3. Amusing The Patient


After nearly a year of cohabitation, Sherlock could say with some confidence that having a flatmate was certainly one of the more educational experiences of his life. He could observe the normal day-to-day operations of an average human male at astonishingly close range, and he found that his deductions regarding human behaviour had benefited considerably from these observations. Living with John was like having an endless course in human psychology delivered directly to his doorstep. Naturally, the course lacked a syllabus, so that Sherlock could never quite predict what the next topic of instruction would be.

Recently, that topic had been Frustration. John's autopsy of Mrs. Farrell had led only to the most distressingly vague of conclusions. He could not seem to establish a cause of death, but refused to declare the death natural and allow Lestrade to close the case. As a direct result, John had become snappish and irritable, and did not take kindly to even the most helpful suggestions that Sherlock made.

"Poison, John."

"Hmm?" John looked up from the latest issue of The Lancet.

"Poison. Mrs. Farrell was poisoned. I'm sure of it."

John snorted. "Thank you, Mr. Helpful."

"Oh, be sensible, John," Sherlock said. "If you would only observe, it's the only logical conclusion. You said yourself that she was too healthy simply to die of old age, and there are no wounds or other traumatic injuries on the body; even a physician of your limited experience would have found them by now. Therefore, the only logical solution that remains is poison."

John set his journal down and rubbed his eyes. "Not helpful, Sherlock. Even if I could find even trace evidence of what she could possibly have taken, that still wouldn't tell me if she was maliciously poisoned or if she simply mixed up her medications or had a drug interaction."

"There are two of us, in case you'd forgotten."

"Yes, I know, Sherlock. For your information, you're hard to ignore."

"Then why are you ignoring me now?" Sherlock sprang to his feet and started to pace. "I could investigate any possible sources of poison. That way, once you discover what poison it was, I'll know how it got to her, and we can give Lestrade everything he needs without wasting time."

John sighed. "The police already questioned Louise Hendrickson and the neighbours. No one saw anyone going to visit Mrs. Farrell on the day she died. I don't know what you'd expect to find that the police couldn't."

"Everything, of course. Lestrade and Donovan have been very helpful at getting rid of the trivia. Let me go and look for the real killer."

"Fine. Whatever. Knock yourself out. But." John held up a warning hand. "Not tonight, please. Do it in the morning."

Sherlock flopped back into his chair. "Bored."

"Play your violin. Go aim some Paganini at Mrs. Turner's. It can be revenge for them blasting Lady Gaga and having loud sex while some of us are trying to sleep."

"Oh, John. Sleeping is boring." But Sherlock got up and opened his violin case anyway.


Questioning the neighbours yielded less information than Sherlock had hoped. Many of them were elderly, and their sight, hearing, and recall were not what they had been. Mostly, they only recalled trivial oddities, a cat behaving strangely, or a set of keys going missing. Eventually, John allowed Louise Hendrickson to go ahead and bury her mother, but advised Lestrade to keep the case open anyway. And soon enough, there was another source of frustration for Sherlock to examine.

As predicted, flu season hit London hard that year. John's hours at the surgery increased, and he even managed to pick up some extra cash with regular stints of locum work at Barts as their staff succumbed as well. John distributed small bottles of alcohol gel liberally around the flat, and even showed up at Scotland Yard with a case of the stuff to hand around to Lestrade and the rest of the homicide squad. This irritated Sherlock, who could no longer find an excuse to needle Anderson about his ongoing affair with Donovan. While it was true that they both smelled of alcohol gel, so did everyone on the squad.

John's temper grew shorter as his hours grew longer, and Sherlock realized that he would have to do something to compensate before their living situation grew intolerable. A chance conversation with Mrs. Hudson inspired him.

He was deep in the middle of a comparative experiment that involved inducing a particular chemical reaction involving several brands of liquid dish detergent, some industrial strength hydrogen peroxide, a small bottle of food dye, and potassium iodide. Mrs. Hudson strolled into the flat just as the chemicals reacted, but she simply smiled and set a covered dish down on the counter, ignoring the rapidly growing globs of warm, bright pink foam that were drowning the table.

"I made a little too much spaghetti, so I thought you might like a snack, dear," she said. "My, what a lovely shade of pink. I do wish someone had taught me how to do things like that. You will clean it up, won't you, there's a good boy."

Sherlock ignored the last statement. "It's basic chemistry, Mrs. Hudson," he said. "Anyone could learn it in school."

"Oh, no, not in my day, dear, not the girls. We only had lessons in Applied Chemistry."

"By which was meant . . . ?"

"Cooking." And Mrs. Hudson set the plate of spaghetti in front of Sherlock and handed him a fork, a spoon, and a napkin. She took a last look at the pink foam, gave a little sigh of envy, patted Sherlock on the shoulder and left. It really was very good spaghetti, though Sherlock decided to blame John for the stab of guilt that came with the first few bites. But, by the time he finished the plate, he had had a much better idea. He set the plate in the sink and rummaged through the kitchen cabinets.


John arrived home at his usual hour. His usual greeting was subdued, he was pale and hunched with exhaustion, and he favoured his leg a little bit as he shed his coat and dropped heavily onto the sofa. A trained monkey could have deduced that John's day at the surgery had not gone well, and that he was therefore in the perfect state for Sherlock's newest experiment. Sherlock quickly assembled the contents of several beakers, loaded the results onto a tray, and at the last minute decided to add some parsley. It was time for the field test. He carried the tray carefully into the sitting room and set it down on the coffee table in front of John, then stood back to await results.

John was so deep in his own thoughts that it took a few moments for him to notice Sherlock's offering, and then another few moments for him to process the sensory input before him.

"Spaghetti," he said after a minute.

"Very good, John."

"You made this?"

