Boots
"John."
No reply.
"John."
No.
"JOHN!"
The doctor emerges from his room, stumbling, a towel about his waist, wet hair. Oh. I didn't notice the shower was on. How odd…usually I would…not that I care much anyway.
"What's the matter, Sherlock?" John's voice pulls the brakes on my train of thought. I clear my throat.
"Case."
"Now?" he sighs, exasperated. I heavily sigh back, mocking his reluctance.
"Yes, now. Get dressed. Lestrade personally requests we grace him with our presence." John thumps back up the stairs grumpily. Why is he grumpy? Our last case was six hours ago. I've already been bored for three. I scan over the file Lestrade's sent via John's email. No signs of sexual assault; hands and legs bound to the bed; strangle marks; broken and slit neck; backs of the knees slit; massive blood loss- and that's just the basics. I smile. I can't wait.
We sit in the back of a cab and John stares out the opposite window. He's still angry about the whole jumping-of-a-roof business, but that hardly seems relevant to how he's been acting lately: always staring into space, wandering aimlessly about the flat, sagging eyes that seems to have, pardon the absurd expression, lost their light. The only reason I bring John along to the crime scenes now is because I'm used to it and used to him- not because he'll be of any use, which he will not be. I look over at his vacant face.
"John." He tears his eyes away with difficulty from the flying London scenes outside to look at me. Yes, his face seems to say. I cough, not knowing what to say next.
"Um. Are you ok?" I ask, my back rigid and face awkward. I thought I ought to ask, although I don't know how. Usually I would assume a more comfortable, assuring mask, but John doesn't comply with 'usually'. He nods, and an expression so riddled with sadness it shocks me passes over his face as he turns to look back out at the grey buildings. Embarrassed by this sudden display of emotion, I move awkwardly to my left, copying John's movements. We sit in silence for the rest of the ride.
John and I arrive at 167 Lancaster Court when the sun is at its highest. It's an attractive two story house made of bluestone and gothic architecture surrounded by oak trees and, now, police vehicles. Inside, however, it is fairly modern. I looked at the slight yellowing on the walls and small cracks near the sink- early nineties renovation then. We are led up stairs to the body. Her peroxide blonde hair is strewn about her face, smeared with thick makeup. Her hands and feet are bound with a thick, scratching rope, like a sailor would use; Her pale blue 50's style dress is pulled up to her thighs and she wears red pumps; the backs of her knees are covered with congealed blood, as are her ears, the creases of her elbows and her throat, which is cut, stangled and broken. We've only been here three minutes but I have what I need. Next, I scan the room. Heavy boot prints, I note, work boots, chipped, stained with fresh mud. I take a sample of the dirt and three photographs of the best print I can find. There's signs of a struggle, but it was weak-she was already injured before being dragged here. The largest deposit of blood is in the kitchen. Anderson rounds the corner. His voices grates on my ears as I attempt to concentrate. "Hello, Mr Holmes. Good to have you back." Ugh. I can virtually smell his vulgarity.
"Pity I can't same the same to you, Anderson." He sneers and slinks back into the other room. Quickly I delete the conversation and move on to more interesting details. Height, gait, size, rough age estimate. It's amazing what you can tell from a footprint. A few more photographs, situations considered and glares at Anderson and it's time to leave. John looks exhausted. I suppose I shouldn't blame him; he doesn't sleep like me. "Lestrade," I bark, "You're looking for a male, possibly late 30s, strong, 6 5' and dangerous." I glance back at the woman on the bed. She'd ironed her dress and done her hair before this happened. She was meeting someone. The door was forced, though, so she didn't know the assailant. I grab his arm and pull him towards a cab. Lestrade goes to stop us- always needing more from me. For the first time after the fall, I'm tired of being around him. The other officers, of course. It was like that before. But Lestrade I'd always labelled as tolerable; now he just irritates me like the rest of them. Maybe it's the uniforms. John stumbles along behind me, fully giving in to my erratic lead towards the taxi. We climb in and almost immediately John falls asleep against the window, his breath leaving small spaces on the glass that remind me of the Numbness.
