain a glance in its direction, just in time to see the passenger who was previously looking at the building turn his head in our direction and then sit back on the back seat. I saw the driver nod, and I knew that the vehicle was about to leave, which he did without paying more attention to us.

John immediately began moving forward to cross the street and get into hunting the taxi.

I didn't even see it coming.

A car horn suddenly tooted, and I just had time to see John end lying on the hood of a car that nearly mowed him down.

But John had fortunately nothing serious, and wasted no time getting off the hood to cross the street running

"Sorry," I still apologized to the driver before running after him.

Too late, the taxi was already too far, pursue it was obviously useless. John watched it go, motionless.

"I've got the cab number!" I reassured him nevertheless.

"Good for you," he congratulated me.

But I didn't even have time to thank him or to use my information. John closed his eyes, suddenly focused, his hands moving from left to right, as if a map had taken place before him and he was looking for the right path.

"Right turn," he was reciting, "one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights."

Then he opened his eyes, and I saw in his pupils that he had found. He noticed a building entrance, a little further on the right. He rushed in that direction, and I just had the reflex to follow.

Reaching the door, he pushed away the quiet night owl who had just opened it and rushed into the building.

"Oi!" The man protested.

"Sorry!" I apologized again as I was running by him.

We climbed precipitously the stairs to the roof of the building. I didn't ask myself why we climbed the stairs, I didn't ask myself where we could go. My body, running on instinct, dictated that I followed John and not lose it.

The air filled my lungs as I breathed quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. It was like this last time. It was like when I pursued this target tirelessly that night.

I ran, my feet dullypounding the pavement. In front of me, a dozen yards ahead, a man wearing jeans and baskets.A simple case of domestic blackmail.A jilted boyfriend who claimed revenge by threatening to showpictures of their relationship on the internet.The procedure would've wanted that I contacted him for negotiation, but the man cared more for his revenge than for common sense.I had been reduced to follow him, hoping to get my hands on the evidences he constantly kept on him.I was young, I was stupid, I was on drugs.He had seen me and had fled, me on his heels.

"Come on, Sherlock!" John urged me.

We finally reached the roof, under an inky sky. John jumped over the railing, landing on an air shaft, before running to the end of the roof. I followed closely, jumping and running to follow him, before I stop in front of the empty net he just crossed in a jump.

I had briefly lost him at a pedestrian crossing.A car hadn't let me get through, and I'd had a cry of frustration at seeing me forced to stop.

"Come on, Sherlock, we're losing him!"

I had no choice, bending my muscles, I rushed, crossing the distance and rushing to catch John who sped in front of me.

The car had passed.I hadn't wasted my time waiting to see if there were others.

I ran, ran, along roofs and walls, not losing sight of John's figure, as an anchor point. We went down a fire escape, metal steps resounding under our feet. I noticed a street sign. Lexington Street. A jump further, we went down the path at full speed. At the end, a perpendicular street let us see the taxi passing quietly.

Very often, I had wondered how I succeeded in keeping track of him in my state.I supposed now that the drug mixed with adrenaline had acted as a stimulant.

"This way!"

My target had turned into a pedestrian area, what I had found very clever.I had just enough time to see him turn into a street before following him.Then, at the end of the street, he had fled to the left.

"No, this way!"

John had turned right.

Turning back, I ran towards him.

"Sorry," I apologized.

Another narrow alley. Greens Court. Then another. Finally, the street, downhill, to Wardour Street.

My legs had started to hurt.He had begun to lose ground as a result of tiredness.But I had cocaine and adrenaline, I was recapturing him.So he had slowed down, turning toward me.I hadn't expected that.His arm was outstretched in front of him.I had barely understood his intentions…

BAM!

A thud. John had thrown himself in front of the taxi, forcing him to stop.

Out of breath, chest contracted by the effort, I joined him with one stride.

Pressed against the hood, John pulled out of his pocket something he showed to the driver. I recognized, because I had already seen them, a police ID card.

"Police!" He admonished. "Open her up!"

Panting, he then ran to the passenger door and opened it as if his life depended on it.

Sitting on the back seat, was revealed to us a man in his forties, brown haired and looking very surprised that his cab had been intercepted.

John barely laid eyes on the man and made a face.

"No," he concluded, while still trying to catch his breath. "No… Teeth, tan. What, Californian?"

He was looking at something at the passenger's feet.

"LA, Santa Monica. Just arrived," he whispered in a voice that betrayed his disappointment.

I came closer.

"How can you possibly know that?" I asked.

"The luggage," he replied, pointing to the suitcase at the passenger's feet. The tag indeed indicated a departure from the Los Angeles airport to Heathrow.

"Probably your first trip to London, right?" John asked him with a little rueful smile. "Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

The man, who obviously didn't understand completely what was happening, finally ventured to ask what it was about:

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" He hesitated.

