The Glass Heart Part 2
SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSherlock
Thank you for the reviews! ...Author
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It was the same feeling as when Moriarty stood inches from his face and promised to burn him. "I will burn your heart from you." It was the same as when Sherlock then felt the heat of that vow ignite a fire in his chest with the first pain of it hitting him full force and making him stagger like a wounded buck, when Moriarty tilted his chin up and ate a bullet. He understood then as he did now. I will lose John.
Losing Misses Hudson would be awful, yes, terrible, frightful and tragic. Losing Lestrade a painful blow; a true sorrow on London and all it stood for. Losing John...
Losing John would end him.
Better his own end, and so the orchestrated deception of dying had begun with his plunge off that roof as John watched in horror from below.
And now again he was losing John.
No! His thoughts countered, as always weighing the evidence against reason and hypothesis. You're not losing him, he is changing residences, he is having intercourse with a woman, he is moving in with her, he will undoubtedly marry and have a tribe of children with dripping noses but he is not dying. Straighten your head around Sherlock!
Sherlock made a heroic effort to dismiss the fear that had arisen inside him, but he was astounded to discover that it was not his head that argued back. It was something that spoke no words yet seemed to have an unarguable case and used language from a place or an age that was beyond his comprehension. It coursed through his physical body like a raging river, its way set, its power undiminished over the days that followed and so his body froze and his mind shivered and he knew then that he was losing his way. His fight between it and the perfect balance of shore was ill-matched and his strength waning.
He had to be going insane.
Sherlock even briefly flirted with the idea of chasing down a dose of a little something just to rid himself of the nameless fear crushing down on him, if even for a short time. But John's eyes on him every minute now made that difficult at best.
And of course John would have been disappointed in him. He did not want to see John's eyes when they swam with waters of disappointment. It was altogether unsettling and even when his argument was of course the correct one, the sight of a tearing-up John made an awful heaviness overcome him. It was an uncomfortable sensation, one he had experienced at other times during their years together - and one that took a while to dislodge.
So Sherlock feigned much more pain than he was feeling and far more drowsiness than he had ever experienced and took to his room. Anything to be away from the eyes and the concern of a man who was tearing his heart to shreds without lifting a finger in his direction (other than to serve him food and drink and shove pills into hands that he could barely keep from shaking). It – an it Sherlock could neither define nor understand in the least - was accompanied by an avalanche of confounding emotions over which he had no control and in which to stare rendered him blind.
Perfectly awful.
But Watson pounded in the door anyway. "Sherlock. Why have you locked the door?"
Ignoring John's voice was difficult but he gave over to furious thought, thrusting all emotions from his mind. It was, after all, just emotions that were overwhelming him. Emotions were nothing more than chemical reactions in his body. Chemicals can be regulated, made to either flow or stop flowing, at least to some degree. While John pounded on the door he paced in small circles, finding that place in his Mind Palace that would facilitate thinking and thinking alone. A gleaming white place with no borders...empty, blank, without outside reason, without human frailty, without so-called profound meaning – no! Only facts. All he had to do was think about this logically.
Sherlock chuckled to himself. That's all this was after all – emotions taking over, threatening to break down the fortress he had so carefully erected over a lifetime. Years of calm deduction and clear thought. Emotions - nothing but a train for fools. Worry, grief, sorrow, happiness, love...
Logic and reason never hurt this way. Love was a chemical reaction of flesh, a painful one yes he was discovering, but nothing more. Nothing more.
Sherlock felt some calm returning and was infinitely grateful for it. He waited until his heart slowed and his hands stopped shaking, almost all the way to normal, and then he straightened his jacket, unlocked his bedroom door and opened it to find Watson seated on the hallway floor with his back up against the wall, a deeply worried expression on his gentle face.
"John." Excellent. Perfectly me.
Watson, to his credit, did not barrage him with a dozen questions of why and what. He merely looked up and asked "Are you all right?"
Sherlock felt another emotion – relief. He stretched out his hand to his friend who took it and was helped to his feet.
Sherlock lead the way to the sitting room and began a visual hunt for his coat. Slipping into it he once again felt and looked as right as rain. "Shall we?" He asked Watson.
Watson looked at him as though he had gone just a bit mad and Sherlock was not all that convinced his friend would be wrong. But it seemed the doctor had decided to leave that discussion for another time. "Where are we going?"
Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and turned his collar up to the early morning chill. "Thanks to you I am again well and we have a case. I'm doubtful Lestrade's army has come up with something in the way of evidence but let's go and see anyway, shall we?"
XXX
"A week goes by and Lestrade has 'no new leads', not that he possessed even one at the outset. What a wasted meeting." Sherlock turned his collar up at the mid-morning chill.
Watson had to move his legs twice as fast as usual to keep up with Sherlock's impatient stride. "I'm sure they're doing everything they can. What about your evidence, the contents of the ridiculous condom?"
Sherlock indicated a small cafe' and entered. "I suppose it can't hurt to let you have a look at it. Perhaps you have an idea, it's not likely but we're at Lestrade's proverbial 'bottom of the sack' now."
John took up a seat opposite his friend at a table for two by the tiny curtained window. "Thanks very much. Always nice to feel useful."
Sherlock snatched up a menu and perused it carelessly. "Sorry Watson, I've a bump."
John dismissed his friend's irritability and did a one-two visual of the side of Sherlock's head. The bandage was off but the swelling still visible. "Well, at least it's now only a grape instead of an egg. The ego underneath, I am sorry to say, has not diminished in the least."
"Being aware of and accepting and using one's own abilities is not ego; it's logic."
"So what does your logic say about your evidence?"
Sherlock slipped his right hand into his coat pocket to finally hand over the elusive condom and its contents. "See for yourself, you may smell it."
"Smell it?" Pleased to see that Lestrade had had it transferred to a properly marked evidence bag, he looked to see only a small silver coloured square of paper. Curiously he opened the bag and took a sniff. His eyebrows went up. "Cologne."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes a stain of it on a tiny part of an envelope. The envelope is otherwise unremarkable, a cheap letter variety that you could buy in bulk from any stationery market. The cologne is cheaply priced one and, if my nose is not mistaken, probably that French Axe that practically every man on the planet is dousing himself with."
Watson sniffed the air. Sherlock, as was his norm, smelled only of shampoo and soap. He never wore cologne of any description. Watson wondered if a girlfriend might someday alter that. "So you think a man killed our victim?"
Sherlock actually shook his head, perplexed, a rare sight indeed. The waiter came and laid down paper place-mats for each of them and cutlery. Watson ordered eggs with ham with coffee. Sherlock ordered a bagel with cheese and tea. After eating many minutes in silence, Sherlock put down his tea cup and announced "This case might be nothing more than my head bump."
John looked up. This was even rarer; Sherlock admitting that he might be off on a goose chase. "You think perhaps it was just a robbery after all? If so he might have taken something that was valuable other than the man's wallet, a collectable...?"
Sherlock looked out the window. "By the state of the man's flat, that's doubtful but I was referring to the cab driver."
"Oh." Yes. Despite the injuries the accident has wrought on Sherlock, he had actually forgotten about the dead cab driver. That case probably was a wild goose chase. "Perhaps you should sleep on it some more." Watson suggested, feeling a bit useless. His history with the man had born out that Sherlock needed to come to these conclusions on his own.
Sherlock's brow creased, annoyed. "I've been sleeping on it for a week, John, I hardly think another night's slumber is going to produce better ideas that the ones I get while I'm awake and fully lucid."
"But you haven't been fully lucid, have you?" He nodded to his head. "You banged your head up badly. A concussion can do funny things to your mind. Bad concussions have been known to alter or erase memories. I'm sure your instincts are still there. Maybe they're leading you correctly."
"Instincts?" Sherlock shook his head. "How many times do I have to tell you, John? Instinct is simply the mind's way of organising and drawing conclusions based on evidence the eyes have already seen but otherwise not noted as of importance. Most people resort to co-called instinct because they lack the ability for organised thought. I have never solved a case by instinct."
"Fine, fine, but you do admit that instinct plays a part. It must, I've seen those sparks leap to your eyes when some small clue finally hits you in the face."
"Merely previously acquired knowledge falling into its rightful place."
"Plus the swift insight that you're somehow right without being able to explain to me why and then later being proved right. That's instinct."
"Perhaps at times it plays a very small role." Sherlock admitted, "But I assure you my memories are undiminished." Still, he could not see his way through the case of the dead man in the shabby flat. It had to be a robbery, there was little else to suggest otherwise except for the sweet smelling envelope and the glass. But anyone might have drawn that heart, the dead man himself. But cologne on an envelope was odd, especially for a man who gave the appearance of someone who didn't date at all, women or men.
