I realize it isn't practical to expect anything too special for my birthday, living with Sherlock Holmes, but I must say I wasn't exactly appreciating standing in a freezing cold car park for two hours while he went over every fine detail on the Ripper's second victim.
He was relentlessly chiding Greg for allowing it to happen.
"Officers were posted at every entrance! For God's sake Sherlock, the woman's body just appeared out of thin air!"
"CCTV?"
"Cut the wires."
Sherlock let out an aggravated growl. He leaned in close. "What have you left for me?" He asked the dead woman. Smith, aged 48, five foot, face swollen, throat dissevered, disembowelled, part of the uterus removed with surgical precision. Along with the body they found two pills, a torn envelope with an old army emblem, a comb, and a piece of white fabric.
"Same blade?" I asked Sherlock, kneeling close to him for a bit of warmth but not too close to attract attention.
"Of course. 7 inches. Incisions run left to right, made with the left hand."
"Prostitute?"
Sherlock took a moment to look at the heel of her foot. "Yes." He answered as he scanned the lower abdomen once more. "Asphyxiated with a cloth handkerchief." He looked at her swollen protruding tongue. He looked as if he was going to poke it, as he inched closer with his forefinger. I stared at him in disbelief.
I jumped when Greg tapped on my shoulder. "John, need a word with Sherlock." I was quickly and eagerly ushered away by Sgt. Donovan.
"Take it he didn't remember." She said with a smug grin.
"He remembered." Sherlock remembered my birthday indeed; he had even acknowledged it that morning. He had said 'It's your birthday.' I said 'Yep' and then he continued drinking his tea without any further mention of the matter. He never wished me a happy birthday, he didn't want to get my expectations up too high, I think.
It was a good ten degrees cooler in the parking structure. I shivered from head to toe. I looked back to see Greg reassuring Sherlock who looked like he was primed to explode. I prayed he'd keep his calm.
He didn't.
His voice boomed and echoed in the hollow car park. I had to jump in before he clobbered the man.
"Sherlock!" I shouted, positioning myself between him and Greg.
Sherlock bared his teeth at Greg and hissed, "It is your fault, yours alone, that this woman lies here dead." He poked a finger into the DI's chest. "I refuse to help you any further if you continue to even consider me suspect. You, of all people, should know-"
"I didn't, I was just relaying the information, honest." Greg said holding up his hands.
"Sherlock, what's this about?"
"Five thirty, witness last saw the woman alive with a man, just outside the car park." Greg looked down at his feet. "Says he was real tall, had on a deer-stalker cap and dark overcoat."
"Yeah, well Sherlock has at least three alibis. Myself, Mrs. Hudson, and the cabbie. Couldn't have been him." I said crossing my arms. "So there."
"I know it wasn't Sherlock, for Christ's sake." Greg rubbed his forehead with his hand. "You know people talk. The media n' all." Sherlock let out a groan.
"Yes, the modern day Jack the Ripper! I can see it now." Sherlock looked thoroughly disgusted. "God, is there nothing new under the sun? It has all been done before!"
"You know how Londoners are about these types of cases." Greg said with a shrug.
"What would be your advice to them then? Don't be a prostitute?" Sherlock sneered.
"Come now, I just want this case solved. 'Fore it gets too much attention. This shit's media gold n' you know it."
Sherlock swallowed hard. "Thirtieth of September. I suggest you brush up on the canonical five. There will be two murders, within forty-five minutes of one another. I'll text you the precise coordinates. Don't let her slip in unnoticed again."
Greg furrowed his eyebrows. "Her?"
"The murderer, your beloved Jack the Ripper." Sherlock said with a huff. Anderson appeared out of the shadows to pipe up.
"Now see here." He said in his persistent snide tone. "I've measured the footprints left by the Ripper. You tell me, what woman has a size fourteen shoe?"
"One with big feet." Sherlock grabbed the police tape, walked under it, and put it down as a sort of barrier between him and Anderson. I rolled my eyes and joined him on the other side of the tape.
We walked out side by side. "Do you have to be so dramatic?" I asked when we were outside of earshot of Greg and Anderson. Sherlock held his nose in the air as he started outpacing me.
"Why the nerve of that man." Sherlock hissed as we hit the street.
"Which one?" He continued to storm away in a huff. I checked my watch, it was near nine in the morning, and all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed.
We arrived at Baker Street half past nine. Sherlock busied himself with destroying the flat while I headed to his bedroom. I fell onto the plush pillows and let out a content sigh. I didn't care if I let my birthday slip away from me. It was my day to do with what I pleased.
I had just started to drift off when Sherlock burst in. "John, I need you!" He bellowed trying to wrench me from the bed by my hips.
"Sherlock!" I shrieked with an indignant squeak.
We had discussed in great detail the importance of consent and there Sherlock was, bent over me, pinning me to the bed, shouting, "Come on, John, I need you!" His fingers dug into my hips, he kept trying to pry me up on to my knees. I kicked and squirmed, trying to get out of his vice grip, but instead he fell on to me. "Damn it John, I need you now!"
"Sherlock, stop." My breath was ragged from the struggle.
"John, get up." He pulled at my shirt and I started sliding off the bed.
"No! Jesus Christ Sherlock, I don't care if you're my partner. You can't just come in here and take me whenever you damn well please!" Sherlock grabbed me by my elbows and pulled me up.
"Get dressed!" He shouted. I stopped struggling.
"What?" He let go of my arms.
"We're going out. You'll need your coat." He said calmly. I turned to look at him.
"What?"
"I need you to come with me. Need to visit the shoe shop and I could use your input." I stared at him and just blinked.