Sherlock nodded. "I am a degreed chemist and a member of the Forensic Science Society, John. I think I can be trusted to make a simple plate of spaghetti."

"A debatable point in your case, but not really the issue." John blinked at the spaghetti a few times, as if trying to convince himself that it was both real and what it purported to be. "I suppose I'm just wondering . . . why?"

Sherlock was intrigued to discover that he suddenly could not look John in the eye. "Because you've been working hard, and it makes you grumpy, and the flat is less pleasant when you're grumpy, and I decided that if you were properly fed, then you might be less inclined to stomp around and sigh tonight."

John stared at him for a moment. "You saw that I've been having a hard time at work, and so you cooked supper to make me feel better," he translated.

"I believe I said that."

John looked at the spaghetti again, then leaned forward and buried his face in his hands and took a few deep breaths. Sherlock frowned. This experiment was not going as planned. "John?" he asked. "Not good?"

John raised his head, and Sherlock saw that his eyes were damper than usual. "Very good, Sherlock. It's been years since anyone tried to cheer me up after a hard day at work with a home-cooked supper. Thank you." He took a bite of spaghetti and smiled. "This is good. I didn't know you could cook."

"Applied chemistry, please." Sherlock returned to the kitchen just long enough to assemble his own plate, and brought it out to the sitting room, where he settled himself on the floor in front of the coffee table so that he could face John while they ate.

John ate about half of his spaghetti before he looked Sherlock in the eye. "Sherlock, I know that you didn't like getting your flu shot, but I have to tell you that I'm glad I gave it to you."

"Why?"

"Because this year's flu is bad. It's already turning into pneumonia, and today . . . today someone died of it."

Sherlock stopped eating and stared at John.

"Young guy, barely more than a kid," John said quietly. "He was pretty sick when he came in, and . . . I'm not sure what happened. He just collapsed, right there in the exam room. One of the nurses was working on him, but he just . . . slipped away. That won't happen to you now, no matter how many flu germs I bring home."

"Oh." Sherlock didn't quite know what to make of this. It would appear that John cared about him far more than Sherlock had suspected. Either that, or it was the stress and exhaustion talking. There was no good way to tell. "That was good. I suppose."

John gave him a wry smile and resumed eating. Perhaps the next best thing to do would be to distract him.

"I think I'm almost ready to solve the puzzle about that schoolgirl's disappearance," Sherlock offered.

"Good for you."

"There's just one more test I need to run. Perhaps you could help me?"

John shrugged. "Kind of busy these days."

"It'd be quick. Talk to Sarah. I need some tampons."

To his credit, John did not miss a bite of spaghetti. "You can buy them. No rule against men buying them. The shop girls won't even laugh at you these days."

"No, you really must talk to Sarah. I require used tampons."

John paused in his chewing for just a moment. "Sorry, Sherlock. You said it yourself, heroes don't exist. You're on your own for this one. You'll have to talk to Sarah yourself."

Oh, well. It had been worth a try, at least. Perhaps he would just ask Molly instead.


Over the course of the next few weeks, more patients died of the flu. There were not so many as to send the city into a panic, but each new death seemed to affect John personally. He commented often about how it was the worst flu epidemic he had ever seen, and commended the other doctors and the nurses who worked at his side.

The epidemic was also starting to affect the rest of the medical personnel that Sherlock knew. Molly had actually burst into tears one morning after a particularly busy night in the mortuary, and Mike Stamford now refused to let Sherlock into his lab without a mask on, even though Sherlock explained that he had already had his flu shot. Anderson had recovered from his bout, but looked as if he might relapse at any moment.

The homicide squad had stopped looking surprised when Sherlock showed up without John at his side. One day, Lestrade took Sherlock aside and pressed an envelope into his hand. "It's for John," he said. "Just a little card to cheer him up. We all signed it. Can you give it to him for us, next time you see him?"

Sherlock could do better than that. He caught a cab to the surgery, where the receptionist informed him that Dr. Watson would come to see him as soon as he had a free moment, and in the meantime, Sherlock was welcome to sit in the waiting room. Sherlock ignored the coughing people and squalling babies as best he could, losing himself in looking up answers to questions on his mobile. His patience was rewarded when he suddenly knew who had murdered the librarian in Wimbledon. A slow smile spread over his face as he texted Lestrade.

The diamonds are fake, but the cobra is real. Arrest the docent at the Historical Society. - SH

He was still smiling when the door opened, and John emerged, a grandmotherly nurse at his side. "Well, you're smiling, so the news can't be all bad," John said, as Sherlock rose to greet him.

"I've solved the Wimbledon case," Sherlock announced.

John smiled, as though this news relieved him of a burden of care. "I'm glad. One of us is doing his job, at least."

"John, don't be ridiculous. Not every patient in this room is going to die of the flu. Surely your medical degree is worth a few pence more than the paper it's printed on."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." John rolled his eyes, but his smile did not fade.

His remark jogged Sherlock's memory, and Sherlock fished in his coat pocket and brought out the envelope and his wallet. "From the Yard. I'm told that they all signed it." He extracted a twenty from his wallet and pressed it into John's hand on top of the envelope. "From me. Take a cab home. I don't want to wait for you to come by Tube."

"Thanks. I will. I'll see you tonight. Try not to set the place on fire with jelly babies or something."

"Of course, John." He'd been planning to use Swedish Fish anyway. "Shall I . . . perform another act of applied chemistry tonight?"

"Please. Break's over. I'll see you tonight." John turned around and walked back to the exam area. The grandmotherly nurse tossed Sherlock a look of black disdain as she followed him, probably intended as retaliation for the unforgivable crime of pulling John away from his patients for all of five minutes. Sherlock deleted it, turned on his heel so that his coat would swing, and left the surgery.