Watson picked up the tiny scrap of paper in the evidence bag. "Odd, it's an almost perfect square."
Sherlock dropped his cup onto its saucer with a loud clatter. "Give it here." He demanded and Watson handed it over like he'd been bit.
Sherlock removed the small piece of paper from the bag and placed it at the bottom right corner of his place mat. It squared to almost a T. "How stupid of me." Sherlock announced and then looked over at Watson. "As usual, John, your ability to see only the obvious is proving an immense help to me, although my head injury was no doubt a factor in my inability to see it as well."
"I'm going to pretend that was a compliment."
Sherlock abandoned the second half of his bagel. "Come on."
"Where're we going?"
"To Scotland Yard."
XXX
Lestrade looked down at the tiny piece of paper, evidence that had proved to be nothing but a tiny scrap of paper, unremarkable and perhaps not even related to the case. "I take it you have you run your home-spun chemical tests on it." He asked Sherlock who stood before his desk piled with the paper work he loathed. Watson stood beside him and Lestrade was once again struck with the notion that Doctor John Watson, despite going around with a perfectly lovely lady, was a little infatuated with his flat-mate.
"I did." Sherlock said, pointing to his nose.
Lestrade got the point. "Your scientific methods consisted of you, in this case, smelling it?"
"Yes. The nose knows, Lestrade. Well, mine does at any rate. The odor was very faint but it was there. A cheap man's cologne – that revolting concoction 'Axe' if I'm not mistaken, but I'd rather more refer you to its shape."
"It's a small square of an envelope and it was hardly a mystery. The lab techs didn't find ink or a hair or a fingerprint, not even a smudge of one, just like the whole flat. The killer wiped the place down Holmes. Conclusion: it's a piece of scrap that the dead guy missed tossing in his waste basket. And I wear Axe by the way."
"As I said something so cheap even a policeman can afford it. No, it's a clue, or more accurately, a planted clue."
Lestrade leaned back and rested one hand on his stomach as though he had suddenly developed a case of indigestion. "All right, I may as well play along - why is it a planted clue?"
Sherlock picked up an envelope randomly off the Inspector's desk and handed it to him. "Here, Lestrade, try and make one just like it."
Lestrade put the envelope down and picked up one that did not have the police Commissioner's name and address on it. "If you don't mind, I'll use this."
But it was not so easy to do. No matter how many times he tried he could not tear off a perfect square. Finally he took his time and with great care managed to produce one nearly perfectly square.
By the time he was done Lestrade had a frown on his face and Sherlock knew he had scored a point. "You see? It's not a natural tear, physics indicates the paper would tear at its weakest points and the tear would be irregular. So why would anyone tear off a corner of an envelope like that unless they meant to do so?"
Lestrade dropped his experimental envelope with all the little corners torn off. It looked like a dog had gotten a hold of it and made it into a chew toy. "I don't see that it means anything except that I think you think it was left for you."
"The killer, whoever he or she was, knew our industrious but below average task force would overlook its significance. I however did not."
Watson leaned in and said loudly enough for everyone to hear "Who made that discovery?"
Sherlock hardly skipped a beat "Behave Watson. You noted its shape; I deduced the importance of that shape."
Lestrade knew where this was going. "So I suppose now you'll want all of his phone records and the names and addresses of his friends and co-workers and anything else we've gathered so far even though it's going to turn out to be a boring robbery and you'll have wasted my and the department's time?"
Sherlock rocked on his heels. "Yup."
Lestrade jerked a thumb toward the door. "See Donovan then. She drew the privilege of cleaning up the dead fatty."
Donovan was not pleased. "Lestrade assigned the Freak to me?" She spat her rude nick-name for Sherlock at Watson who, as happened every time he heard it, wanted to punch her lights out. He fisted his right hand and clamped his mouth shut.
So Sherlock addressed her himself. "Yes, the Freak needs to see all your case notes and laboratory results and now please." The unkind nick-name had hardly ever caused Sherlock to pause in his speech to the upstart police sergeant.
Save for the first time when John had seen a shadow pass over Sherlock's face. It had disappeared almost instantly and anyone who hadn't spent time with the man would not have recognised it for what it was; hurt. For all of Sherlock's claims to be above mere flawed mortals, he was capable of feeling things and, John knew, frequently did.
