"In every real man
a child is hidden that wants to play."
Friedrich Nietzsche
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Prologue: Burgled
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"Torch's dead." Gerry stopped in his tracks.
Behind, Jack bumped into him. "Uh! No light switch?"
Gerry and Jack stared into the darkness at the base of the staircase.
"Never been, not since I've worked here," Gerry answered. "And that's going on seven years." He thumped the torch against his palm several times, unable to jostle it on. "Hated this job—salvage inventory. 'Working in the dungeon,' used to call it. But architectural restoration brings big money, and somebody's got to do it. Happens to be us. Gotta find the string, dangling under the bulb, somewhere in the middle…we'll have to feel our way towards it."
The dimly lit basement of the warehouse was not pitch dark, but it always took Gerry several minutes to adapt to the surroundings and even then it was hard to see.
"C'MON!" the shout from above urged them. "Got the contractor holding. Sez he'll call elsewhere if we don't hurry!"
"AW, RIGHT! Hold on, mate!" Gerry shouted his answer with frustration. "Gotta find the BLOODY light."
"Dammit! This here's the stock boy's job and the bloke is a no show today," Gerry snorted with annoyance. His infrequent visits challenged him to remember where things lay as he groped with his arms outstretched through the inky blackness toward the light pull-chain. "Oww!" Gerry stubbed his toe on an unexpected object in his path, whilst Jack grunted and swore having smacked his shin on another solid object that felt like a wooden crate.
Gerry was first to reach the bare bulb and yanked on the light that swung from the rafter nearly two metres above them. They squinted as the sudden illumination flooded the space, and when their eyes adjusted, they immediately recognized a serious problem.
Crates that should have been stacked on the shelves were placed randomly on the floor and each of the tops had been carefully pried opened, exposing the contents. Old doorknobs, brass plates, sconces, and artfully etched escutcheons for light switches had been uncrated and scattered on the floor alongside packing materials. From the looks of it, more items seemed to be missing, signifying a deliberate hand —that of a burglar's—had caused the disorder.
"Jack," Gerry's voice trailed as his gaze took in the crime scene. "This don't look right. Tell Sammy to call the boss. I think Mr. Dodd needs see this."
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Chapter One: The Guessing Game
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"Sherlock?" John tried not to sound startled by what he saw when he reached the landing.
"Hmmmm?" Sherlock had sunk so deeply into his LeCorbusier-style chair that, with his legs bent to support his suspended weight, he resembled a human table which seemed to be his intention; for he had his laptop balanced on his torso and was reading intently, barely registering John's appearance. The preoccupied detective was still dressed in the plum-colored shirt and dark trousers that he had worn that morning when John had left for work, except for one noticeable change. The screen illuminated Sherlock's face in the darkened sitting room and emphasized the uncharacteristic presence of a black eyepatch over his left eye.
"Y'okay?" Beneath John's nonchalance was a doctor's disquiet.
"Thinking," Sherlock responded in an impersonal tone with a distracted wave of the hand.
After more than a year living with the famous Sherlock Holmes, John had become acclimatized to his flatmate's penchant for eccentric behavior, including odd sitting positions. However, the covered eye was worrisome. From a medical perspective John was concerned he had missed something. Had Sherlock been suffering from an ophthalmic condition of which he, the detective's live-in physician, was unaware? John was certain he would have noticed glaucoma or conjunctivitis. Perhaps, Sherlock had sustained a sudden injury during a lab experiment today despite donning his goggles? Even a mere corneal abrasion would be excruciating, producing excessive tears, and requiring drops or ointments to relieve discomfort and prevent scarring.
Yet, Sherlock did not appear to be in any distress. In fact the doctor noted with some relief that the detective seemed at ease and focused, albeit one-eyed, on his laptop screen, all indicators of someone not in severe pain. Ruling out a sudden injury as a reason for the patch, John also felt certain there was no underlying disease.
When he left for the surgery that morning John recalled Sherlock using both healthy-looking eyes to deliver his signature laser stare—the one the detective often used for deducing a person or committing a significant item to memory. As unnerving as it seemed, John had come to realize Sherlock was using this same stare as a unique way of imprinting "John Watson's departure." Otherwise, the detective seemed to hold conversations whilst the doctor was out for groceries, at the surgery, or away in Dublin.
After quietly studying the recumbent figure and feeling confident in his medical diagnosis, John decided not to ask the obvious question. Sherlock would disclose all when he was ready.
The landing was dim, lit only with indirect lighting from the ground floor, and John struggled to hang up his jacket on the peg. With his unadjusted eyes, he could not see what he was doing. The sound of his jacket flopping onto the floor indicated he had missed the wall peg entirely. With a tired sigh, he stooped to pick it up, feeling for the elusive peg with his fingers, and finally hooked the jacket before he crossed toward his armchair. On an ordinary evening, he would have automatically gone to the kitchen and prepared their supper, but curiosity took him off course this night.