"You could have said that in the first place." Sherlock titled his head to one side and lifted an eyebrow. "Fine, I'll come with. Just promise, we can do something for my birthday." Sherlock gave a shrug. "I'm serious. I just want to do something special, just this once; then you can go back into annoying dick mode for the rest of the year." Sherlock stuck out a hand and I shook it gladly.
After a brisk walk to Chiltern Street we walked into the shop and I instantly noticed something amiss. "Sherlock... these are all women's shoes." I said with a whisper. A sales attendant greeted us tentatively.
"May I help you, gentleman?"
"You wouldn't happen to have anything in a women's size eleven would you?"
"Sorry sir, all we carry up to is a woman's ten." Sherlock glanced down at my feet. One of his eyebrows twitched up. His eyes met mine and the corners of his lips curled into a malicious grin.
We walked out with a pair of red velvet pumps in hand along with several stares from the store's employees.
"Some birthday present." I mumbled. We returned to the flat and I headed straight for the bedroom. Sherlock caught me by the forearm and motioned towards the bag I had left at the front door.
Soon I was clad in high heels, with my jeans turned up at the ankles. I had my arms crossed and my teeth clenched. The extra two inches made it so I could glare more directly into Sherlock eyes. I stood with my backside against the kitchen counter. Sherlock had a wicked grin plastered on his face.
"May I ask why I'm wearing ladies shoes?"
"In good time, John." Sherlock said turning to open the silverware drawer. He pulled out a long rusted over knife. "It's an amputation knife John. From the American Civil War. Comes from a post mortem surgical set. And that's not rust, John." He brought it closer, his hand clenched tightly around the handle. "It's stained with blood. The blood of soldiers, John."
My heart felt like it dropped through my butt. My breath hitched in my throat. I felt sweat start to collect on the palms of my hands. Sherlock was dangerously close with the knife. My knees started to shake. He had a murderous look in his eyes. "Sherlock?" I said with quaking fear. I looked back and forth between his eyes and the knife.
Sherlock lunged forward and I bolted out of the kitchen, through the front door, down the stairs, and out on to Baker Street. I could hear Sherlock laughing like a maniac through the open window. I held on to the pay-to-park machine and caught my breath.
"See John! A man is perfectly capable of running in high heels! It was a cross-dresser that killed Ms. Clemens!" He shouted out the window. He'd been on the case of the 'Killer in Heels' for a solid week now. I thought he'd given up when he'd taken on the Killer Pandas. Apparently not.
Woman, aged sixty, killed outside her family home in West Sussex. Witnesses saw a woman, dressed in heels and a short skirt, fleeing the scene.
I grimaced and held my chest; my heart was still racing a mile a minute. I non-discreetly flipped Sherlock off. Sherlock came down the stairs, sans knife, and continued to grin broadly. "Add two inches height to the night time bar tender at the Cat Inn and we have our murderer. Brilliant!" Sherlock gave me a hard slap on the shoulder. I stumbled backwards, the heel of my right shoe caught the kerb.
There was a loud pop followed by a searing pain. My knee collided with the pavement and I let out a loud yelp. Mrs. Hudson was first on the scene to coo and fawn over me.
"No, no. I've got him." Sherlock said shooing her away. He scooped me up into his arms.
"I hate you, Sherlock Holmes. God Damn it, I hate you." Was all I could say.
"I know, I know." He said patting my shoulder.
He carried me into the A&E. The staff caught one look of us and I could hear snickering behind my back. I noticed I was still wearing the red pumps. We spent a good three hours waiting to be seen, another three waiting to be treated, and another hour waiting to be discharged.
I was sent home with an ankle brace and crutches. I couldn't help but be disgruntled. "Put you in heels and chase you with a knife, see how you like it. Bastard." I grumbled as I hobbled along with my crutches up to 221-B. It didn't help that Sherlock kept trying to comfort me in the waiting room. Asking if I fancied ass for dinner, 'But John, we have a quarter tonne of ass, might as well make use of it.' How have I not throttled the man yet?
"Congratulations, Sherlock. You have ruined a perfectly good birthday, yet again."
"At least it was memorable." He said with a shrug.
"Yes. It was." I sneered. "It was a very special birthday, thanks. Now you can go back to being a dick." I opened the door and made my way in with a loud kajunk, kajunk, kajunk. I turned to go into Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Need help up the stairs?" Sherlock motioned towards the stairs.
"No, Sherlock, you've done enough already."
I was steaming with rage by the time I took a seat on Mrs. Hudson's sofa. She said I could stay as long as I liked. She made me tea and biscuits and prattled on about Sherlock and his nonsense. She was one hundred percent on my side and I was entirely grateful.
Sherlock came down several times and was turned away at the door by Mrs. H. I couldn't help but smile.
"You turn round right now, young man, n' march up those steps. I don't want any more trouble from you. Now get." She shooed him out with a broom like an unwanted alley cat.
I could hear Sherlock's heavy footfall on the stairs, apparently taking Mrs. Hudson's instructions too literally. I started to feel a slight pang of guilt, but I quickly drown it with more tea and biscuits.
It helped to complain about Sherlock to someone who wasn't Sherlock, and who could understand where I was coming from. I was actually enjoying myself, relaxing with Mrs. Hudson, watching crap telly with my leg propped up on an ice pack. It was lovely.
I really wasn't looking forward to a confrontation with Sherlock when I returned to our flat later that evening. Fortunately Sherlock had retreated to the bedroom. He was likely sore because I got hurt.
He always gets angry when I'm hurt. I don't know whether he's angry with himself or angry at me for being hurt. Either way, he doesn't like it one bit. It's likely he's cross for selfish reasons. Maybe he believes when I'm injured I can't be at his beck and call or cater to his every whim.
I decided to let him be and curled up on the sofa with a book I've been trying to read for ages, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. I managed to get five pages in before passing out.