Eighty-seven.
He'd insisted he wouldn't keep count.
Eighty-eight.
He'd made a promise to himself.
Eighty-nine.
It was bad for his own mental health.
Ninety.
It smacked of a level of concern…
Ninety-one.
…even he found unsettling.
Ninety-two.
A normal friend, a normal flatmate…
Ninety-three.
…would have taken a walk, or at least…
Ninety-four.
…plugged himself in and ignored the noise.
Ninety five.
But he couldn't. It was as though…
Ninety-six.
…he had to be there beside him…
Ninety-seven.
…as this crisis played out. As though…
Ninety-eight.
…walking away from this now…
Ninety-nine.
…would see more than his nerves unravel.
"One hundred." John hadn't meant to speak the number aloud, but it was out before he could stop himself. Holmes caught the red ball as it ricocheted off the wall with its customary ker-thunk, for the hundredth time, from where he was reclining on the settee.
"Really? I hadn't been counting."
John kept his eyes focused on the computer screen in front of him. When Dr Stevenson had phoned in ill at the Camden Town clinic, Dr Watson had been only too happy to work an extra shift that afternoon. It had given him an extra few hours of blessed distraction – a mental holiday – from the situation at home. John knew he was entering dangerous territory when he preferred the clinic to home.
Sherlock, he knew, had seen the envelope John had balanced prominently on the mantelpiece – a letter that had been slipped in between the bills and the takeaway menus of the morning post. Returning from work, John could tell that Sherlock hadn't gone near it all day. As much as he hated to, John even tried making reference to the oddity over dinner – anything to break the campaign of silence Holmes had entered into the previous night, after their 'little domestic', as Mrs H insisted on calling them, to John's great chagrin. That it was a letter was strange in itself. No one wrote letters these days. He wished it hadn't arrived at all; John wanted Sherlock's attention away from work for a time, but getting him to seriously focus on anything else was getting more difficult with each passing day. And now… the bloody rubber ball. Perhaps the letter was worth another try.
"I'd have thought that letter would've been something of interest for you."
Ker-thunk.
"What letter?"
John knew he'd seen it, damn the man, he had to. "That one, on the mantle."
Holmes caught the ball again (one hundred fourteen) and held it beneath his chin. He turned his eyes, if not his head, to pick out the stark white rectangle.
"I did mention it earlier this evening."
"What were we doing when you mentioned it?"
"I was eating dinner. You, um, you were sitting in your usual place, not eating. Again. You had that book – something about Mozart - open on your lap."
"Ah. That explains it."
"Say again?"
"I didn't hear you speak. I was listening to the music.
"To the music, of course. I see. I still thought you might have heard me."
"Why, did I reply?
"You did…wave your hands," Watson replied, mimicking Sherlock's actions.
"Conducting, John. Pass it to me, will you?"
John felt only a minor sense of relief. He had Sherlock talking again. The rubber ball came to rest in the depression at the centre of Sherlock's chest and, best of all, his hands – for the moment – were steady. John grabbed the letter and made to tear it open.
"John!" Sherlock snapped, suddenly alert and sitting erect, the red ball bouncing away from him across the floor. "Have you learned nothing? I'm disappointed in you. Hand me the envelope sealed and unmolested."
He did so, a bit shaken. Sherlock received the letter into his left hand, shifted it to his right, and tapped it against the side of his face.
"I wonder what can have moved a man of the cloth to such a degree as this?"
"Now, that is ridiculous. Sherlock, how can you possibly… how can you possibly tell that the letter comes from a priest? You haven't opened it. You barely looked at it!"
"I hardly need to. It's a letter, John. A letter. A bit traditional, wouldn't you say?"
"So it could be any—"
"Besides, here's a man whose handwriting betrays both education and clerical skill; a man whose own preference is for neatness and clarity, and who's adopted that peculiar style of writing seen in the marginalia of sacred texts, examples of which may be found in any university library - easily recognisable. Yet the letter has been postmarked in the parish of Tredannick - Cornwall – an oddly rural locality for a man both of letters and religious inclination, and so we must assume he's the local vicar. So far the clues are obvious."