"Mind if I… ?" John hesitated by the lamp closest to his comfortable cigar chair not certain if he should switch it on.
"Sorry?" Under knitted brows, Sherlock narrowed the one exposed eye and peered at his companion.
"The light?" John assumed that behind the patch, the left eye was aligned. "Will it bother you?"
"No lights right now." A slight smile pulled at Sherlock's lips when John had entered the sitting room.
"Why? Migraine? Light sensitivity? Nausea?" John knew that his discrete attempt at a 'house call' did not pass unnoticed. However, the detective seemed oddly amused without his customary whining about prying flatmates. This confirmed for the good doctor that his impatient patient was not in any pain.
The slight smile lingered as Sherlock shook his head. "It's a test, John." He corrected his posture in the chair, closed his laptop and put it down on a side table, then turned to the now-seated John.
"A test. I see." John's eyelids closed, and he rolled his weary head to loosen up his tight shoulders and his neck, "Oh, so not just playing pirate, then are we?" He cocked one eye open and was rewarded with a view of his friend's entertained grin.
"Oh, this thing?" The detective tapped the patch. "Part of the test."
"What are you testing? And why?"
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, pressed his hands together and tucked his tented fingers under his chin, evading the question completely. "When you were at work today, a client came with a problem."
"A problem, hmmmm. By any chance, it had nothing to do with punching you in the eye?"
Beyond the typical sarcasm, Sherlock heard John's enthusiasm and grinned more broadly, revealing the dimples in his cheeks. "Mrs. Hudson admitted Willy R. Dodd at half nine, precisely sixty-seven minutes after you had gone."
"Anything good?"
The detective seemed to brush past the question without acknowledging that he heard John. "Thought better than to ring you at the surgery—your caseload was particularly full this morning. I checked. Your online diary listed a case of bronchitis 8.45, followed by eczema 9.10, a urinary tract infection 9.30, strep throat 9.50, irritable bowel syndrome or diverticulosis, either one causing constipation 10.05…,"
"You what? How?" Any thoughts of receiving a direct answer to his previous question were eclipsed by Sherlock's blatant invasion of patient privacy, and John balked, "You know it's unlawful to breach my confidential files— "
"— It's not my fault. The surgery should secure its firewall properly; but I imagine it would be a greater bother to you if you received my texts constantly. It's for your own good. This way, I know when to contact you."
"That explains the remarkable coincidences of your texts arriving between patients!" John's scowl was unmistakable, even for a one-eyed man in dim light.
"Think, John. Confidentiality is not a concern. Whom would I tell? And if I had friends, which of them would actually care? Who really cares that 45-year-old Mrs. So-and-So has a UTI or 67-year-old Mr. What's-His-Name is constipated?" The detective stretched his arms and fidgeted in his chair. "No threats to public safety your lot of patients—except listening to their endless complaints could cause boredom in epidemic proportions."
"Get lots of practice listening to boring complaints at home," John deadpanned.
Disregarding John's aside, Sherlock continued with his edification, "The only value I see in your returning to practice, John—besides your unnecessary concern for financial stability—is that it maintains your excellent skillsets and training, you enjoy some aspects of it, and it has sharpened your deductive skills, making you indispensable in the work."
"Hooo-kay! Heard enough!" John huffed and slapped both arms of his chair as he pushed himself to his feet.
Immediately, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, preventing the doctor from leaving the sitting room. "You have more to say." As suddenly, he released his grip from John's wrist. "Say it."
Squinting at the seated detective—even in the dark, the black eyepatch was a sharp contrast against the detective's pale skin— John hesitated, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and chose to speak in even tones. "Helping people has no value, then?" There was a definite edge of annoyance in his voice. Sherlock and he had been here before.
Sherlock pondered that question for a moment with a tilt of his head. "It is a by-product we both share, though our methods and motivations may differ somewhat."
"So you actually intend to help others, even if you're being rude and intimidating, specifically because bad behavior is your method of inquiry." John let his gaze skip across the room, noticing that his eyes had finally adjusted to the dimness. He gradually brought his focus back to Sherlock when he continued. "Did it ever occur to you that compassion and sympathy can also be 'tools' to ascertain the facts?"
Sherlock frowned. "I use my tools to extract the information I need as efficiently as possible. The element of surprise and shock, like calling the alarm of 'fire' in a room, often reveals a person's priorities much more quickly than does gentle encouragement or persuasion. Causing an argument expedites the process. I've told you this before: People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you."
