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The snap of cold air cooled John's temper further as they walked. Sherlock's seemingly sincere and full cooperation was a complete reversal of the reticent thinker back at Baker Street, which prompted John to suspect the detective was hiding another motive. Unexpected tickets to a concert were unlikely to stimulate that brilliant mind. Something else is behind this.
John had confirmation within moments. Deciding to walk to Wigmore Hall, John felt Sherlock's staying hand lightly touch his sleeve.
"First, a speedy side trip on the Circle." Sherlock confided in a comradely tone John couldn't refuse.
"Where to?"
"University College Hospital."
"What for? "
"A client. Mr. Glen Whitmore. An ordinary man who is about to be robbed"
The name was familiar. "Who?"
"Glen Whitmore and Nancy Meadows. They're about to get married."
"Ah! The nuptial announcement. Do we know them?"
"We're about to.…"
"Hang on, Sherlock. You're not planning to crash a wedding. Especially if we're not invited."
"Can you crash a wedding, and still be invited?"
"You know what I mean."
"I disagree. This is no stranger. Nancy Meadows has left her calling card many times."
Feeling literally 'sidetracked,' John pondered Sherlock's reply in silence as he followed his partner aboard the carriage for the brief trip.
When they arrived at the glass and steel entrance, stunted by the majestic main tower beyond, Sherlock stated rather than asked, "You have your Physician ID, I suspect."
"Of course. Carry it at all times. However, here it affords me certain courtesies, but not privileges…."
"Courtesies…." During an excessive pause, Sherlock staggered slightly, and raised a gloved hand to his temple massaging it slowly. His voice came out reedy but clear. "…courtesies are all we need."
"Sherlock?" John's eyes narrowed with the sudden shift in his partner's balance and faltering words. "You okay?"
A quick grin and a curt "fine" were meant to be reassuring. Sherlock broadened his smile and motioned John to lead the way through the doors.
Although John was uncertain about front-desk security, since he was certainly unclear about their business, Sherlock's announcement that they were "carers" for a patient on the Seventh floor—supported by Dr. Watson's ID—gave them access. With creased brow, John shot a look at his tall companion's impassive face when they entered the softly lit lift. He remained silent until the other occupants exited on lower floors.
"So! What are we really doing here?" John queried hoarsely in a stage whisper. "You realize, whatever you're planning to do might jeopardize my status as a practicing physician. I think I deserve to know."
Sherlock's eyes were shut.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
One eye opened in response to the doctor's question. "Mild headache. Nothing more. Anyway, this won't take long."
The inadequate reply was all John received when the doors parted onto the Seventh floor. Bright lights made John wince and put a hand up to shield his eyes. Despite his alleged headache, Sherlock seemed untroubled by the brightness. Exiting the lift, his dark silhouette passed like a shadow over the sun, giving John momentary relief.
By the time the doctor had joined him at the Elderly Care reception desk, Sherlock knew the room he sought and headed straight away. The purpose in the consulting detective's long strides gave John a foreboding feeling. More unsettling, he was still clueless about their mission.
This was a constant complaint the doctor and former army captain had about his "partnership" with the Great Detective. Sherlock preferred to manipulate John's ignorance about details on a case as distracting ploys to fool the criminals; John was bothered that the detective's method and clever maneuvering often succeeded at his own expense. On the other hand, once the guilty were apprehended, the ebullient detective was more than happy to disclose the minutiae that contributed to the method and logic that helped him break the case. It was self-centered and selfish, John realized. Sherlock was not a team player. Until he came aboard, Sherlock had always worked alone.
John Watson would have preferred a more equitable partnership and didn't like being kept in the dark. Yet, who was equal to Sherlock Holmes?
Two steps behind his partner, the doctor followed the detective into the patient's room where an elderly man, in suit and tie, sat upright in his hospital bed, his hand held by a smiling woman, wearing a modest white dress and holding a small bouquet, who was at least thirty years younger.