Donovan grabbed a pile of manila folders an inch thick and all but tossed them at him. "Knock yourself out Freak."
Retreating from the disapproving eyes of Donovan to a local cafe', Sherlock handed a small stack of the lab reports to Watson who had to put aside his toast to make room for them. "What am I looking for?"
"I'll know that when you find it." Sherlock said cryptically. "I'm not actually sure. Concentrate on the dead man's over-all health."
"But we already know he was suffocated."
"General health – was he suffering from any STD's, was he depressed? Are there therapy visits? He was a drunk, how much of a drunk was he? I know you have a mind, Watson, use it."
"Testy."
"I've wasted a week recovering from that bloody stupid cab driver and that's a week our killer's had to cover his or her tracks. Most likely it was a man but a large woman might have the strength to get him sufficiently drunk, shove a large pillow over his head and press down firmly."
It sounded as though Sherlock were reading a recipe, an actual recipe, for murder. Sherlock himself was concentrating on the crime scene photos. Although they had actually been at the crime scene itself, there had been people tramping all through it and Watson knew Sherlock always perused the photos as well during quiet moments where he was without distraction. Over the years he had come up with some valuable clues doing so.
But that was not to happen today. Sherlock thrust the photos down disgustedly and held fisted hands over his eyes, letting out a frustrated groan.
John was immediately worried. "Another headache?"
"Yes. Why the hell can't medical science come up with a pain killer that works? I can't focus my mind at all. This is so unfair."
That Sherlock had even taken a pain killer told John the headache was a bad one. "At the risk of being called an idiot, I think you need to lie down for a while. You've been going all day."
Sherlock opened his mouth and John would swear the insult in question was about to escape, when Sherlock changed his mind and merely sighed. "Why do you always think sleep will solve everything? Sleep is the retreat for the lazy man."
"Plus it oh, I don't know, keeps us from dying."
"It takes thirty-six months for a man to die from fatal familial insomnia and only seconds for me to die of boredom and by the way this conversation is already threatening my life."
"Very testy."
"Never mind, I have an errand to run. Do you have any money?"
"You don't have any money?"
"Not with me."
"So we came into a restaurant, you in fact, insisted we come here and you have no money?"
"You keep stating the obvious, when oh when are you going to conquer that?"
John reached for his wallet. "How much do you need?"
"Fifty pounds."
"Fifty? Planning a little get away not that I wouldn't enjoy the peace and quiet?"
Already impatient - "N-o-o-o-o." Sherlock intoned.
"Then why do you need fifty pounds?"
"I've an army to finance and I'm a bit short."
"Ah, right, your street soldiers. How much money do you have in the bank?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Great." Watson appeared a bit uncomfortable. "Uh, look, Sherlock, this may not be a good time to tell you but-"
"You're getting engaged."
John looked startled and then almost as swiftly, annoyed. "How in the hell do you know that...never mind." He put up his palms to stop Sherlock before he started in.
But it was too late. "You're about to move in together, John, it is hardly rocket science. You're an old fashioned fellow therefore you would never consider cohabitating unless your intentions were focused on marriage. Also you have been seeing Mary for many, many months plus," he raked his eyes over his friends face and clothing, making him squirm just a little, "plus you're rather more well groomed than usual, and you have just refused me a loan that at any other time during our association you would not have hesitated to cough up so I deduced that you've recently made a rather expensive purchase – a diamond engagement ring seems the most logical probability. And naturally you're anticipating more expenses in the near future, in other words...wedding plans." He had said the "w" word as though it had left a bad taste in his mouth. "So your wallet is most likely a bit thinner than the norm."
The waiter brought the bill and John, with a sigh, pulled out some notes and handed them over to the man with tip. To Sherlock he said "Let's go home."
"Am I right?"
John frowned "Yes, yes, you're right you damned hound dog with a bone, you're right. Can we go now?"
"Now who's testy?"
But there was to be no rest for either man as John's phone trilled for his attention while the doorbell downstairs called for Sherlock's.
John spoke into his phone for a moment while he watched Sherlock lead a plain blonde girl of about twenty into the flat and seated her in John's chair, and then sitting opposite her and crossing his long legs. John noted that Sherlock did not steeple his hands and that meant he was not so much interested in the case as in the intellectual – or otherwise - reward.
