The trio climbed the steps at 221 Baker Street.
"Is this where your partner lives?" asked Brennan as she looked instinctively up toward the landing.
"Yes," said Watson. "It's also where I live."
"Oh," she said, surprised. "So he's your romantic and sexual partner, as well as your crime-fighting partner."
"Er, no," Watson answered, annoyingly accustomed to this question. "I'm seeing a woman named Pamela, and my partner – my flatmate – is… well, that's just not his thing."
"What do you mean?" asked Booth. "What is his thing?"
"I don't think he has a thing," answered Watson. "Well, gee, that came out wrong, didn't it? I just mean… you sort of have to meet him."
By this point, they were standing outside of flat B, where the door was uncharacteristically shut, but not locked. John put his hand on the doorknob and said, "Brace yourselves."
He opened the door, and the visitors followed him inside.
As they entered, they spied a man across the room with his back to them, staring out of a window, arms at his sides, legs spread to shoulder-length apart. He was reasonably tall, had luxurious jet-black hair and wore a pair of woolen suit trousers and a white dress shirt.
"Hello," John said.
"Hi," the man replied. He had a deep, clear voice that seemed to seal off the room, that pervaded all of the air and made one feel as though it was the only thing that existed in the flat.
Metaphorically, of course. To Dr. Brennan, this sensation was a passing fancy, replaced by the more rational idea that a voice was not a thing, per se, and that she had simply been somewhat inexplicably startled by the man's presence, and taken by the deep voice.
"This is Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, and Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," John Watson said.
"If they are the so-called experts, you can put them back in the cab and send them home," the man with the deep voice said, without turning around.
"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan," John sighed. "Meet Sherlock Holmes."
"Hi," Booth tried.
A long silence ensued, in which Booth and Brennan half-expected a greeting from the strange man named Sherlock, but none came.
"Sherlock," John sighed again. "These people have just come across an ocean. The least you can do is be reasonable."
Sherlock turned suddenly and faced them with his narrow black eyes. He spoke quickly and crisply. "Sorry, yes. Hello. Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, it is indeed lovely to make your acquaintance. I do apologise for my impertinence in suggesting you go back home in a taxi – what was I thinking? I know a man, just down the block – he has a kayak (God only knows why). Perhaps he'd let you borrow it."
With that, he turned and stalked over to the hearth as though it had just appeared in the room and were his long-lost friend. He began searching through the cigar box on the mantle, through a potted plant and between books strewn about. "Where are they?" he demanded.
"You know I'm not going to tell you that," replied Watson, calmly.
"Wow!" Dr. Brennan exclaimed with a big smile. She looked at Booth. "And you think I'm socially retarded."
Sherlock stood up straight and faced them again. "Compared to me, Dr. Brennan, I'd wager you're a regular allegro con brio in the social department. Tell me, how was Guatemala?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh," she said. "It was… fine." She was a little surprised at the question – how was he to know she'd been to Guatemala?
Sherlock stared at her and blinked several times.
She realized what he had realized, and touched her earrings, the wood-carved souvenirs she had brought back from her last trip. "You have recognized the simian mountain god."
"You can tell what those things are?" asked Booth, squinting and taking one of the earrings in his hand to examine it. "They look like amoeba to me."
"Yes, I can tell what they are. Her earrings are clearly in the shape of the mountain which seems to form the head of an animorphic, simian face pointing toward the sky. A god in some parts of Guatemala. Amoeba are totally different – what books have you been reading?" Sherlock explained to him, in rapidfire language.
Booth let out a slow whistle. "What did we tell you, Bones? I've read about this on the blog…" He reached into his pocket in search of his iPhone, preparing to show John Watson's detailed website to his partner.
"These are hardly genius powers of observation, Booth!" she responded. "Anyone who has watched a Discovery Channel special on Central America, or indigenous gods or perhaps even monkeys, might know that!"
"I don't have time for sceptics. Get in your kayak and go home," Sherlock told them.
"I'm skeptical, Mr. Holmes, of anyone who claims to be a genius with powers of observation, first of all, because the very notion is absurd. The results yielded from observation without hypothesis and experimentation are unprovable and a waste of time. It's worse than psychology," she lectured.
Agent Booth sucked in air through his teeth. "Ooh, and that's saying something. She really hates psychology."
"And I'm skeptical secondly because you're clearly trying to show off for us, and all you have managed to come up with is some rudimentary information which give you no insights into anything meaningful. You know I have travelled to Guatemala, but what does that even tell you about me, that you can verify? What's more, you came across this information by looking at my earrings, which are ornamental by definition and designed to attract attention. A child could have done it. And the fact that you know about the simian mountain god is merely a coincidence."