"Yes," John assured flashing the police ID again. "Everything alright?"

Finally, the passenger had a smile, even if he seemed very far from reassured.

"Yes," he replied then, a bit confused.

He would certainly tell his story to everyone as soon as he had the opportunity.

John seemed to be satisfied with his answer because I saw his shoulders relax.

"Welcome to London!" He greeted with a smile.

Then he walked away from the taxi without further ado.

I came to the tourist.

"Er, any problems, just let us know," I encouraged him, a little lamely, I had to admit, so lamely that I judged smarter to leave it at that and close the door on his confused face.

I went to John, completing catching my breath.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," I deduced without much merit.

"Basically," John echoed.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no."

"Wrong country, good alibi."

John nodded, defeated by the obvious.

"As they go," he concluded with disenchantment.

He shook nervously in his palm the small case containing the fake ID. I couldn't help but reach out for it.

"Hey, where did you get this?" I wanted to know by taking it in his hands.

How John, who was no police officer, could have a police ID? I was certainly not very versed in procedures and regulations, but that a civilian was in possession of such an object seemed curious.

I saw then the identity on the card, and I understood.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Yes," John admitted with a small smile of apology. "I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one. I've got plenty at the flat."

And I couldn't help but let a laugh slip out, which surprised John who didn't understand the reason of my sudden laughter.

"What?" He asked.

I looked at him, amused by what had made me laugh.

"Nothing," I replied. "Just… 'Welcome to London'".

Welcome to London. We had ran hundreds of yards, turned right and left, climbed rooftops and jumped gutters, avoiding passers-by and cars, all to stop the bad cab and, as an about-turn, wish the bewildered passenger a stupid and simple "welcome to London". Yes, there was something to laugh about.

John smiled at the mishap, a broad and honest smile as he turned his head towards the place where they had stopped the vehicle. Then we perceived our passenger, accompanied by a police officer, designating us. There was no need to be a genius of deduction to understand that our ruse hadn't been successful, and if we didn't take a decision quickly, we might receive a visit from a real agent with a police card with his name on it.

"Got your breath back?" John asked.

"Ready when you are," I assured him.

And without further ado, we ran, and our steps disappeared in the street.

Stretched out on the ground, my shoulder overwhelmed with pain, I had seen my target walk away and disappear.

.

The door slammed behind us. Panting, trembling with the adrenaline which, now back on familiar ground, was dizzily falling, we dragged our feet burdened by exhaustion in the entrance of 221B Baker Street.

"OK... That was ridiculous," I gasped hanging my coat.

John had carelessly laid his on the banister, and we leant back against the wall to catch our breath.

"This was the most ridiculous thing… I've ever done," I finished, bent in half by my pounding heart.

"You have been a drug addict," John reminded me for good measure.

His remark made me laugh despite myself, and John's laugh accompanied mine. Being a drug addict had especially been stupid, but ridicule could actually fit my case.

"I am far from being the only one," I defended myself smiling, then I looked at John. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out," he reassured me waving vaguely his hand, then he sighed. "It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?"

John remained silent a few seconds, his jerky breathing forcing him to grope for words.

"Oh, just passing the time," he confessed. "And proving a point."

"What point?" I wanted to know.

"You."

His answer made me frown as he turned his head toward the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He called. "Mr Holmes will take the room upstairs."

"Says who?"

John looked at me with a small smile full of ploy.

"Says the man at the door," he replied with a slight nod towards the door.

Frowning, I was certainly about to ask him who he was talking about, but as a beautifully honed plot, the knocker of 221B Baker Street knocked three times. Intrigued by the coincidence, I turned to John, but he gave me as a way of explanation only a sincere smile of encouragement and, without really knowing why, I went to open the door.

On the porch was standing a jovial man with a beard and a ponytail, wrapped in a brown jacket. I recognized Angelo, the owner of the restaurant.

"John texted me," he told me. "He said you forgot this."

And he handed me… my cane.

I took it in a knee-jerk reaction, but I thought that my brain had some difficulties to assimilate what was happening. I remembered we left the restaurant, the chase, our ride on the roofs, going up and down stairs, running behind a car. And not for a second, not even one, I had thought of my cane.

Psychosomatic limp had said my therapist. Psychosomatic limp had said John. I had always refused to believe this diagnosis too simplistic for my taste. Maybe Mycroft was a bit right when he said that I did love to be dramatic, eventually. And there, an investigation, the promise of a thrill, a burst of adrenaline, and my leg had begun to work like it did on the first day. Blinded by the excitement, I didn't even realize it.

I turned to John, who looked at me with a smile. There was no bravado, no pride. It was just the smile of a doctor happy about the recovery of a patient.

"Ah…Er, thank you. Thank you."

My leg was healed. I was back on track.

The game was back on.

.

.

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