This story was written as an exchangelock challenge for tumblr. I didn't have much time to write it but I wanted to deliver the gift to my giftee so I decided to post what I had written so far and divide it in chapters. This was supposed to be a one-shot but sometimes I come up with ideas and I get too attached to them to be able to make a good job in a one-shot alone. So, to not let it go to waste, I decided to go for multichapter (not sure how many chapters are yet to come, though.)
I intend to update it very soon and I appreciate all your reviews and suggestions (even those made by guests that I am unable to answer to and always make me feel bad about the fact that I can't actually thank them.)
Last but not least, please note that English isn't my native language and you will find mistakes. I may have it beta-ed later, but I really don't want to make my giftee wait too long for updates.
Chapter One
Acquaintances
John woke up with a loud gasp, sitting on the bed, images of his nightmares taking over his mind, like ghosts hovering over him. He tried to remember the breathing exercises but at each attack it seemed more and more difficult to be able to focus on anything other but the vivid flashes of the nightmare that came to him. The images were much more than a simple nightmare. They were the reminder of a scene he once had lived and he wished they weren't. He wished he could just convince himself that it was all a bad dream, but this bad dream had been real. Too real.
He started to cry, unable to control himself and he pulled his knees up to his chest, heaving now, rocking back and forth on top of the now shaking bed. He had no idea how long he stayed like that, but he finally fell asleep, still holding himself, still praying for it all to go away.
Sherlock Holmes was famous in his circle for his methods, usually quite unusual but assertive. He was the best in his area and a common name amongst all. Some, in spite of admitting he had strange ways of approaching patients and cures, loved him, others thought he was a freak and hated him fiercely. Sherlock had refused, despite the many times he had been approached in that sense, to give any testifying of his own methods to the press, so the name was still not familiar to John when his therapist gave him the business card.
Sherlock Holmes
Consulting Psychologist
John scoffed at the pompous way the words presented themselves on the piece of paper.
"I hate to have to let you go," his therapist said. "But I have to do what is best for my patients, and you will be better off with him."
John was still holding the card, still fidgeting with the simple paper, carefully blotted with black ink.
"And I need you to promise me something before I lose you as my patient, at least for now."
The voice of his therapist was serious now, and John finally looked up, facing her. She cleared her throat and adjusted herself on her chair before continuing.
"Promise me you will give him a chance, no matter what. Promise me you won't give up on your first appointment. Sherlock Holmes can be rather… unorthodox. But he is the best in the business."
John wondered why his therapist seemed so keen and yet so reserved in sending him to consult this strangely named figure. He could not understand how another therapist was what he needed, especially one like this, who only seemed to be advised as a last resource and with its fair share of warnings. John gazed at the card once again and then raised his head to face his therapist, who was staring back at him expectantly. John nodded.
"If you think he will be able to help me, then I will do as told."
His therapist could hear the resentment, the months of failed attempts, the tiredness on John's expression, and the creases in his skin, around his eyes. The exhausted smile of acquiescence. John was the good shepherd; he would do as commanded.
His therapist hugged him briefly when the appointment was over, wishing him all the luck and urging him to make an appointment with her if he ever had any questions, and John waited for the receptionist to dispatch him.
Outside it was pouring and he kept the card in his jacket pocket, playing the name in his head. Sherlock Holmes. John surely hoped the man was as good as everyone seemed to believe.
The phone rang for the fifth time that afternoon. Not unusual since he had had to close the shop down during early afternoon and there were packages ready to be sent out that should have been dispatched the day before. The therapy sessions were a necessary evil and closing the shop longer to attend them not a choice, but an obligation. The therapy had helped in a way, although reviving the monsters in his head was never pleasing. His leg still gave him trouble and the cane had become a supporting friend.
He didn't like this job as it made him feel like he was contributing to put something bad into the world, but with his family gone… John took a deep breath. There was no one else to take care of the tobacco shop, so he would have to do it. It was his only way of sustenance now, and he needed it, for better or worse.