"Yes, obvious," Watson breathed, feeling his toes curl into the pile of the carpet.
"But see, John! Here he's mistakenly begun to write a 'c' rather than the 'k' in Baker Street. Normally, such a man's preference would be to scrap the misprinted envelope and use another, but here, with evident agitation, he's scratched out his mistake and carried on. Also he's been careless with the blotting paper, for of course he uses a fine fountain pen – a gift, most likely, from his seminary college – but such carelessness is yet another sign of either heightened urgency or disturbance. Do you see?"
"Well, hm, now that you point it out—"
"Excellent, John. Perhaps you have picked up a few basic tricks of observation. Shall we open the letter and find out the cause of the vicar's hurry?"
"Of-Of course." John heard himself agreeing, his mind trying to catch up. Sherlock resumed lying on the settee and held the letter at arm's length. With his other hand, he retrieved a blue rubber ball from his dressing gown pocket.
"You do the honour. I'll listen."
"You're joking."
"Nope."
"Fine, just don't start—"
Ker-thunk. One hundred, sixteen.
He did not accept this behaviour, but damn if he could do anything about it. "Dear Mister Sherlock Holmes," he began, enunciating over the continued ker-thunk of the rubber ball. "You do not know me, while you have achieved worldwide fame. Well, at least he knows the way to your heart, Sherlock. It is my sincerest hope that you will forgive the impudence of my writing to you, and that you will not turn away this unsolicited call for help. Polite and old-fashioned. I say."
"He's a vicar. Pray continue," Holmes urged, without missing a beat. At least John had blessedly lost count.
"A series of strange events in my parish has left me most unsettled and fearing further trouble. Several residents of our village, these being the Tregennis family of Tregannick Wartha House, and the respectable Doctor Leon Sterndale of Beauchamp Arriance, have told me that, for several nights, they've been subject to surveillance from beyond their windows, and although searches were made of the grounds of both houses, no trace of the perpetrator has yet been found, nor any reason for these midnight watches. A peeping tom? Surely the local police would be more useful to him."
"The police are rarely useful, except for comedic value. Be a good man and don't interrupt the vicar."
"Sorry, Sherlock. Where was I? …these midnight watches. Right. These events were paired, for everyone involved, with a most powerful feeling of foreboding and disquiet. Were this all, we might…" John broke off in a fit of chuckling he couldn't keep down. "Sorry, Sherlock. There's nothing for us here. Forget it. It's rubbish."
"I'd like to decide for myself, thank you."
Ker-thunk.
"If you insist." John commenced again, adding what he thought was an appropriate, melodramatic tone to his rendition. "Were this all, we might have girded our loins and blamed our troubles on the tricks of moonlight, and wind in the cracks of our ancient stone walls, which, over the steady course of passing centuries, have given rise to the chilling tales for which our county is famous. This is like something off late-night telly.
"John!" Sherlock threw the ball so that it just brushed past John's ear, and the good doctor, who forgot his earlier resentment in that surprising moment of playfulness, blushed as he couldn't help himself, and hurried on.
"Sorry. Except that, Mister Holmes, last evening Doctor Sterndale was woken by the sound of his kitchen window being broken. He found a great disturbance in his house, but no sign of the intruder and nothing stolen, as far as he can tell. Mister Holmes, these events rattle us, and our local police have offered nothing in the way of comfort or explanation. I can't help but feel we're only on the edge of greater trouble to come, Mister Holmes, and I humbly ask that you condescend to look into the matter, and help us find out what this mysterious force or figure is, who so disturbs us. Yours faithfully, Reverend William Roundhay of Tredannick Wollas, West Cornwall. There."
"Is that all?"
"You were hoping for more?"
"I'm always hoping for more, John."
"Poor man – all those cracks in his stone walls must be getting to him," John said, twirling a finger next to his temple for added emphasis. Sherlock smiled. John smiled back.
"Your last blog post was more thrilling."
"Yes, yes it was."
"It was about fair trade bananas.
"Yes…it was."
