"There was another incident, the day before yesterday." Bennett says reluctantly. "I was working late at my desk, when I heard a crash from Mr Presbury's office. When I opened the door, one of the bookcases was tipped forward, and he was hunched behind his desk. But before I could see if he was hurt, he'd sprung to his feet and, er, abused me."
"There's nothing wrong with Dad's health." Edie adds. "He's taken up rock-climbing again."
"He will have another appointment at the Camford on...Thursday next week." Sherlock doesn't even open his eyes, fingers still steeple in front of his face. "I'll speak to him then."
"What will you say?" Bennett is bewildered.
"Whatever I need to." Fingers wave a dismissal.
00000000
John escorts the pair out. Bennett is still unsure, but Edie seems to have a blithe confidence.
"I read his site. And your blog. If anyone can work out what the hell is going on, it's Mr Holmes." Strides off down the street, with both dog and boyfriend at her heels. John wonders which of them is the more obedient. Sighs, and trudges up the stairs again. A really pretty girl. And probably half his age.
"She's twenty, John."
John doesn't want to know how he does that.
"She's really worried about her father."
"Presbury has an annual physical check-up every year. The last one was two weeks after he got back from Prague. Clean bill of health."
John assumes that means that Mycroft has liberated confidential medical records. Again.
"So, you're planning to march up to the man, and demand to know what right he has to spend his money on some kind of rejuvenation therapy?"
"Something like that."
"It's hardly illegal."
"But the behavioural changes are sudden and worrying enough for his friends and family to become concerned. For Mycroft to become concerned." Sherlock opens one eye briefly. "The Camford is not a hospital. It promotes itself as a holistic lifestyle and internal well-being centre."
John gives a rude snort.
"Crystals and candles? You might as well believe in fairies at the bottom of the garden."
"A somewhat harsh assessment."
"Look, I'm not saying that everything non-conventional is rubbish, I understand the psychological comfort, but you can't turn back the biological clock by sticking a garden hose up your arse."
"Of course you can't." Sherlock agrees. "But you can hide injection marks amongst acupuncture. The question is whether it is being done with his consent or not."
"Injections?"
"Obviously something is being introduced into his system, which is affecting not only his neurological state, but also his natural body odour. The dog, John."
"So I wasn't so far off the mark with the poisoned Viagra, then?"
00000000
John wonders how long he will be able to keep his locum position. Sarah had been very tight-lipped about his changing shifts at short notice. And she very pointedly hadn't asked why, either.
The Camford Clinic is making him nervous. The building is...well, beautiful. Clean, comfortable, the most modern technology discreetly displayed, to assure the client that this was the very best treatment that money could buy. John is sure that he's seen two soap stars and a footballer just on the walk from the reception desk to the waiting room.
"Why does it have to be me? I'm sure you would be far more convincing."
Sherlock huffs.
"You do not actually have to go through with any procedures, John. It is merely a consultation." Eyes his flatmate. John could not be described as metrosexual. Nobody who wore those jumpers could be. Sherlock appreciates their effect – people dismiss John as cuddly and harmless, (which makes them idiots, because which bit of 'battle-scarred army doctor' passes them by?) but it is true that he does fail to convince as a man who would seek out a mani-pedi. "You could say that you were considering some work around your eyes."
John is offended. His face has character, thank you very much.
"My face is perfectly fine. Not all of us want to have cheekbones you could slice cheese with."
He feels scruffy and clumsy and out of place, on edge. He knows that people are trying to gauge who he is, what he does. You cannot just stroll in off the street, after all – you need an appointment. And, frankly, you need money. He knows that he does not look the part. Not like Sherlock, who fits right in, amongst the models and actors and pretty people, expending easy, fake charm at the receptionist.
John, who has scraped together the remnants of very young men (and one or twice, women) to send back to their families, to a lifetime of struggling with meagre benefits, cheap prosthetics and interminable waiting lists, is far from impressed by the urgent need of some talentless shrieking bimbo to get her breasts enlarged (again) or for some media whore to need the ravages of his coke habit fixed. And he's even less impressed by the price list for what amount to a face-pack and some smelly candles.
Sherlock waves that away.
"Covered. Mycroft is footing the expenses for this fishing expedition."
"I still don't feel comfortable here..."
"Relax, John, people will merely think that you are trying to make yourself over to keep your younger lover interested." Sherlock's smirk drops as he sights his quarry.
Presbury is a tall, loose-limbed man, with a hard, hawkish face. His silvered hair still thick, and the eyes are keen. John hopes that he looks half as good at sixty. If he makes it that far. Living with Sherlock is...eventful.
He allows himself to be led away by a smiling attendant in white, not without misgivings.
00000000
The waiting area is more like a discreet club class lounge, groups of low designer chairs, glass tables, a few staff circulating with mineral water or herbal tea.
Sherlock strolls over, casual elegance, leafing through a couple of magazines as he takes in detail.
...well-kept, tight discipline over his figure, eats and drinks well but healthily, has maintained an exercise regime, pays attention to his physical appearance, definitely a vain man, combination of narcissism and determination predisposing him to politics, but able with it. Wealthy background, accustomed to the best of everything, unaccustomed to failure. Daughter now an adult, which means no longer able to avoid reality of time passing. Able to project a commanding presence, no sign of weakness in limbs, no sign of mental confusion...
"Extraordinary place, this, isn't it?" he murmurs, allows a slight nasal twang into his voice. "So central, and yet so peaceful. You wouldn't believe this was still London."
Presbury gives him a sharp look, not quite hostile, but definitely a bit wary.
"I was referred by a friend, lovely chap." Lowers his voice a bit further. "So much more discreet this way. Johnny is an absolute darling, but time marches on. And there are things you just can't get on the National Health."
"Are you a reporter?" The voice is harsh. The powerful body before him is suddenly taut, gathering itself together. "While my career is open to scrutiny, I regard my private life as just that..."
Sherlock feigns offended dismay. Inwardly, he is calculating how much force he might have to use to put this man down, and not liking the answer. The mask of urbanity has fallen, and he can see why Bennett is worried for Edie, and possibly himself.
"Terribly sorry, I was just trying to be friendly..."
"So sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but if you would like to step this way, Mr Presbury, your treatment room is ready?"
...late-forties, accent is from the north of the Czech Republic, uses 'doctor' as a courtesy title, but has no medical licence. The suave frontman for the business. And very, very definitely worried about his client's behaviour. Not because he doesn't know why, but because he definitely does...
Sherlock gives a charming, meaningless smile, and settles into a chair. Two minutes later, he slopes out for a furtive cigarette, finds a small group of fellow social pariahs near a far less salubrious side entrance. (It gives him a chance to palm a swipecard off a porter, take note of the layout and security surveillance.)
He's actually starting to get edgy, wonder if he should march through the building, looking through the treatment rooms, when John ambles back out, with the loose easy stride of a man who has been pampered by a pretty woman. Ljuba, whose correct English has a Slavic accent filtered through generic American, had been truly horrified by the ravages of time and sun on his skin. Sherlock gives his flatmate a hard stare, sniffs.
"You smell of coconut." He says. "John, did you get a facial?"
John simply gives him a blissed-out grin.
"Perhaps there is something to this lark after all."