Immediately removing his Belstaff, Sherlock handed it to John who grunted in mild confusion. What's this? I'm your valet now? Or do you want me to stay in the background? Well I'm definitely not accepting your gloves if you take them off too. John spied the wall hooks and swiftly hung up the coat. Hmmm…thought you said this wouldn't take long?
Sherlock stepped in rather close to the couple, sniffing. "Glen. Let me congratulate you and your lovely bride, Nancy!" The effervescent and buoyant voice of the late guest intruded with such charming persuasion that none of the assembled guests (all three of them) suspected the breach.
The officiating chaplain, apparently a friend of the Whitmore family, quickly corrected the misunderstanding. "Actually, we are about to begin."
"Oh! I'm premature in my well wishes. Glad I didn't miss it!" Sherlock flirted with beaming face and abiding smile. "I had so wanted to be present."
John found the disingenuous act hard to watch and turned away from his partner.
Only the bride showed displeasure. "Glen never mentioned…."
Interrupting, Sherlock gave a horrific scream, his gloved hands shot to his temples, and he crumpled to the floor. Writhing in agony the detective's arms and legs flailed under the hospital bed, disrupting the few bedside chairs from which the chaplain, bride, and guests leaped away in fright, and spilling the contents of several women's purses that had been resting on the floor as the long limbs thrashed uncontrollably.
Perplexed at the suddenness and severity of Sherlock's unexplained attack, John dropped to the floor to rescue his friend. Heart beating madly in fear— had he too quickly discounted symptoms Sherlock manifested earlier?—John grappled with the lanky man to pull him safely free of the cords and mechanics that operated the electronic bed from underneath.
Away from encumbrances that might cause harm, John mustered the strength to turn the detective's shuddering body on his side, and kneeling beside him, peered into his face. Dread clutched John's heart at the blank facial expression of the genius whose eyes had rolled upward. "Sherlock, Sherlock." John called calmly and firmly, despite great trepidation.
As suddenly as it began, the attack ended. Sherlock's body had stopped trembling, his breathing seemed regular, and his pulse, although somewhat elevated by the abrupt activity, was within normal ranges. The faithful doctor remained kneeling beside the detective who seemed to be resting comfortably. Keeping a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder, John leaned in close to Sherlock's ear and gently spoke in soothing tones. "Okay now, Sherlock? Relax. Stay down. I'm going to call for assistance..."
"No! John!" Grabbing hold of the doctor's wrists with steely strength, Sherlock's firm voice and fully alert gaze arrested the doctor's attempts to leave his side. "Not necessary. I'm better. Completely. Help me up. No need to call for help."
Relieved, baffled, and acutely aware things were not what they seemed, the doctor shrewdly studied the alabaster complexion and verified the detective was fully conscious.
Once assisted to his feet, the consulting detective straightened his disheveled jacket and trousers.
"Sherlock, take a seat," John ordered sternly, the dawning suspicion getting in the way of his bedside manner. To his unutterable astonishment, the detective obeyed.
"Yes. Yes. Here is fine. Do continue with your plans." Sherlock waved congenially to the guests, bride, and chaplain clustered in the doorway. Only the groom remained in his bed, looking perplexed.
"Erm hem. We are gathered here today…." The chaplain began after everyone had taken their places for the ceremony.
"Sorry," Sherlock rose brusquely from his chair. "I know I've been a disruption already, but… well, may I say a few words before we begin?"
Obviously not fatigued at all by either his seizure or headache, Sherlock's invigorated rally affirmed John's nagging suspicions all along. You, git! You faked that seizure as a diversion! If that's what you did… well, it was a damn good act! Pretending earlier to have a headache and halting speech gave me no reason to doubt you when you collapsed. Damn you! As usual, I am an unwitting part of your diversion.
The ever-polite chaplain blinked in surprise, then nodded, "Please, sir, keep it brief."
The bride shot a stern look at the chaplain. She had shaken her head 'no' just a little too late.
