A Study in Sherlock
It had been nearly a month since Sherlock's 'suicide' and Q was tired beyond belief. Besides working at a rate that was normal for him but would be impossible for anyone else, he now also had to constantly monitor Sherlock's progress and occasionally actively help him out. With two Double-Os currently on field as well, it was not a small task to manage, especially since their little private mission had to be kept secret.
His new apartment still hadn't been furnished properly for lack of time and interest. Not that it mattered since most of the time he didn't even leave the hidden walk-in closet that was functioning as a high-tech base for managing operations from there. His bed remained untouched most nights even when he was at home – he had of course recognized right away it would be more convenient to just sleep a few minutes here and there slumped onto his work desk rather than go to the trouble of making his bed, lying down into it then having to jump up and run to the computer whenever he was needed.
And Sherlock needed him a lot: he was a more demanding agent than 006 and 007 put together; and that said a lot. He also tirelessly worked on the case, never giving up, never complaining… After Switzerland where he had learnt a great deal about Moriarty's web (most of the information Q had already suspected but they had still needed confirmation), he had traveled to Belgium following a hot lead. He had found two members of the criminal organization there; both of whom he had managed to take out using only his cunning and manipulation. No weapons had been drawn. Right now his brother was in Italy looking for more accomplices. Q hoped he would take a little break for Christmas that was coming in a few days so that all of them would be able to breathe freely at least for a small while.
But even until then, he had another pressing matter to attend to, and that was exactly the reason Q was presently determinedly strolling down the street in Hackney. Mycroft hadn't wanted to let the boy come alone but he had assured his older brother that he knew very well what he was doing. Now he just hoped it was true and that he hadn't been lying…
There was no question he had to do something: Doctor John Watson's behavior was worrying everyone, including and most importantly Sherlock, who couldn't afford to be distracted by concern for anyone or anything else but his mission right now. In reality: none of them could, for their task demanded total concentration. The fact that John had decided to move to the probably most exposed part of London where he had the biggest chance to get attacked/observed didn't help matters. Neither did his almost-suicidal way of life.
After the funeral John had sent Q away, stating he hadn't been able to even look at him, let alone talk with him. The boy had relented in the end, but had made it quite clear he wouldn't lose sight of the best friend of his 'dead' brother and that the man should expect to remain part of the Holmes clan forever. Once an 'adopted' Holmes, always a Holmes. So now it was time to make good of his previous threat and talk to the good doctor whether the silly man wanted it or not.
Having reached his destination, the teenager took a deep breath to prepare himself for anything that might come, and knocked on the door.
Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q
"Benedict? What are you doing here?" – Was John's greeting upon opening the door and discovering the youngest Holmes standing in front of him.
"A good day to you too, Doctor Watson. I'm also glad to see you." – Replied Q just a bit sarcastically and entered the room without invitation, ignoring the other man's indignant look. – "I've come to talk to you. And I will!" – He added quickly to halt the protest he knew was coming.
As a result, John just sighed and closed the door, resigned to the fact that he wouldn't get rid of the boy in the foreseeable future. It could never be easy with a Holmes, could it?
"And I don't suppose I have a say in the matter, do I?"
"No, I don't suppose you do. Sit down please."
"How nice of you to invite me to sit down in my own living room."
"This is the living room?" – Asked the boy confusedly, looking around the small space, barely bigger than the closet he used as an office in his own apartment. He had originally thought it was only the entrance corridor.
"And the bedroom and also the dining room. I like to keep it simple. I would offer you tea but sadly I have just run out of it. What do you want to talk about?"
Q needed a few seconds to find his composure again.
"I want to talk to you about the life you lead. For example about this…" – He began, gesturing around themselves, indicating the rundown mouse hole the man had had the audacity to call home.
"Not up to your standards, is it?"
"John, it's not up to anyone's standards… And we should also mention your avoidance of your friends. What's up with you?"
"Nah, honestly, boy: what do you think? I just lost my best friend!"
"And so it justifies you ruining yourself and losing all your other friends as well? What kind of twisted logic is that?"
"Well, I'm sorry if I'm not as smart as you folks are. Not everyone can be a genius you know!"