Despite his call from Mary and his now shortened time-table, he sat down on the desk chair to watch. Missing Sherlock deduce a problem was almost without fail missing a good show.
"So Miss Pendergast." Sherlock began, "Why have you come to me today and bear in mind that I'd prefer no mind numbing chit-chat because I and therefore you are short on time. We have three minutes –go."
"That's a bit rude." She said, her hands fumbling nervously with the tiny purse in her lap. She wore a pony-tail and too much make-up.
Sherlock checked his watch. "We ran out of coffee this morning so I'm short on patience as well. Two minutes and fifty-five seconds."
John observed the swift back and forth as though he was watching a particularly fine tennis match.
"I think my fiancé is cheating on me."
"Did you catch him in bed with another woman?"
"N-no, of-"
"A man then?"
"Certainly not. Why would you ask -?"
"No reason other than it might have moved things along. Two minutes and forty seconds. How long have you been seeing each other?"
"Two years."
"Engaged?"
"Four months, why-"
"Please try to remember that I'm the detective and I shall ask the questions. Two minutes left. Has he changed his cologne lately? Purchased a new suit or article of clothing? Wearing a new haircut?"
"Well, he bought new underwear."
"Still in the package?"
"No, it's in the hamper. I haven't had a chance to laun-"
"Leopard print?"
She stared as though at an apparition and then she blurted "Tiger stripes."
"And he didn't wear them for you."
"Well, no, but he said he would just as soon as they've gone through the wash."
"Trust me; they've already gone through several times. He's cheating."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Simply a hypothesis and one I'm confident that I will confirm during the next-" he glanced at his watch, "one minute and twenty-five seconds. After a relationship of two years no man buys new underwear for the ordinary woman at his side but instead for the more exciting, younger and prettier woman with whom he has been enjoying secret rendezvous.
"For the woman at his side he wears graying shorts with holes and is comfortable enough to watch television in them while making bodily noises to rival any barn animal. I see you have a bag of donuts from the sweet shop over on Broadstone."
Seemingly only half keeping up with what Sherlock was saying and the lightening speed at which he was saying it, in his own experience a frequent verbal paralytic with which John could well empathise, Miss Pendergast stuttered "Er - y-yes."
"Not for you."
"No, they're for-"
"-His office workers but today he became distracted and left them behind and you're kindly delivering them to him."
"Yes, how in the world-?"
"You both frequent this sweet shop, it is on his way to his office job hence the donuts for his co-workers and you were on your way to where you volunteer, by your rugged attire of dungarees and over-sized man-shirt, I'm assuming it's the soup kitchen next to the Neighbor's Exchange. They already have donuts."
"Look, I just don't understand how-? I mean don't you want to follow him or something?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"What about incriminating photos then?"
"Photos of your fiancé' – or anyone - wearing tiger striped underwear is, and I cannot stress this enough, not my area – in fact it is proving detrimental to my digestion – suffice it to say this is a simple case of infidelity and as boring a case with which I have ever been faced. Tea?"
"No."
"Just as well, we're out of milk. And time. Anything else?"
At his impatient expression she pressed her lips together firmly and answered "Yes. Yes. You're correct on everything so far, but I want proof."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine-fine-fine. Your distracted fiancé was in fact distracted this morning by I suspect a girl in the pastry shop. I calculate an eighty percent probability that it's one of them he is seeing on the side. Confront him with this information and he'll crack, and by the way she's probably seen them."
"Seen what?"
"The underwear." He looked at his watch conspicuously. "Once again, we are out of time."
Pendergast's face turned purple. "That lying, cheating bastard! I'm going to march over to his office right now and throw this diamond ring right in his bloody face."
"Why bother? You could always pawn it, a few pounds would be the least reward one should get from enduring a, to use your words, 'lying, cheating fiancé' - one with appalling taste in underclothing I might add. By the way although it is the cheapest of gold rings so as not to tarnish on your finger and give the game away it's not a diamond."
"It isn't?"
"No. Costume stone. Good costume but definitely fake, worth about fifty pounds at any used trinket vendor."
"How in the world can you be so sure just by looking?"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, I do not look I observe. Yet once again Time. Is. Up. You may pay me now."
"I see." With some difficulty Pendergast collected herself somewhat and reached inside her purse. "Well, I see, well, thank you for your service, Mister Holmes." She took out her check book. "What do I owe you?"
