Captain of All These Men of Death
Chapter 1
2015
De causis et signis diuturnorum morborum
Baker Street was unusually tranquil that morning. The little digital clock on the shelf, partially concealed by clutter, had just flicked to 7:00am. Dust hung in the air, slowly sinking towards the furniture below. The silence seemed to seep deeply into every corner. The kitchen was equally still; the only thing disturbing the quiet being the regular plip of the tap into the washing-up basin. The fridge clicked and hummed itself to life. Mugs were dotted everywhere, a plate and wine glass sat on the side, and a sauce-slick wok on the stovetop. If one were to walk in, they would immediately notice the evidence of life, but the room seemed to lack the industrious presence it usually held. Nonetheless, its eclectic charm remained.
Sherlock sensed the silence as he entered the room. It washed over him as he sat himself down in his armchair, bare feet flat on the rug, his silken dressing gown wrapped tightly around him like a protective blanket. He willed his breathing to quieten, stifling a cough, and sank into the stillness for a moment, his quick mind observing and analysing the lack of external stimuli. He was loathe to disturb the atmosphere surrounding him, however the idea of no morning cuppa was far worse. He padded to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle, and quickly realised there were no clean mugs. His eyes scanned the room for the dirty objects as he absently filled the sink, before sweeping them all up and dumping them unceremoniously into the hot, soapy water. The water boiled before he was able to finish them all. He filled a freshly cleaned mug and allowed the tea to stew as he continued washing up.
John fished around in his pocket for his key. Locating it, he unlocked the front door to 221B Baker Street and allowed Mary in first before stepping over the threshold, letting the door swing shut as they began to ascend the stairs to Sherlock's flat. Calling for Sherlock, they entered the living room. Sherlock smiled from his usual position in his chair. A fresh pot of tea was sitting on the coffee table.
"How are you, John? Mary?" Sherlock asked, taking a sip of his own drink.
Mary replied as John poured tea. "Fine, thanks." She took the cup proffered to her.
John took a sip of his own. "She's getting bigger by the day."
Mary eyed John, unimpressed. "My back hurts all the time. I make John do everything now." She winked at Sherlock. "I can see why you do it. You alright? Have you had any interesting cases?"
Sherlock finished his tea and slung his mug onto the side table next to John. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing," he grimaced and coughed, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his hands atop them. "I'm getting bored."
'Bored' was never a word John wanted to hear come from Sherlock's mouth. "How long has it been since you last worked on one?"
"Three whole days!"
John's eyebrows rose. "Wait, so you haven't had a case since the last one we worked on together?" Sherlock's frustrated scowl told him all he needed to know. John studied his friend, before standing and walking to the kitchen to refill the teapot.
Sherlock stretched himself out and sank down into the armchair, his long legs straight. John glanced at his watch. It was 10:00am. He searched his mind for something Mary and he could occupy Sherlock with as he absently opened the fridge for milk.
"How about we-" his words died in his throat as he came face to face with the entire front half of a ram. Sherlock had been forced to remove two shelves to fit the thing in, it's front legs awkwardly bent underneath it's body, horns pressed up against the side of the fridge wall. John could only dumbly turn to the couple in the living room and point at the huge animal, his mouth open.
Sherlock blinked at him. "What?"
"Ram."
"Well done, John."
Mary's eyes sparkled. "Ram, as in sheep?"
Sherlock glanced at Mary. "No, because a Ram is the male form of a sheep. Though technically this one is a wethers due to the fac-"
Mary had struggled up from her chair. "I've got to see this."
Sherlock's mouth quirked a smile as he watched her approach a violently protesting John and peer into the open fridge. "Amazing," she muttered. "That must weigh at least 30 kilos."
John turned silently back to the fridge and grabbed the milk, before quickly shutting the door on the offending animal and sloshing some of the milk into his tea. He decided to leave the bottle on the side. He sat back in his chair, Mary joining them. "Where in the hell did you manage to get a hold of the front half of a ram?!"
Sherlock simply shrugged. "I'm studying the degenerative effect of arsenic on the brain in animals."
John balked. "There's arsenic in the fridge?! Next to your food?!" He quickly put down his tea.
"Oh, don't worry. There's only a small chance of cross contamination."
John just gaped at his friend, his mouth opening and closing. "You know," said Sherlock, "that's quite an unflattering expression." He shrugged. "I don't cook much anyway."
"That doesn't make it okay!" John pressed his hand to his brow in frustration, letting out a strained sigh. This was a battle he was inevitably destined to lose. "Don't come running to me if you die of arsenic poisoning."
"I'm quite confident I won't be running anywhere if I die of arsenic poisoning, John," Sherlock observed dryly, before coughing. John simply huffed loudly at him while Mary chuckled into her teacup.
Mary spoke up. "Right then. I think we should go somewhere. I want lunch out, and it sounds like you need to get out of the house." She smiled at the two, and when neither moved, made to stand, holding an arm out for John to help her up. "Come on, you two! I want to breathe some London smog, and I bet you've got a few good restaurants up your sleeve, don't you Sherlock?"