Q closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself sitting in the middle of a peaceful, beautiful field of flowers, surrounded by yellow cowslips, purple cranesbills and white yarrows. Birds chirping in the woods just a few yards away, sun shining above him, warming him up... When he had managed to center himself and was fairly sure he wouldn't start cussing in a manner that definitely wasn't up to his standards, he opened his eyes again and calmly continued.
"Everyone is worried about you. You must have lost at least seven pounds if not more in the last month. You're unkempt, unshaven, and I would probably fit into the bags that are so evident under your eyes."
"Thank you for basically stating how ugly I am. I shall point out you yourself look the same way, and you'd need much more than seven pounds to appear normal."
Q didn't take the bait and continued with his observations instead.
"You use your cane again and walk with a limp."
"I was shot in Afghanistan."
"In the shoulder."
"My right leg hurts."
"It's psychosomatic."
"I also have an intermittent tremor in my left hand."
"Yeah, 'intermittent' being the key word. It only comes whenever it's convenient."
"Whatever. I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder ages ago."
"Exactly: ages ago. It's even less true now than it was back then. If you take an advice: sue your therapist for every pound ever spent on her. She's a fraud."
"You have serious mental issues, boy."
"I might have, yes. But Doctor Watson: you have a problem."
"Tell me something I don't already know."
"All right, how about this: you would have been robbed twice already since you live here if not for Mycroft's surveillance." – John just blinked, clearly surprised but also not particularly bothered by this new revelation. Q ran a hand through his hair and huffed in frustration. – "You also would have appeared in the newspapers numerous times, had I not hacked their system by each of these occasions to erase paparazzi pictures of you stumbling around London, clearly drunk."
"Well, it's a pity. I would have liked to see those headlines: 'The infamous late detective's once best friend in shambles over his death!'. Don't you think that would be epic?"
"I'm sure I could find other, more fitting expressions for it to tell you the truth. And we also shouldn't neglect the itsy-bitsy fact about you being in danger of Moriarty."
"Moriarty? I though he died. That Sherlock killed…"
"He did. He died for real, don't worry. But it doesn't mean he won't come back."
The doctor looked at the teenager as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra head.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You need to be more careful! The danger is still very much present and we don't want to lose you to it! Or to your own antics for that matter."
"Who is 'we'?"
"Well, everyone. Your friends. Those who are also in pain over what happened and who would maybe like to share it with you rather than suffering because of it AND worrying about you at the same time."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, yes? Have you talked to Mrs. Hudson since the funeral? To Lestrade? What about Miss Hooper or Mr. Stamford? Have you been to Angelo's? I don't even have to ask if you've talked to Mycroft or me. As a matter of fact: I don't need to ask anything. I know the answer to each of the questions already."
"Of course you do. You're a Holmes. You people just know everything. You're all perfect."
"Really, Doctor Watson, I can assure you that all of us are as far from perfect as can be. And we don't know everything."
"Even Sherlock didn't know everything?"
"No, it's not possible even for Sherlock to know everything."
John narrowed his eyes dangerously.
"I don't believe you."
"You're the best friend there is, Doctor Watson. But it seems even you don't know much about Sherlock. Let me try to present him to you a bit. It will maybe help you understand why we're here today at all and perhaps will give you the incentive to try and change your fate."
"I certainly would like to at least understand what happened."
"Very well: let's try, shall we? So, my middle brother used to have – among countless talents – one great weakness: he used to think that you could learn literally everything by simply observing and deducing. It's true most of the time of course. There is a lot to see if you know where to look.
Everyone watches but most don't see. Sherlock realized that very early on and perfected the art of seeing. That's the first step of his method. That means to simply see. To see everything as it is, not just what others want him to. To be able to understand it better, you have to know something:
Most people can be manipulated fairly easily to actually only see what you want them to – especially if this is also what they want to see. Then they'll believe anything if you present it to them the right way. There are hundreds of studies that have already proved it: soldiers don't recognize the enemy in semi-darkness if they're wearing dark/earth-colored clothes and are totally motionless even though they might be standing right in front of them, just mere inches away. Why? The eyes see them of course. If it's not absolutely dark (meaning no light at all), the healthy human eye will see. Maybe not the colors but the shapes for sure. The brain though… it won't. Most soldiers aren't killing machines, they don't really want to have to confront the enemy and engage them in a shooting, especially since they know they themselves could become the victims in the end. But if they don't see the others, they won't have to: nobody will attack anybody and everyone can go home to their families, having survived another day. So what happens? They look at the enemy soldiers when they're searching through the woods for intruders but they don't see them. They just walk past, and then report to their superiors in absolute honesty that they have located nothing suspicious, everything is splendidly all right. Just like they wish it to be. Double-Os are trained to overcome this phenomenon of course but there's only so much you can do against human nature.