"Fifty pounds."
"Fifty pounds!?"
Again John could well empathise but seeing Sherlock's resolute expression, Pendergast, her face turning several shades of purple now, wrote out the amount and tore off the check from her little book. She thrust at him as though at a tax collector.
After Sherlock had escorted her out John said "You know, that ring was probably only worth twenty pounds – if that."
"I am aware."
"That's a bit of a dirty trick Sherlock."
"Lend me fifty pounds and I shall chase after her."
Watson sat down and wrote out a check for fifty pounds and then thrust it at him much the same way Pendergast had. "Now go after her and give her that check back. She doesn't look rich enough to pay the piper never mind your overpriced advice."
Sherlock pocketed Watson's check. He then took Pendergast's check between his fingers and tore it in half. "Isn't Mary expecting you at some-or-other wedding shop? Haven't you tux's to try on?"
Watson nodded, not bothering to ask how Sherlock had guessed what his phone call was about. "I'll see you later?" He asked but left without waiting for the answer.
Sherlock looked after his flat-mate as he descended the stairs to the street, a bit of his former depression returning. "Not if I see you first."
The fifty pounds, plus a two by three photograph of the deceased in question, swiftly disappeared into the unwashed hands of five of his street people who were advised to seek out information in the pubs the dead man was most likely to have frequented.
Task complete Sherlock turned toward home. He raised his hand to hail a cab and then decided against it. John would not wish to pay the cab fare too. Besides the doctor in him was always pestering Sherlock to get more exercise. He did not understand why John did not think chasing criminals down back alleyways was exercise. But their flat lay only five or so blocks away. He decided to walk.
XXX
It had been several hours and John, trying on his tenth horribly uncomfortable tux while Mary critiqued it - too wide at the shoulder, too narrow at the waist, made him look too short, made him look too tall, made him look old, made him look...dumpy-
John praised modern technology when his phone rang and he jumped for his coat, fumbling for the phone from the inside pocket and almost dropping it in the process. Delighted for the break from tuxedo hell he opened it, cupping his hand over the tiny mouth-piece. "Sorry, hon', I probably have to take this." He said to Mary with what he knew was much too much enthusiasm. Pressing the ridiculously small button - "Hello?"
"John?"
"Sherlock. All done spending my money are we? Why are you calling from a booth?"
"A print shop. I need you to come."
"I'm a little busy at the moment; have you no cab-fare either? Sherlock, I swear-"
"I need you to come right now."
John stopped, all humour draining from his voice in an instant. "Sherlock? What's wrong? You sound...funny."
"Something's wrong obviously." But there was no bite in the words. If anything Sherlock sounded scared.
"What's wrong? Did one of your street people or...has something happened to Molly?"
By this time Mary was standing by listening in, her face concerned.
"Something's happened to me. Please come?"
What caused John's heart to begin racing like a two-year-old colt was that Sherlock sounded so...small. And he had asked him to come. Not demanded.
Asked. "We'll come straight away. Where are you?" He stared at Mary as he spoke and she nodded, heading toward the store's main door to bring the car around. On the way out she turned and mouthed a question "Does he have GPS on his phone?"
Watson nodded.
"Not far I think." Sherlock was breathing fast. Too fast. "I can't seem to...remember the way home."
XXX
"Mary where are you going?" Sherlock asked when she steered the car away from Baker Street and turned in the direction of Paddington.
"We're taking you to The London." Watson answered referring to a nearby hospital. One he knew had a neurology clinic with a world-wide reputation. He sat beside Sherlock in the rear seat, keeping a close eye on his friend. "You've suffered a sudden memory loss Sherlock; that is not something you treat with aspirin and a smoke."
"Nonsense, I simply became confused for a moment."
"And if you're admitting that, it's probably worse than I thought." Watson countered.
"Take me home." Sherlock insisted, sounding like himself again.
"Not a chance in hell." Watson said. "Mary – keep going."
But when she had to stop for a street light, Sherlock threw open his door and stepped out before John could snatch his coat and pull him back in "Sherlock! You son-of-a...get back here right this second!"
But Sherlock merely closed the door and waved over his shoulder, ignoring his friend's angry bark. "Thanks for the lift. I remember the way now. See you at home."