Sherlock smiled, standing. He strode over to the coat rack, handing them each their coats and donning his own. "Well," he said, "that will depend on which nationality you would prefer." He coughed into his sleeve as they descended the stairs and left the flat.
As Mary hailed a cab, John pulled Sherlock back. "Sherlock, I don't mean to nag, but you've had that cough for a while now. Are you alright?"
Sherlock looked at his blonde friend and smiled. "Of course. It's just a small cough, John."
"I am still your doctor, even though I don't actually live here any more. If it gets any worse, tell me, and if it doesn't go awa-"
"Tell you. I know, John."
"I know you know, and yet you still find it necessary to consistently not do it."
The taxi pulled up and John helped Mary in, Sherlock hopping in after. He leaned towards the driver. "Seymour Place, please. Marble Arch." He turned back to the couple. "I have a debt with the woman who runs the Italian there. Got her son off a drug dealing charge a few months ago - it was his friend. Meticulously framed, though. Took me an hour longer to work out than I expected."
The mishmash of modern and historic buildings whizzed past as the driver took them through London, Sherlock occasionally suggesting alternative routes. Soon enough, Regents Park swung into view, before the driver turned off into a side street and pulled up in front of a row of small, trendy shops. John paid the driver and the three alighted, before entering the little trattoria. A large colourfully dressed Italian woman with too much lipstick hurried up to them, having immediately clocked the sleuth. 'Sherlock Holmes! It is so good to see you! Please, sit, sit!" She gestured to a table and pulled a chair out for Mary, continuing to babble in her strong Italian accent as she handed them menus. "Anything is free for you and your friends. Anything!" She bustled away, instructing the waiter to get bread and water for the table.
John smiled down at the menu. "I forgot about this little perk you seem to accumulate. Remind me to take your culinary suggestions more often."
The waiter returned and turned to Mary to take her order. "What's the spiciest thing you have on the menu?" She asked him.
"Um, probably the Penne Salsiccia, ma'am."
Sherlock piped up. "No, it's the Chicken Calabrese. You can tell by the type of chillies the chef is currently preparing."
"Then I'll have that." Mary ignored the amused sideways look John gave her and Sherlock and handed back her menu. "I can't get enough spicy stuff these days. I'll come home from work and eat chillies straight from the jar by themselves. I'm worried there isn't actually a baby any more - I'm just gonna give birth to a jalapeno."
"The reason you are craving spicy food is due to the fact the capsacinoids act as an irritant and cause a burning sensation which in turn makes you sweat. Your body is cooling itself down in response to the hormonal changes and increased blood flow to-"
"Yes, we know Sherlock. I am a doctor, if you haven't forgotten." John chided. "Are you going to order, or what?"
Sherlock looked back to the waiter, having forgotten he was even there. "Um…"
"He'll have what I'm having." John interjected, and the waiter left. John looked to Sherlock. "Are you sure you're ok?"
Fate chose that point to give Sherlock the uncontrollable urge to cough, which rather dampened his assertions that he was "fine, completely fine." He was forced to cough into his sleeve to avoid the other two, the doctor of which now studying him more intently. "Its just a little cough, for gods sake. I'm not dying," he said when the fit subsided.
"No, but you're not exactly ready for a mad sprint through the back streets of London either." John replied. "Maybe its good you haven't had a case. Give your body some time to rest."
"I've worked with much poorer health than a cough, John."
"Yes, and that doesn't make me feel the slightest bit better."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine. Stop worrying."
John decided to leave it at that point and change the subject, sensing he wasn't going to win. Soon after, their food arrived, and after smirking at Mary's complaint that the food wasn't spicy enough and offering to isolate and synthesise some capsacin for her in the lab, Sherlock ate. John felt a small surge of relief when Sherlock finished his plate. 'He can't be feeling that bad then,' he thought.
As they were making to leave, the Italian woman emerged again in a flurry of movement and colour, full of thanks and with a bottle of wine which she pushed onto Sherlock. Sherlock inspected it in the taxi back. "Chianti, 1980. Not too bad." He handed it to John. "Here."
John looked at him. "I don't know anything about wine."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, it's for you to drink. I prefer white."
"Oh! Thanks, Sherlock."
Mary leaned into John. "Save it for when I can have a glass too, yeah?" John smiled and nodded.
The taxi pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock bid the married couple goodbye at the doorstep, them having no reason to come in, before ascending the stairs to 221B. He flipped the kettle on, and went about making tea, ignoring the ram as he pulled the milk from the fridge. As he sat in his well worn armchair, the sounds of Tchaikovsky tinkling through the flat from the radio on the bookshelf, he forced back another cough. 'Well, no matter,' he thought, getting up and walking towards the bathroom to find some cough syrup.
His phone chimed as he reached the bathroom door. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he read the text, spun on his heel, grabbed his coat, and dashed from the flat towards Lestrade and his next cure of boredom.
The tea, forgotten, was allowed to grow cold.
The translation of the title for this chapter is 'On The Causes and Signs of Diseases of Long Duration' - A work written by Aretaeus of Cappadocia in the 2nd century AD.
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