"At your age, Glen," Sherlock's clear voice and rapid chatter controlled the small room, "you've been in better health than expected. At least you were, until last week. Up to now, you'd been enjoying your retirement formulating plans with your new love, Nancy, who coincidentally, had signed on as your housekeeper several months ago. Such is love! It can be found in the most unexpected places. And, just in time, it seems, as your health has taken a turn for the worse—so suddenly. Now, here she is, standing by your side, your helpmate, not turned away by your failing health; instead this much younger woman offered to be your fiancée—and today, she's about to become your bride."
"This is what Glen wants!" Nancy remarked firmly, "It will make him happy. It will make us happy!" She patted Glen's shoulder affectionately.
"Perhaps the facts might change that perception." Sherlock stated coolly.
"He signed the necessary documents days ago!" Nancy found reason to smile. "It's all legal. You can't change anything."
"Where are your grown children, Glen? Your grandchildren?"
"They showed their selfishness." Glen rasped in a flush of anger. "All I was to them was an old man. Only their inheritance mattered."
"Indeed. And what matters to Nancy Meadows?"
"Nancy loves me!" the old man insisted, anger and tears mixing in his watery eyes. "Even so, I don't have much. I am not a very wealthy man. "
"You don't have to be wealthy. You just have to be one of many."
Sherlock went over and pressed the patient's room buzzer to alert the front desk. "It is unfortunate that she expects to be your widow sooner than you might wish."
Sorrow and shock clouded the faces of the groom, chaplain, and guests. Over the bride's features brewed a menacing storm.
"Nancy Meadows, nee Nannette Philips, aka, Nancy Cunningham, Nancy Winters, Nancy Summers, (Aha. See a pattern of seasons here) or Nancy fill-in-the-blank has been the constant widow in a string of end-of-life marriages; posing as a loving private aid, cook, housekeeper, who steals from the rightful heirs. It's not criminal that she married her husbands and changed their wills before they died, but poisoning them to ensure they do is a criminal offence."
"What nerve! To accuse me…" Nancy hissed, appearing poised to pounce. "I love Glen!"
John protectively stepped between the angry bride and accusing detective, ready to deflect any assault.
Biting her lower lip, Nancy backed off as her eyes darted from the doctor, to the detective, to the doorway and freedom, which Sherlock strategically blocked as he spoke.
"For a long time you evaded suspicion because it always seemed consensual, that is, until the last family brought charges against you." Sherlock crossed his arms in contemplation. "Fascinating reading for months, really; although it was buried in the papers and only broadcast on late night news. Hardly a front-page story. The pattern was established, but without evidence, the charges couldn't stick." Sherlock turned to the unhappy groom. "Sorry, Glen. This is why Nancy didn't want your engagement sent to the press. It was indeed a mistake to run the announcement for today's nuptials. It allowed us to obtain the evidence."
Responding to the buzzer, a nurse appeared accompanied by two constables and DI Greg Lestrade.
John's jaw dropped.
"Oh, good! Lestrade! You got my text."
"Yeah," Lestrade seemed annoyed. "About forty minutes ago."
"You may as well arrest this woman, Nancy Meadows, formerly Nancy of various-last-names, the so-called 'Constant Widow' on the charges of attempted murder." Revealing a lipstick case that had been concealed in his gloved fist, Sherlock assured him. "No. It's not a cosmetic. Evidence bag, please?"
Dropping it into the clear plastic bag, Sherlock continued. "Here is evidence, which I procured from the bride's purse when the contents spilled on the floor— you will find traces of it in her purse, as well as in the garage of the Whitmore home. Once you send it to the lab with a few hair samples from Mr. Whitmore, you will see it matches the toxic substance Nancy Meadows has been slowly feeding her fiancé."
Without delay, the accused woman was hauled away in cuffs. Before leaving, Lestrade exchanged a commiserating grimace with John and ducked out as quickly as possible. Despite wanting to follow on his heels, John remained. He needed to see this to its unhappy conclusion.