'Visual information processing' is what we call actually registering what our eyes see. It's done in the brain and by the brain. The eyes are only the tools used for it – they gather the light and forward it to the brain; the real work isn't done by them. The brain processes and interprets the meaning from visual information gained through the eyes, just like it does the same with the information getting into it from the ears, the nose, hands and so on.
And it's so easy to fool! Have you heard about the so-called 'hollow mask' experiment? No? Well, it proves how our prior knowledge – or expectations – influence the way we perceive something. Seeing can be deceived even unknowingly on a subconscious level, just by preconceptions and past experiences, so imagine what you can do with it if you try to deliberately alter your – or someone else's – point of view?
Sherlock studied this art in depth for a long time as a child and teenager. He read everything there is to know about it then conducted his own experiments. He became the master of seeing first.
Deductions came next: he realized that by seeing a great deal more than others he had gained an advantage far more valuable than he had first expected. So what to do with it? What good does it do you to see someone's fingers fidget nervously, observe them sweating more than normal and recognize half-hidden lipstick-marks on their shirt collars if you don't know what they mean? Nothing at all. But if you can 'connect the dots' so to say and deduct from them that the person in question is cheating on their partner and have therefore a pressure point usable against them to force them to do your bidding, then you're a big step ahead.
So the next thing for him to do was study psychology and human behavior, trying to get to know everything there is about what makes people tick. You thought him totally incapable of understanding human behavior? You were so very wrong, you wouldn't even believe it! Nobody reads humans better than Sherlock – and Mycroft, I should mention. This interest led Sherlock inevitably to crime studies, because honestly: where else could it matter more? Everything else you can guess for yourself, I'm sure: he became more and more involved in the matter, started visiting crime scenes in order to gain first-hand experiences, met a few officers who would have liked nothing more than to get rid of the 'junky kid' getting in their way all the time and hindering work (like Anderson and Donovan for example), until he finally encountered Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade who saw something more in him and took him so to say under his wings. Having found this "hobby" as a new goal of life also helped him overcome his drug-habit and self-destructive tendencies more than anything Mycroft had tried to do before, I might add.
The rest is history of course: he met you, you started accompanying him and writing a blog about his work, he became more and more widely known as he gradually gained a reputation and started getting contacted by others as well as becoming a recognized expert of the field. And all that time he actually didn't do anything more than force his brain to use not only 10% of what his eyes see – as is the case with most people – but rather nearly 100%. After that he drew conclusions, cross-examined them, was prepared to dismiss theories if they didn't prove logical and then in the end came up with the most probable explanation for the problem in question. His motto: 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth' is actually very true and works most of the time. You just have to be patient enough to work on it, because it's not an easy job per se."
John actually seemed more impressed than bitter now.
"It seems to me you admired him for it." – He pointed out.
"That's true. I admire both of my brothers for it: though not totally the same way, but both developed that talent and learnt to use it well. Mycroft just applies it for his political career in opposite to Sherlock's crime solving."
"And you?"
"I'll be the first to admit I'm nowhere near the level of my brothers' when it comes to that skill. That may have something to do with the fact that I lived ten years in nearly complete isolation, not meeting people, therefore not getting the opportunity to observe and learn their ways. While with Sherlock, being a sociopath and unable to fit in could be called to some extent only an act, it's sadly very much real with me. For him, it just the matter of coming in handy, because for one, it's never bad to be underestimated by your enemies and for other it is an easy way to avoid hated social expectations without having to make an effort to meet these. It's so much better if nobody expects it from you in the first place. It was proven again and again though that it had nothing to do with lack of skill when he used different personas and covers during his investigations masterfully. He could deceive even you, his best friend, on countless occasions, isn't that so?"