Sherlock smirked and took a step forward. He narrowed his eyes further. "It's meaningful you want?" he growled at her. "Fine. You and Agent Booth are a crime-fighting team out of D.C. am I correct?"
"Er, to be fair, Sherlock," John interjected. "I did tell you that much."
"But that's all you told me, John, because I very wisely cut you off before you could cloud up my brain box any more with trivialities about people I have no intention of meeting," Sherlock said, still looking intensely at Dr. Brennan.
"What? You're meeting us now!" protested Brennan.
"Unintentionally," Sherlock corrected. "Therefore, John, you did not tell me that these two are a couple."
"That's true," John said to Booth and Brennan. "I didn't tell him that."
"But clearly you are. I could tell by the way Agent Booth looked at your earring. He reached out and took it in his hand to examine it. His hand came very near your neck and face, both well-established erogenous zones, and both verboten areas when one wishes to grant so-called personal space to another party. There was no delicacy nor decorum in his actions – a man who had merely a professional relationship with you would at least have shown a tightness of the shoulders, if he reached out at all. Which he likely wouldn't."
"That's ridiculous," she said. "You have no basis for any of this."
"But I'm not wrong, am I? Then there's the way that you reacted to him, that is to say, you did not react at all. A professional relationship brings with it certain boundaries, usually a hands-off boundary, which, once crossed, is met with a recoil from the other party. Moreover, if you were involved in a professional but perhaps a restrained, sexually-charged, but unfulfilled partnership, you would likely have held your breath as he touched you."
"Ridiculous."
"But I'm not wrong. And you have an infant daughter, do you not?"
Brennan didn't say anything, but Booth crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Yeah," as if to ask, what of it?
"Agent Booth reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile phone, and when the phone emerged from the lint-infested pouch, it carried with it a fragment of ribbon in Pepto-Bismol pink. I could tell from the moment I saw you, Dr. Brennan, that you had recently given birth because you have, forgive me, some quite formidable curves. You have rounded breasts, hips, abdomen and thighs but consider the blouse you're wearing, the leggings, the boots. You dress as though you are a much slimmer woman. This tells me that the weight-gain is recent and came on all at once. Given your education, position and undoubted self-discipline, the most likely scenario is… baby."
"I don't know whether to laugh out loud or punch you in the face," Booth said to Sherlock Holmes.
"Welcome to my world," muttered John Watson.
"Now, judging from the Cocky belt buckle which advertises your personality four inches from your groin, Agent Booth, I'm going to guess that you're a man who does not make a habit out of wearing pink ribbons – at least not anywhere near your FBI-issued suit. The logical explanation, since she is your romantic partner and is a recent mother, is that the two of you have a baby girl."
"That is not a logical conclusion," Brennan said. "That is calculated speculation. You are misusing the word logic."
"But I'm not wrong. Am I?"
Her jaw tightened. "No," she conceded.
"I've not been wrong since you arrived, have I?"
Now her back teeth were grinding. "No."
"Since you've just come from the aeroport, I'd say that you have a relative staying with your daughter – probably a grandparent."
"That's a guess."
Sherlock looked away from her for the first time in several minutes. "Perhaps," he said, stepping back. "But a good one. There's no sign of spat-up or spilled milk or baby food, no drool spots on either of your clothing. This probably means that you handed off the baby to the caretaker before you were dressed, and it's not very probable that the two of you, Agent Cocky and Dr. Discipline, would have allowed anyone but a relative to see you in your dressing gowns."
"Do you have kids?" Booth asked.
"God, no," Sherlock replied, staring Agent Booth directly in the eyes. It was the first thing he had said slowly since they arrived.
"Tell you what, man," Booth said with a bitter laugh. "Thank God for that."
"I'd say it was probably your mother," said Sherlock.
"Her mother is dead," Booth said solemnly.
"So is his," Brennan pointed out, without the solemnity.
"What was your mother's name?" Sherlock asked Brennan.
"Christine," she answered, knowing what was coming next.
Sherlock looked at Booth. "Was it your idea to name your daughter Christine?"
"Yes," Booth conceded.
"You display reverence when you discuss Dr. Brennan's dead mother, but you did not mention your own."
"Bones' mother was murdered," Booth said. "Mine… not so much."
Sherlock looked at Dr. Brennan. "I'm sorry to hear that. Did you examine her bones?"
"Yes, how did you know that?" she asked.
"I didn't. It was just a question."
"You are super-creepy, pal," Booth said.
"Well said," Sherlock replied with a smile. "So, Dr. Brennan, is all of this meaningful enough for you?"
What followed was a staring contest, a standoff between two great minds, two stubborn personalities two monstrous egos.
John cleared his throat. "Dr. Brennan, would you like to see the crime scene photos?"