Perhaps truly oblivious to the enormous distress he had just caused, Sherlock shared one final thought, "You shall at least recover your health, if not your heart, Glen Whitmore, once the poison clears your system. I am truly sorry. Thank you, and have an otherwise pleasant day."
Grabbing his coat off the hook, Sherlock exited, calling behind him. "Come, John!"
The doctor could not instantly obey. A bomb had exploded and the injured needed rescue. John surveyed the damage in the room, not just in the disarrayed chairs and belongings, but in the grief-stricken face of the old man and the horrified looks of the guests.
"I…I am SO sorry." He addressed them humbly. "You may not realize this immediately, Mr. Whitmore, but your life and the lives of your family have just been saved from further heartache and misery by someone who did his best to prevent a crime. I hope you will come to understand how valuable this gesture was over time. Again, my profound apologies." John went over and shook the stunned man's hand, patted his shoulder, and left with head bowed.
When John caught up with Sherlock in the lift, he was aggravated with the detective. Prancing like a boxer in the ring, John hunched his shoulders, but instead of throwing a punch, he pointed toward the door as the lift descended. "What was that?"
"Serial crime solved, another prevented. Lestrade should be happy." The detective, widely grinning in arrogant satisfaction, rubbed his gloves gleefully.
"What about Glen Whitmore?" John's voice was flat, though his anger remained coiled like a spring.
"What about him?" Sherlock shot a look at his partner and his smile faded.
"Do you think he's happy?" John was hopping mad.
"Well, he will be…eventually." Sherlock's façade of arrogance showed signs of crumbling.
"No!" John bristled, bringing his face close to Sherlock's with such force, the detective leaned back instinctively. "No! He will not be happy! You don't understand. It's collateral damage on an emotional level. Grandstanding like that is offensive and not as effective as you want it to be. You were perfectly justified to want to apprehend a criminal, but there was undoubtedly a gentler way to accomplish that. You're a clever man. Couldn't you have found a way to get the woman out of the room before you broke the heart of her victim? There was no need to be a showoff about it. How can you be so brilliant and such an idiot at the same time?"
Sherlock appeared surprised by John's blustering frustration. He bowed his head and kept silent as John wordlessly paced back and forth in the lift until the doors slid open to the main floor. John was out like a shot, Sherlock followed slowly behind.
Outside, John was a whirl of emotions and kept his eyes averted until his anger could subside. Sherlock hovered nearby, observing his patient partner's outburst with keen interest.
Finally, John threw a glance toward the detective, his voice still tight. "Are you really a sociopath? Does anything I've said make sense to you? Do you really not feel sentiments or understand how human nature works?"
Sherlock nodded. "I understand 'the end doesn't always justify the means.'" He offered John a conciliatory grin. "I am an idiot when it comes to human nature. When the fervor of the elusive solution collides with the exhilaration of discovery, my mind races like an engine—this is what it has been built for, this is what I crave—and I sweep aside anything and everything in its path to reach my destination."
"No excuses! You are better than that." John said more quietly. "You've shown me that logic can control our emotions, can keep us from jumping to the wrong conclusions before all the facts are gathered and distilled through scientific proof. However, addictions of all kinds— including to logic at the expense of compassion— take away those controls that help us be better human beings and better to each other. Sherlock, you will need to find the balance that I sincerely believe you're capable of … or…" John looked down at his feet, afraid he had said too much.
"Or?" There was genuine worry in Sherlock's voice.
"You're a great man," John found himself paraphrasing Greg Lestrade, "but, I need you to become a good one."
"Duly noted."
On the walk to the Tube station, Sherlock broke their long silence. "Perhaps I am not such the idiot you think," Sherlock slid his eyes toward John. "If we are judged by the company we keep, there is hope. My flatmate is a good man with outstanding self-control. From him I can learn great things."
John looked in amazement at the genius who was forever baffling him with some new phase of astuteness and smiled.