Twenty minutes later Sherlock heard the main door to the building slam shut with a bang that should have popped the windows out, and John's heavy feet on the stairs. Watson threw open the door, pointed a finger at his infuriating flat-mate. "Sherlock, sometimes you are the MOST stupid, stubborn bastard I have ever known. You could have a bleed in your brain – do you realise that? Goddamnit, a memory loss is not something you can just ignore!"
Sherlock closed his eyes to John's reddened face, trying to ignore the throbbing in his own head. "I feel perfectly fine. I became confused, that's all. I am probably over-tired as you earlier suggested."
"Over-tired? Is that it 'doctor'? You're over-tired and so for the first time in all the years you've been living here – which is eight or nine years I think – you just- tah-da! – lost your way? You just forgot how to get home from just a few blocks? We were separated for hours Sherlock, we have no idea how long you might have been out there wandering around confused. You might have been unconscious for all I – or you – know."
Sherlock only remembered suddenly waking up as though he had been asleep on his feet, his legs moving but unsure of where he was. Yes, it was a concern but he was not prepared to let any doctor, other than John, examine him. Not yet. "Can't you examine me?"
John plopped into his chair and tried rubbing the frustration from his face with both hands. It didn't work. "Yes, I can examine you but I don't exactly have the equipment here to give you a bloody CAT scan."
"I already had one."
"And as far as the radiologist could tell, it was normal. Yes, I remember of course but tests don't always reveal everything and doctors can be wrong."
Sherlock sighed. "Fine, I'll make it a request. Will you examine me?"
Watson shook his head but Sherlock suspected it wasn't in negation but resignation. "Yes, I'll examine you but only if you promise me that if this ever, and I mean ever, happens again, you'll agree to a second scan and this time an MRI?"
Sherlock immediately resolved that if it did happen again he would tell John nothing whatever about it. But it wasn't going to happen again and even if it did next time he would use his phone to get him home. He had GSP after all, and there were online maps. Only he hadn't thought to use them. "Agreed."
Mary entered the flat to see John bent over a seated Sherlock. John was moving his index finger back and forth in front of Sherlock's eyes. She recognised it as a basic first test to determine if there was anything amiss in the visual acuity of the patient.
"Your vision appears normal so far but I'm afraid that doesn't tell us much other than there's no obvious damage." John muttered.
He then took out his pen-torch and shone it into Sherlock's eyes, lifting his friend's chin with his left hand as he moved the light from one glacier-blue iris to the other.
Mary sat on the desk chair and watched. Curiously Sherlock seemed to lean into John's hand, appearing to give himself over to the touch. According to John not even Sherlock's own brother Mycroft ever touched his younger brother. She wondered if the ten year difference in their ages had anything to do with it.
Her heart beat a little faster at the intensity of Sherlock's gaze as he stared back into John's darker irises. Sherlock seemed almost hypnotized by them. But then he had got badly banged up in the accident.
Finally the examination was over and John removed his fingers from Sherlock's jaw, drawing his hand away. Sherlock's head seemed to follow it just an inch or so, before dropping back, as though his flesh mourned the loss. Mary was a bit surprised by it but supposed the man had experienced so little physical affection during his life any touch whatever must be a rare and welcomed comfort. What the hell had his mother been doing all those years of his growing up? How does one reach adulthood without knowing the kindness and warmth of a loving touch?
John walked over to her. "Ready to go?"
She nodded. "I hope you're feeling better Sherlock." She'd liked him right away the night they'd met where John had then punched his long-absent friend's proverbial lights out. "I really wish you'd listen to John and go to the hospital."
Sherlock looked at her but only said. "Will you be home tonight Watson?"
John looked at Mary and smiled. "Don't wait up."
XXX
Mary steered the car toward the suburbs and her modest house with the flower garden at the back. The front of the tiny house thrust right out to the sidewalk. Only a small iron fence and gate plus two feet of walkway separated her front door with the pavement. "Do you think he'll be all right?"
John shrugged. "Who knows?" Then he nodded, it adding weight to his visible worry. "I hope so."
She turned the key and swung the door open.
He followed her inside. "He's a stubborn bastard, but there's clearly something amiss. He let me touch him and that tells me he was not quite all there tonight. Some residual something from whatever's happening inside his brain I'd guess."
"What do you mean he let you?"
"Oh, of course, you don't know." John took a seat in her lemon coloured kitchen while she filled a kettle and lit the burner. "Sherlock hates being touched."
XXX
Part 2 asap