John wagged his head thoughtfully and averted his eyes. "You once asked me if caring about the victims will help save them." Not hearing a response, John slid a glance toward the seated man and caught Sherlock's subtle nod, the silent acknowledgement that he did indeed remember that exchange.
"Well, I genuinely care about my patients and their recovery." Straightening to parade rest, John leveled his confident gaze on his friend with the affirmation, "and I help them."
"Do you, John?" There was no acrimony in Sherlock's words; he had asked the question gently, without judgement or sarcasm, but John was jolted by the question that challenged his integrity.
Sherlock's uncovered eye narrowed in thought. "I mean are you always genuine? Don't you at times detach when the emotional connections interfere with the clarity of your thinking? Or are you someone who allows emotions to determine the best course of treatment? I think not. In fact, I know you don't. That's why you are an excellent doctor."
"Keeping my emotions in check is important," John agreed, "but I don't let my patients feel my detachment or they will not have faith in my ability to help them."
"Not a little deception, perhaps?" The detective continued to argue his point without insult or antagonism in his voice. "I've often said, what you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is what can you make people believe you have done. Are you saying, John, that you care as much for what they think about you and your reputation? Would you never disagree with a patient who is pigheaded and wrong about your medical opinion or a patient who chooses to act unwisely, because otherwise, you assume they would not consult you again?"
"No! Of course not, but… Rather, it's a balancing act within the proper social decorum," John's voice rose in frustration as he raised his eyes toward the ceiling, "They wouldn't seek my service if I mistreated them. And I can't go around dissecting live human beings—which would be your preferred method were you a physician—to determine what afflicts them. I have to associate the symptoms they present with their medical history, find common ground between their often unhelpful complaints and everything they are not saying so as to better understand their medical conditions. Listening, Sherlock, no matter how tedious or boring, as a means of observation, is often the most essential tool of all."
"Exactly! You see, we do agree on how we deduce information. True, I listen and observe with detachment to filter out the emotional sentiments that conceal the truth," the detective stated with conciliatory politeness as he studied John's face. "But I do not actually care what they think about me. My reputation for solving the problem is sufficient, despite my infamous, so-called mistreatment of their feelings. I would venture, were they given the choice, they would choose my unfeeling method if it meant they would get the result they desired."
"If I recall correctly, your reputation was somewhat dull before— "
"— until my blogger romanticized the facts." Sherlock nodded. "I'm aware of that."
"Caring about other's opinions brings you more work."
"I care less for other's opinions. Work comes to me because I am without peer in what I do."
"And let's not forget modest," John quipped with a straight face.
"Modesty is often a disguise of the insincere and a way of begging for compliments," Sherlock replied evenly. "If all things were seen logically the way they should be, underestimating one's abilities is equally disingenuous as exaggerating them." Sherlock gestured toward the upholstered chair facing him. "Now, sit down….please. Hear me out. Or do you not care about whether we have a case with Willy Dodd?"
Curiosity overrode John's irritation; he sat down with an audible sigh. "A cuppa about now would be nice… and some nourishment."
"Later. Listen!" Sherlock did his best to mask his self-satisfied smile before continuing. He leant toward his friend. "Modeling some of your civilities to appear receptive, I warned the potential client we might be too busy, but I would listen and consult with my partner before deciding if we could take the case."
"You don't have any cases at the moment," the doctor stated flatly. "Wait! Did you really say my partner? "
"You've insisted on being involved in the decision-making. As I do welcome your participation, John, the inconvenience of you absence is problematic and can impact the opportunity of acquiring interesting cases. I have come up with the best solution. I will determine its Crime Scene Interest Scale during a vetting process. Below four, I solve it here in the flat, whether you're present or not, and send the client off. If I feel it's worth our investigative services, then it's up to you whether you wish to participate, or else I'd do it alone. This is fair and a better use of our time. Compare it to you not informing me about every dreary common cold in your medical caseloads at the surgery. Am I right?"
"Not sure I can tell you anything you haven't already hacked through the insufficient firewall," John muttered under his breath, holding back his personal protests about Sherlock taking on cases alone. "Of course you're right, and I'd gladly join you," he added audibly with an emphatic nod of his head. "So, what's the scale for this one? Or did you send him away?"
"After I tell you Willy Dodd's case, you may judge for yourself."
"Hmm," John's mood brightened at the prospect of being actively involved. "Okay," he beamed, feeling invigorated by his friend's praise and inclusion. Although for Sherlock Holmes guessing was "a shocking habit—destructive to the logical faculty," John enjoyed the idea of playing what appeared to be Sherlock's guessing game.
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(to be continued very soon.)
Special thanks to my special beta and friend englishtutor as well as my other wise friend who prefers to be nameless for their guidance and support.