"Yes, it is. But then I don't understand why you say he had a great weakness."
"The weakness is that he used to think for a long time that it was always enough. I told you in the beginning that it's enough most of the time. But not always. Sherlock was too successful in this art, too good and eventually appreciated to forget it was not everything. A mistake that, I'm sure, most of us would have committed in a situation like that. I myself have realized how dangerous it can be if you're too overconfident in your own abilities and lose other perspectives because of it. It might sound like a cliché but it's not easy for a genius either. Sherlock… he was used to seeing everything, being able to deduce everything and therefore knowing everything. He didn't even take it into account there could be things he didn't know. But sadly: there were.
Let me ask you something: what, do you think, is the most dangerous enemy like, Doctor Watson?"
"I… well, I think someone who's very powerful, has a lot of resources and is ruthless enough to use them would be pretty dangerous." – The man guessed.
"No doubt. So would you say Moriarty was like that?"
"Of course.
"I agree he was a most considerable enemy. But I would chance to say there's a much more dangerous type: the one that's invisible. Moriarty paraded his talents, demonstrated his power wherever he went. He toyed with his victims. He presented himself very early on to the two of you and didn't completely disappear following that ever again. Thus he gave himself away. He gave us the opportunity to get to know him and to prepare for an eventual confrontation. You don't get it with something you don't know about. That's sudden and unexpected. I, for one, am always more afraid of the unknown than anything I know about. Sherlock on the other hand didn't even think for a long time that anything could exist without his knowledge. Oh, he realized his mistake of course but rather belatedly. My flat had to be exploded for him to see just how deep this thing went. So, you see, he always trusted his eyes, brain and deduction skills. He could use them to the fullest but what if you don't even encounter the threat? You can't observe something you don't meet at all. His deductions went far but not quite that far."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he saw Moriarty as a lone wolf. A solitary madman using London as his playground."
"And wasn't he like that?"
"Sherlock came to the conclusion he wasn't when I was nearly killed by a grenade thrown into my home during the night. It's most unfortunate an attack on me was needed for that but better late than never, right?"
"How?"
"He must have asked himself how Moriarty knew about me when nobody did. Don't forget: I've been officially dead for five years. No record whatsoever suggests I even exist. I don't use my given name and no, Doctor Watson, it's not because I want to renounce my family. It's because it is safer for everyone like that. It's one thing to have enemies as a Holmes and to have them as the Quartermaster of MI6 – but to merge these two? The combination would be deadly and not just for me. So, the question remains: how DID he know? Moriarty could have dug up something about the long deceased little Benedict Holmes but he couldn't know about the MI6 connection. A slightly crazy man named Max Denbigh though… He had a fairly recent run-in with the Quartermaster that ended with him losing his position, his plans and – as we thought back then: his life. He, on the other hand, couldn't know about Benedict Holmes. Richard Brook knew nothing, he was just an actor hired to fool everyone after all. Nobody alone could do it. So: who did know the pieces and who was able to connect these?"
"I don't know. I don't even have an idea who this Max Whatever-His-Name is. Is there a connection between him and Moriarty? I don't understand anything!"
"Neither did Mycroft, Sherlock and I. Until we finally figured it out."
"And?"
"Spectre. A web."
"I still don't understand."
"It's okay, don't worry about it, it really doesn't matter right now and is too complicated to explain. I would just like to say that much: you should try to see and listen more, Doctor Watson."
"You think I don't do it?"
"Oh, I'm sure you do. You just don't know it yet."
"But…" – And then he suddenly understood. It was like all the lights had been turned on at the same time, illuminating the previously only dimly-lit room, highlighting the truth: Benedict had during their whole conversation only ever used past tense in relation to things that were actually in the past. Sherlock thinking too much of himself then realizing the wrongness of it. But never when just simply referring to Sherlock in general! Actually, he couldn't remember him ever talking about Sherlock like you would talk about the deceased, had never seen any of the two remaining Holmes actually grieving… And the boy had just given him; a doctor; a lecture about looking at things but not seeing them… – "Ah!"