John doesn't know about the Numbness. It's the childish name I give to a terrifying thing. It comes when I am alone, suffocating and thick. It envelopes my mind and body and blurs everything into horrific, vague shapes. Memories that haunt and regrets that bleed. It is made of everything dreadful I have tried to forget. The Earth going around the sun: easy. My entire life before 221b: not so much. Sometimes I think John notices, but he dismisses it as me thinking. I see the razor; I see the syringe; I see the gaunt face in the mirror, with its cheek bones of broken glass and crimson eyes. I see a child huddled inside a black coat his father gave him in a corner, his face drowned in tears and crying out into the darkness in a desperate bid for someone to hear, to care, to comfort. That was the day ice crept into my heart. No-one cared and so I too would not make that mistake. I built a wall against the Numbness made of ice and razor sharp cruelty. And I hid. But it creeps back sometimes, in the night under my bed, tapping on the window. It drips menacingly from the roof as I lay back on the sofa. Maybe the Numbness has found John. I hope not.
I exit the cab in a hurry, coat swishing in my haste and stride up the stairs. John follows, trudging along groggily, wiping sleep from his eyes. As soon as we reach the first landing of 221b, he turns and ascends the staircase, footsteps heavy and tired. I leave him to his own devices. Being around John when he's not like himself is uncomfortable, and I don't mind being away from him for a while. I sit down and assess my notes. The girl: 32 years of age, born 27th of March, 1981. Married once, no known enemies, adored by all (the usual sob stories - no one ever condones the dead) and one child, not present at the time of death. He was with his father, playing in the park. If people care about each other so much, why don't they stay together? He left to entertain the child and she wound up dead. John and I don't spend much time apart and we're both alive. It seems logical; but then again people rarely see logic. My thoughts have strayed to John again. Hmm, I think, why is this? I abandon my case notes, because there is hardly anything to work with. John's ill, and usually I get him to do field work. But now I only have Scotland Yard, and I know which one I prefer. Sighing, I decide to check on him, just quickly to see if he's ok. I hope he doesn't expect me to wait on him hand and foot, because Satan will be ice-skating before that happens. I am merely…observing. Yes. Merely observing.
John's door creaks a little as I glance in. Very rarely have I ever been in John's room, save the one time I borrowed his old walking stick (experiment) and I came back after my elaborate false suicide. I grin. Even though it was undoubtedly hard leaving John, I couldn't help but feel proud about how well it went. If only I saw Mycroft's face…My eyes trail to the body lying in the bed. John. He looks free in his sleep. Happier, somehow. The soldier, the doctor, the friend…my friend. A surge of warmth spreads through me as I remember everything he has ever done for me, then do a double take as I realise how much he has done for me. Suddenly I see John in a different light. He really has saved me: killing the cabbie, protecting me when I was too focussed to see the danger, taking care of me. I truthfully believe if John had not arrived when he did, I would not be here today. I watch his rhythmic breathing for a while and imagine scenarios where he wakes up and sees me and then he smiles and I would smile and… I shake my head. No, Sherlock. You can't afford to love. My mind flies back to the all-encompassing Numbness and that's how John finds me two hours later laying on the sofa, my face vacant and heart beat slow.
He shuffles in, fully dressed, but wearing slippers. Sleep is still clinging to his eyelids and the light from the sun makes his face bunch up in annoyance. I notice none of this until he calls my name. It sounds like trying to tune a radio, until I'm finally on the right channel.
"Sherlock," I glance up, he's standing directly above me. I tilt my head towards him as a sign I'm listening. He rolls his eyes.
"Do you want breakfast?" I give a non-committal grunt. "Right, no. Oh, and Lestrade called while I was in bed. He left a message. They've got a suspect. It's the-"
"-spurned lover." I finish. Lestrade can be so stupidly romantic. Does he not think I would have looked that variable over already? John's face shows traces of surprise, but soon he accepts once again that I know all. Though maybe not in those words.
"Yes, well. I thought you'd like to listen to her." My eyes snap open.
"Her?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, everyone's had their little flings." John blushes as he says this but I pretend not to notice. I close my eyes again.
"So she was with a woman? A woman whom she spurned… Hmm. This could be probable. Certainly women are more prone to revenge than men…but then, how…" How where the boots so heavy and how were the strangle marks so strong and why, why, why? I sink back into the pillows and hear John sigh. What the sigh means, I cannot interpret and I don't care. But my ears catch a hint of disappointment as he turns away and my heart gives a little. No. That's ridiculous. The structure of my heart is in perfect order. A tiny thought in my head tells me that, while this is true, my chemical balance is not in perfect array. I open one eye and look at John in the kitchen. He's humming a simple tune and making tea. I lean back and smile.