"Yes, very much," she answered, secretly relieved to have something to think about for a few moments, other than Sherlock Holmes.
"John, I told you," Sherlock interrupted, teeth clenched. "I do not need their help."
"Yes you do. Now sit down and shut up," John said calmly.
Sherlock sat, but he did not shut up. He sulked like a very intense child. "This is a big blooming waste of my time," he complained.
"Yes, because when we walked in, you seemed thoroughly involved in solving all the problems of the world," John commented, deadpan. "Tremendously taxing."
"How many times do I have to tell you? Just because you can't see my work, doesn't mean it's not happening," Sherlock reminded him. Then he let out an exasperated puff of air from between his lips. "How could I expect you lot to understand?"
"Us lot?" asked Dr. Brennan. "Who lot?"
"You lot," he spat. "The demonstrative, the average, the people who do instead of see. People always doing, doing, doing, like a bunch of bees in a hive. It's almost cute."
"Did you just call me average?" she asked, now visibly angry.
"Dr. Brennan, I'm sure you are one of the best in your field," Sherlock conceded, staring straight ahead from his position in his armchair. He had said the words your field with disdain, as though he disapproved of the concept. "And that's lovely. Buzz buzz buzz."
"Are you implying that I'm a drone, Mr. Holmes?"
"Oh, do you want me to come right out and say it?" Sherlock asked, getting back to his feet.
"Whoa, okay, okay…" Agent Booth attempted, also trying to step between Brennan and Holmes, but both of them stepped forward.
"The little nest, the little hive you call a lab in the tree you call forensics – it's admittedly useful, on occasion, but limiting. Forensic anthropology may yield but a tiny piece of the puzzle, which is, undoubtedly, why you work with a team at the Jeffersonian, am I correct?"
"I never said she was a forensic anthropologist," Watson pointed out.
Sherlock's face scrunched up, as though he could not divine why oh why his flatmate could be so dim. "Her partner calls her Bones, what else could she be? And really I should have known." His voice was now mocking, matching the evil sparkle in his eye and the sardonic, indulgent grin.
"Holmes, I want you to tread lightly," Booth said.
"Yeah, yeah, Hulk Smash," Sherlock dismissed. "I should have known that Dr. Brennan could only be a forensic anthropologist. The dry personality, the close-minded world-view… of course she could only work with the dull, dry world of bones which are only consulted as a last resort when the flesh is gone."
Brennan was absolutely panting with rage now. She had never had someone attack her in this way.
"Mr. Holmes!" she shouted.
"Okay, look…" now Watson tried.
"I should have known. Only the driest and most uninteresting of people hide behind a mere Ph.D."
"A mere Ph.D.?" she shot at him, practically shaking. "First of all, I don't just have a Ph.D., I have several. And second of all, a doctorate is the highest level of education one can earn in a particular area, Mr. Holmes…"
"Exactly. In a particular area. I, good Dr. Brennan, never limited myself to a field, neither to the simplistic doledrums of pure science nor to the intangible absurdity of literature. I have never confined myself to a finite area of study because I find that it makes the big picture much narrower. The whole world is my university, and I don't need a glorified trade school diploma to let everyone know that I know how to read books – I have my own internal real-life credentials. But if you feel the need to externalise your accomplishments in order to be convinced of their merit, then I completely understand. Carry on, then."
"All right, enough!" John Watson cried out, raising his voice for the first time since… well, probably months. "Sherlock, you're being incredibly rude, and I think you should apologise."
"You do it," Sherlock muttered. "I have to go wash my hair."
In spite of himself, John Watson said, "Dr. Brennan, I apologise on behalf of my friend, but to be fair, you condemned his methods just a few minutes ago in very much the same way as he is attacking yours. I'm afraid the two of you are at an impasse. Would you like to see the photos?"
He handed her a photo depicting a skeleton whose legs, ankles and feet were in fine shape, but the rest, from the pelvis on up, was broken into a million pieces. She also looked at a photo of a plaid red shirt, torn in several places and dirty, along with a pair of brown work pants and clunky work boots.
"The clothing seems to be made for a male, but the victim is female," Brennan said.
"What?" asked Sherlock.
"I'd have to examine the pelvis personally in order to be sure, but I'm fairly confident I'll find that the victim is female."
"The pelvis is shattered into a thousand pieces, just like the ribs, arms, clavicle, vertebrae, skull and all places in-between that are above the waist."
"I'll re-construct it," she said smugly. "It's one of the things I learned how to do in my glorified trade school."
"The victim is not female!" he spat. He grabbed the picture out of her hand and sqinted at it. "And anyway, how could you possibly know that?"
"With my keen powers of observation, Mr Holmes," she mocked. "And several Ph.D.'s."