"Perhaps we should let that remain our lowest goalpost."
John felt relief. He made the noises of condolence as he moved to put the curious letter in the bin, his eyes closed at the thought of having to live with Holmes through a further untold number of restless, excruciating days. If only John could bring him relief. If only…
A sudden hand on his arm stopped him in his tracks. John would never adjust to the speed with which Holmes could move when he wanted to.
"Wait. There's something peculiar here."
"Peculiar?"
"Yes, most peculiar."
"I can't see anything in this."
"Something's missing," Holmes murmured, slipping the letter from John's hand.
"It's long-winded enough! I was losing the will to li—"
"Something important."
"The vicar doesn't seem the type to downplay his concerns."
Holmes released his grasp of the doctor's arm to pace the room, reading, and swept the red ball from the floor.
"But, do you see, the agitation of this man? His manner? His fear?"
"Well, a bit of that, yes."
"All that romantic nonsense thrown in about moonlight and shadows…"
"Figures of speech?"
"A blind."
"I don't know, Sherlock."
"Yes, absolutely. Something tells me there's more to this than the vicar's willing to share. Mr Roundhay, for all his B-movie phraseology, has kept silent about something crucial - the very thing that frightens him most - even while he hopes to interest me in the case. But why? Why?
"Look, Sherlock, I'm sure I don't know. But do you remember what I told you last night?"
Holmes paused, brows knitted, as though putting great effort into recalling the conversation that John had been replaying and reworking continuously since. It infuriated him.
"You liked my tomato sauce?"
"I suggested – No! You ass – I suggested that it would do us – you – some good if you took some proper time off, as in a holiday. I was suggesting you take a holiday."
"John, that's brilliant! What an idea."
"You said your father was out of the country. You could go home for a bit, spend—"
"Cornwall is lovely this time of year, isn't it?"
John could see his suggestion begin to plummet to earth like a dead helicopter. "Yes, but what I was actually trying to suggest was that—"
"A change of air and scenery would do us a world of good, yes?"
"Yes, but that isn't quite what I had in mind."
"Sun?"
"Yes, but—"
"Sand?"
"Yes, but I think—"
"A decent puzzle to refresh the mind for its own good."
Boom.
"Y-No, Sherlock. I was thinking, rather, that you'd do well to get away, as in properly away, from work, not just London."
"Nonsense! We can go two for one.
"We?"
"Why do separately what you can do together?"
"Are we talking about mental and physical again?"
Holmes lifted his phone from his pocket. "I'm looking up the next train."
"It's quiet, Sherlock, you need quiet and proper rest."
"Oh, John!" Sherlock interjected, almost manic. "How can you insist on rest, as you call it, when there are so many interesting things happening out there?"
"Out where?"
"No, there's something clever, something enticing about this case, regardless of how it looks at first."
"Maybe you simply want there to be."
Sherlock flung the window curtains wide, twirling back to take John by both shoulders. "Simply? John, real life is infinitely stranger than anything invented by the mind of man."
"Your phone's digging into my clavicle."
"If we flew out this window, hand in hand, hovered over this great city, removed the roofs, and peeped in at the strange things going on, it would make all fiction stale and cheap."
The room felt, to John, far too warm. "Perhaps in London, but in Cornwall, Sherlock?"
But then Sherlock was away again, pressing his cheek to the cold, black glass that fronted onto Baker street. "Yes, don't you see? Yes! The countryside, John. The countryside! Think of its isolation, and the freedom with which crime may be committed there. In all my professional life the countryside has stood as the darkest and most horrible place of violent and twisted corruption. It's my belief, John, that the lowest and most hateful alleys in London present no worse a record of sin than the smiling and beautiful countryside. Were I to turn criminal, and I think about it daily, it's in the countryside that I'd feel most comfortable."
"You know, Sherlock? You horrify me sometimes."
The sound of Sherlock's gleeful laugh was almost too much for John to bear. It thrilled him. Everything about that moment and the plans unfolding from it thrilled him. John had challenged Sherlock about his past addictions. He reddened to think about it; his own were far less under control.
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