CHAPTER ONE
He was staring at the wall.
He could hear the world outside – a car whizzed past by; a lonely drunk walked unsteadily; Mrs Hudson closing her bathroom door below; the cafe downstairs received yet another customer. He could hear all that. He could also see that the tea Mrs Hudson had set before him had gone cold – no more steam rising from the pot. He would rather have hot tea, but his body would not let his mouth open and scream for Mrs Hudson.
He feared, should he open his mouth, it would scream out his anger. God knows Mrs Hudson had had enough of that for the past two months. Sod it; bless her soul and her sickly hip.
He rose and grabbed the electric kettle. He poured the tea from the pot into the kettle and set it on. He listened to it bubble away, reaching boiling point. It flicked off and he quickly poured out some tea into a cup. He watched the steam rose for a moment and set it aside.
Rising from the sofa, he crossed the room towards his writing desk. The flat was neat, tidy and orderly now, unlike before. Booby traps had been everywhere – a ping pong ball that tested the speed of blood drop; bundles of wet towels that were used to simulate drowning bodies; and shoes. Where the shoes had come from he never asked, and never wanted to care and know. What he knew was all the mess made Mrs Hudson complain and made him happy.
Was he happy? He wondered as he opened the laptop. If he ever was happy, he never showed it. He himself never saw it.
He crossed the room again, picked up the teacup and saucer, and returned to his writing desk. The laptop was on after a few seconds, and he set his hands on the keyboard. Then his eyes caught something. Something rare.
He had just received an email.
John H. Watson, a war veteran, bachelor and quite recently lost a friend, had just received an email.
With the expression of a loyal terrier and the patience of a saint, John sat through the meandering reminiscences of Kathleen Johnson:
"... I mean, I never thought of that! She would have nothing of that sort inside her house, ever! Dear me, such a hot day today! So lucky to get the train from Whirlington! It's always packed, you know, bound for London, but today it seems no one is on! If you count Mr Trent, that is. Well..."
A hopeful look appeared on John's face. He leant forward, prepared to stand up. Mrs Hudson, ever floating in the kitchenette, warned him with a reproachful look. John slowly sat down and fiddled with a stray yarn on the long-suffering sofa.
"I still don't know what I should tell you! Oh dear me, I am so forgetful, I fear my mind is going, you know! One minute I recall what's important, then the next, it's gone!"
John did not show his disappointment, but the hardening line of his lips was proof enough. He hoped the nearness of their respective seats did not render his emotions easy to read. But it seemed that Mrs Hudson could, all the way from the kitchenette, for there, upon her face, that cross look appeared again.
Kathleen, meanwhile, was still muttering to herself while rummaging through her bag, the ones that supermarkets gave to encourage shoppers to recycle. From the looks of it, it had seen better days. John briefly wondered where in the world she put her money.
Kathleen gave a sudden exclamation that both John and Mrs Hudson gave a start. She nearly bounced off the chair in her excitement. "I found it!" she went on. "I found it!" In her hand was a small notebook.
"What did you find, Ms Johnson?" John hoped to God it was whatever that she had lost and came here to ask him to look for her, so she would finally leave. His voice was patently level, however, and did not show those thoughts, Mrs Hudson's reproachful look still withstanding.
"I wrote it down here, so now I can tell you what I have lost! Here, read it!"
Trying his best not to roll his eyeballs, John slowly took the proffered notebook. It was nothing remarkable, the notebook. It was a sorry-looking thing, with lots of its pages torn off, leaving tattered leaves of half-pages between the covers. Some pages, however, were safe. John noticed one particular page with today's date, and written in neat, precise handwriting were these words:
LOST LORD OF THE CRANES
"Rather dramatic," was all John could say. "Can you, perhaps, give me more detail on this?" He turned the written page toward Kathleen. She squinted and grinned helplessly. John took in a breath. This is getting impossible, he thought rather crossly.
As it was his usual, John slowly turned the notebook in his hand. Again he stared at the open page, and again he found himself drawing blank.