The small bell placed strategically on the entrance door rang and a man walked in, looking and walking around. John was filling in some papers for his accountant but he stopped, ready to welcome the client. The man who had entered the room came closer to the counter but he did not acknowledge John. He was tall, lean and pale, a dark haired figure wearing a long coat. He had an imposing stature, one of those people who stand out amongst crowds and make others respect them instinctively. John let the pen fall over the papers on top of the counter and walked around it. His leg started to throb, so he grabbed the cane and then approach the stranger.
"Good afternoon," he said, allowing the costumer some room.
The man looked down at John, as if scrutinizing him but his only answer was a slight nod of the head. John felt the strong gaze upon himself and blinked.
"If there's anything I can help you with…"
"I am not sure you are the indicated person to do so."
John was taken aback by the words, not understanding their meaning.
"I work here," he explained. He didn't have a uniform but the fact that he worked there should be fairly obvious to anyone who entered the shop. "So I do believe I am the right person to help you."
The man, who had gone back to his search, took a break and stared straight at John.
"You're an electrician. Not a tobacco expert."
John frowned. He was going to inquire further but the man continued.
"You were invested in creating a new kind of illumination, you were even ready to consider entering a contest but something stopped you from doing so. Your family. They all died. Or rather, were killed. This was the family business," he made a gesture with his hand, encircling the store. "And you had no choice, as the sole survivor of the family, to take on the business. You do despise it though, because it is a business for killing and destroying rather than creating. As it is, I doubt you have made a good effort to learn all you need to learn concerning tobacco to be a good source of information about it."
John was standing there, frozen in shock. If he hadn't been he would probably have punched the man straight in the face.
Nonchalantly, the other man passed John and then, seeing what he was looking for – a very rare type of tobacco – he walked to the counter and placed the package on top of it, waiting for John to get out of his trance.
John swallowed and unclenched his fists. His nails had dug into the skin of his palms. He took a deep but silent breath. The client took a rather large amount of the most expensive tobacco in the store and if he wanted to keep living in London he could not afford to lose clients like this. It seemed quite childish that the man had looked for information about him and his family – and the tragedy surrounding it – to, for a reason John could not define, bother him, but he could not let that weird figure take the best out of his temper. He steadied himself and paced in the direction of the counter as well.
The man did not inquire about the price; he placed a note on the counter and waited. John saw the other man's gaze lingering on his face. He took care of the change and wrapped the tobacco, putting it in a bag. He gave it to the man.
"There you go," he tried to sound polite but failed completely. "These things will kill you some day, you know?"
It was a quip come back that John was sure would make no difference.
The tall figure looked down at him, imposing, and then scoffed.
"No they won't. They're for research, not consumption."
For some reason John couldn't explain the stranger placed his bag on the counter again, pulled his coat and shirt sleeve up and showed a nicotine patch on his arm. He then pulled the sleeve back down and picked up his things.
"Psychosomatic limp," the man still said, before leaving.
"I'm sorry?"
The stranger turned around to face John and stopped at the door, half open.
"By the way you keep clenching your left hand to stop it from trembling I assume you were shot in the shoulder. And yet, you have a limp. That implies that the limp is psychosomatic. You ought to consult a therapist about it, if you haven't yet."
And with a last cold smile he disappeared to the street, closing the door behind him. John was left there, lost for words.
Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, taking notes. Since Molly had been able to get him a few machines for his tests at a good price, he had been testing himself with many substances at home, trying to motorize how his brain worked with them. It wasn't easy to do this on himself, as he wasn't sure how accurate the results were when he was both the subject and the analyst, but even Molly had refused to become a guinea pig for his experiments.
Now, he was trying to see the effect different types of tobacco had in is brain. He inhaled the smoke of the fifth type of tobacco of the day, rejoicing. That particular brand was his favourite and even though he had quit smoking it was always good to have a reason to do it again.
His mind wandered to the strange man he had met at the tobacco shop. For some reason he intrigued Sherlock. He could read the man's story easily but there was something else there to discover and Sherlock wondered why his mind kept going back to him. He realized that he had probably been rude, but that was not an isolated situation and he had never felt guilty about it before.
Sherlock shook his head, and even though he didn't really need any more data, he finished the cigarette, satisfied.