Time of Echoes
Sherlock: Excuses
September 29
Sherlock stared at the computer screen and the lines of code that flashed across it. The bluish light reflected across his gaunt face, and he rubbed one wrist tiredly. His lips moved in a silent mutter, and his eyes flicked from side to side, decoding and processing information as quickly as a computer—probably quicker than most.
Suddenly, the light overhead switched on, flooding the room with annoying illumination.
Sherlock sat back in his chair with a sigh and glared with bleary eyes at the intruder.
"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson scolded. "You haven't moved since I last looked in."
"You look in too frequently," he growled, rubbing his neck.
She huffed. "It's been two days."
"Oh." He blinked and checked his watch. "Has it, then?"
"I brought you up a nice bit of roast and some fresh tea, then," the landlady said, bustling into the kitchen and setting a dish and a thermos on the table. "You need to eat more."
"I'm on a case." He turned his eyes back to the computer screen, effectively tuning her out.
"Sherlock."
The sudden change in Mrs. Hudson's tone managed to reclaim his attention. He looked up at her, suddenly recalling the feeling of being caught, as a child, at midnight in the kitchen, with a bottle of chocolate syrup in his hand.
"Sherlock, you're always on a case these days."
It was true. In the nearly-five months since John's death, and the three since he had agreed to help his brother tear down Moriarty's web, Sherlock's days had been one new project after another. All cogs and gears of his one real case: finding John's killer. He was never bored anymore, though somehow, the empty feeling of the boredom still came.
"You need to rest," she continued, "What would—"
"Yes, you're right, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock stood up quickly, cutting off the rest of her sentence: what would John say? "You usually are." He graced her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and entered the kitchen, fetching down a plate and a mug from the cabinet. Funny how he always had clean dishes these days. He found himself cleaning up the flat when his mind demanded short breaks from investigating.
"You just sit down there," she ordered him, the motherly tone back in her voice. "I'll get you all set up and just sit here until you eat all of it."
He was somewhat annoyed by her intrusion, but stifled the feeling. She was only trying to help, after all, and she was right in her analysis. Much as he detested the notion, he was still only human. And Mrs. Hudson's pot roast was notoriously good.
She puttered about the kitchen as he tucked into the tender beef, her fluttery voice chasing out the shadows that tended to accumulate around the lonely detective. He ought to get a new flatmate, his practical side knew, but he didn't have the time or patience to find someone and train them properly.
That was the excuse he made to himself anyway.
He found himself making a lot of excuses these days.
John: Managing
September 29
"You know, I really can handle this myself."
John watched the young nurse struggle to set up the folding lawn chair, which seemed to have a devious mind of its own that delighted in trying to poke the poor man in the eye.
"No, sir," he panted, "I've got it, I've—" With a final yank, he popped the chair into place. "There."
"Well done," John said, his voice wry. Using the walker he despised and moving with ginger care, he maneuvered himself over to the chair and sat down—slowly. A shattered femur, cracked pelvis, and three still-healing ribs were no encouragements to quick movement, he had discovered the hard way.
The September sky overhead was bright, with wispy strands of pale clouds streaked across its blue belly. The garden he sat in smelled ever-so-faintly of dark mould and toasting leaves, but it was warm for the season. He tried to ignore the high brick walls that enclosed the spacious garden, and closed his eyes against the sun's warming rays.
"All settled in, sir?"
"Hm? Oh, yes. Thank you." John smiled, a quick brief smile that didn't rise past his cheeks, and the young nurse hurried off.
John sighed. He felt like an old, old man. Painkillers dulled his senses, lingering pain kept him moving as if he would shatter at the slightest provocation, and a general feeling of…dullness hung over him.
Sherlock thought he was dead.
He might as well be dead, for all the good he was doing. Stuck here, in Mycroft's special compound who-knew-where on God's green earth. It felt like England, but for all John knew they could have been in North America or Russia or…anywhere. He saw nothing of the land around the compound—the place was surrounded by the brick walls on every side, and few of the inner rooms of the palatial building even had windows. All he knew was the sky, and that most of the staff had English accents. In other words: nothing.
He needed something to do. Sitting here in this walled-in garden, with nothing to occupy his time but brooding, was going to turn John into an old man before long. As a doctor, he understood that he needed time to recuperate. But while his body mended, wasn't there something his mind could be doing?
There was one person to ask.
John hoisted himself to his feet and dragged his walker—blasted, old-man tool—in front of him. Step by aching, painstaking step, he worked his way back up the concrete walkway to the door of the red-brick building. The young nurse reappeared, appearing like a nervous genie at John's elbow, but he waved the boy away. "Just working the muscles," he said, managing an insincere smile. "I know what I'm doing."
He knew now, from the last three months of activity, the basic floor plan for the main level of the building, and he knew exactly where to find his captor this time of day. He pushed open the heavy wooden door of the study and maneuvered his walker inside.
"Mycroft," he said, standing up straight. "How can I help?"