Just like every time he looked at Kathleen. It was obvious she was slightly overweight, yet seemingly ridiculously unaware of it. She sweated profusely, partly from the heat, and partly because of her choice of attire, which was unsuitable for this hellish summery weather. He had turned on the air conditioner, but it seemed to do nothing to lessen her sweatiness. He, however, found the room almost chilly by now. Her hair was a dishevelled mess, which probably a reflection of her state of mind.
"So, Ms Johnson, what do you want me to do, really?" he asked yet again.
Kathleen shrugged and grinned again. "I really don't know, Dr Watson. But, should you have any news, would you mind calling me? I will stay in the Dorchester for the weekend, and should I hear nothing from you after Sunday, can I safely assume that there is nothing that can be done at all? No offense, dear. Here is my card."
That she could count on, probably. "I shall be calling you soon enough," John said with a dry smile, rising to lead her to the door. Outside he saw a black expensive car, probably foreign made, sat on the curb. A lean, middle-aged gentleman stood beside it. He immediately opened the backseat door as Kathleen shook hands with John, and she slid into the dark belly of the smoothly sculpted foreign automobile. It glided silently away.
Sherlock would've known, John thought, looking at the card Kathleen had handed to him. Now he knew the reason of the unreasonably thick attire. She had travelled in first class all the way from Whirlington, unprepared for his poorly inadequate air conditioning, and had sat patiently, suffering throughout their entire conversation.
Kathleen Johnson was no ordinary absent-minded woman. She was part of a rather exclusive circle of silver and sterling business that dealt with antiques. And she had just left him with a notebook that should mean something to her, which John had only until this Sunday to discover what exactly did it mean.
Sherlock would've known. John turned and walked back inside, pausing a moment in the doorway. In a heartbeat.
The next morning, John tried to write in his blog. He managed to type a few sentences before he posted – without bothering to check it – and went to work.
For a Friday, the crowd in the private clinic seemed to thin as the day wound away. A few cases of heat stroke, dry coughs, and a couple who came down with food poisoning crossed his consultation room. Just a normal day's work.
John stole a peek at his watch. It was almost four in the afternoon. Tea time, he thought, as he stood up, took out his packet of tea, still sealed, and went to boil the water.
Just as the water boiled, somebody burst into his consultation room. It was Rani, the nurse at the front desk. "Doctor, you need to come outside now."
"What's the matter?" he asked, but quickly left everything and walked out with her.
"There's a woman outside – someone stabbed her just outside the clinic!"
"Dear God," John muttered and quickened his steps. When he arrived at the front desk, he saw the crowd had gathered in a wide ring. "Give way, please!" he said to the crowd, which parted immediately.
The victim was lying face down on the floor. He knelt and saw the wound on the woman's back. One quick look and John realised that if she was not immediately stabilised, she would die. The wound must have gone through her artery. No matter how many bandages John put on, blood just kept flowing profusely.
"Dr Watson?" Rani asked him.
His mind was already working ahead. "Get –" but suddenly the victim grabbed his pants leg.
"Madam, you shouldn't move," John said, then instructed Rani to get some medicine from the pharmacy that would stabilise the victim.
"Flip me over, Dr Watson," the victim said amidst all the chaos. John had the uncomfortable feeling that he had heard the voice before. "Settee," she added.
Slowly, John did so, holding the staunch firmly against the bleeding wound. When he saw the woman's face, he was momentarily taken aback. "Ms Johnson? How – Why – ?"
"Hole – in..."
John's medical mind shifted, took control. She's going into shock. Blood loss causes her to lose focus. "Ms Johnson, focus." John shook her bodily. "Look at me, Kathleen."
She turned her head his way, but her eyes were not looking at him. "It's getting dark, Dr Watson...settee... it's six... hole..."
John could feel the blood running down his fingers and for one instant, he flashbacked to that day in front of St Bartholomew's. "Kathleen, hold on – stay with me, Kathleen..."
She shook her head. "Hole in settee... six... hole in settee..."
Kathleen Johnson gave a silly giggle before her whole body slumped against his and went limp.
A/N: This is a reload, since the first version had no breaks and makes a confusing read. Do review, and I promise to have the second chapter by today!