Now he could recognize the frown on the boy's face – it was not difficult, for his facial expressions and style were so similar to Sherlock's… He was expecting something from him and he wasn't getting it. But what? A question, maybe? Was the teenager giving him a clue he should understand? Damn those Holmeses, they never spoke clear language! But it was worth a try…
"Ahm… You have a lot of respect for Sherlock, right?" – Here, a question about Sherlock in present tense.
"I couldn't begin to tell you how much."
The frown deepened. Not the right approach then… 'Oh, stupid: you could respect someone who's died…' Another go then.
"And did he respect you…?" – Well, he would have to correct the 'did' if what he hoped was right, wouldn't he?
"Mutual respect is and has always been very important in our family."
Is and has been! But… It didn't mean anything, there was still Mycroft he could be referring to… Incredible how the boy had mustered the famous Holmes-way of talking in riddles, but did he have to apply it right now?
He must have actually asked the last piece loud, or the boy was simply way too much like his middle brother, but anyhow: he gave an explanation. Or at least another riddle that could pass for it at any rate…
"Nowhere is safe right now. Ears and eyes are everywhere, lurking and waiting. So we have to do the same to match them. And look out for each other; it's vital. The less places to watch, the better. It lets us concentrate more on finishing other, very important tasks."
"Us…?"
"Us. The Holmes brothers."
He was going to strangle the boy if he kept this up…
"How many brothers?" – Na, let's see how the cheeky teenager was going to get out of answering a direct question this time!
"As many as there are."
Okay, if there were a prize for making people mad with just words, the littlest Holmes would get it for sure. John was going to nominate him if he ever found a competition like that.
"We're working on preserving everyone's life." – The impatient youngster added, tapping his left foot.
Everyone's…?
"Do you understand now, Doctor Watson?"
"I… Oh my God. Does that mean he-"
"See and deduce, Doctor. I must repeat: danger is lurking. Invisible but present nonetheless. We're living dark times and the life of everyone could depend on our proceedings. Sherlock's art isn't enough here, because even that is not infallible. Even I was able to deceive him at 12. Mycroft's or mine either. Only all these put together can give us a chance for success. That, and time. Patience. Endurance. It's not a time for self-pity and grieving. It's a time for actions and cooperation. For friends to be together and help each other. Nobody should isolate themselves."
John realized the boy was trying very hard to impress this on him so he made an effort to really concentrate on his every word. They could be analyzed later and scrutinized for possibly missed important details but for that he'd have to remember each of them properly.
"You accused me before of being a child – an adult only on paper, nowhere else. That was what you said if I remember correctly. I think you might have been right. Not anymore though. I had to grow up in this past month; it was very quick and brutal and surely effective. Some need a killed dog for that*, others a brother jumping down a roof… Now it's time for you to do the same, Doctor Watson, so, please, tell me: what do you need for doing some overnight growing up?"
"I… You have nerve, boy!" – However, it was true: he was definitely talking to an adult now. His bearing, his way of speech, his attitude and calmness… No more trace of the brooding, insecure and depressed teenager he had been before. He had an air of authority and self-assuredness that made it easy to imagine him being a Quartermaster of MI6 and leading an own branch. Sherlock would be proud… Maybe he was proud.
"I really need to go now." – Q got up and walked towards the door. With a hand on the doorknob he paused and without turning back to check if the doctor was paying attention, he added: - "Please, do try to visit Mrs. Hudson sometimes. She's lonely. She might decide to ask me to take Sherlock's things and look for other tenants. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"No, we wouldn't."
"No. The less places to guard, the better. Well, good bye then."
John remained sitting motionless for a long time, trying to process everything he had just learnt – or thought he had learnt. Did he understand it right? Was it even possible? Or did he just hear what he wanted to hear, similar to what they were talking about seeing things differently than the truth? Should he dare hope…?
One thing was sure: Benedict was certainly a Holmes trough and trough. Nobody else could talk in such a clouded, mystic way. The ex-army doctor really couldn't make up his mind as to what to believe but somehow he was sure that he didn't need a dog being killed to grow up: he had needed a talk with his deceased/disappeared best friend's insolent little brother. He decided then that a visit to 221B Baker Street wouldn't hurt anyone.
If only to make sure Benedict had thrown the rotting head out of the fridge.
*Mark Haddon: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time