They rode along in a companionable silence. Rain streaked down the windows of the cab and Jane drew meaningless shapes in the condensation on the glass. Sherlock kept glancing over at her, obviously wanting her to ask him about the case. This man she'd already decided, loved having an audience. They began a small debate that ended with him quickly and efficiently answering her questions about the location and cause of death. Then she made the fatal mistake of uttering the phrase:
"I'd assumed you were a private detective, but the police don't consult amateurs." She was already aware that he preferred the term "consulting detective", but she wanted him to explain it more fully.
His eyes flared with resentment at the word. He squared his shoulders and fixed her with an icy stare.
"When I first met you I asked Afghanistan or Iraq." He stated.
"Yes, how did you know?" She enquired.
"I didn't know, I saw. Your hair, the way you hold yourself, says military, but you mentioned being familiar with the way the hospital looked prior to being remodeled, that said trained at Bart's, so Army Doctor - that's obvious. Your face is tan but no tan above the wrist. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then, wounded in action, suntan- Afghanistan or Iraq."
"You said I had a therapist" Jane retorted.
"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist" he said as if it were obvious "Then there's your brother."
"Oh?" She asked, interested in how he'd explain that one.
"Your phone, it's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare - You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many, over time. It's been in the same pocket as coins and keys. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already."
"The engraving." She supplied quickly.
"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero that can't find a place to live, unlikely you have an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on and he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it, people do - sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to keep in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodations but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got a problem with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you didn't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" Jane question, unfazed by the fact that he'd insinuated that she'd been in love with her sister in law.
"Shot in the dark, good one though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edges of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; and never see a drunk's without them." He finished with a triumph smirk. "You were right then, the police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock bit his lip, looking nervously as he waited for her to respond
"That... was amazing!" She cried in astonishment.
He looked so shocked by the praise that he didn't even reply for a few moments.
"Do you really think so?" He asked shyly.
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary." She replied, still a little awestruck by the explanation.
"That's not what people normally say." He said.
"What do people normally say?" She asked.
"Piss off" he said.
He glanced at Jane and the two bursted into laughter. They settled back into a brief comfortable silence after that.
"Did I get anything wrong?" He asked, looking over at her again.
"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."
"Really? I didn't expect to get everything righ-"
"And Harry's short for Harriet." Jane cut in quickly.
He started violently at that tidbit of information.
"Sister! Harry's your sister!" He growled through gritted teeth.
"Careful Mr. Holmes, someone might take that for arrogance, even the great Sherlock Holmes misses thing every now and again apparently." She teased.
His sharp eyes narrowed once more at the challenge. She felt him assessing her and braced herself for another round of deductions.
"Well Miss Watson, I didn't miss the thin band of pale skin along your left ring finger, I'd say engaged within the last year. The skin is beginning to match the shade of the rest of the finger though, I'm assuming he left you around six months or so ago, possibly because of you putting your job in front of him, or your refusal to settle down into the role of a traditional housewife."
The air seemed knocked out of her lungs at that, images rushing back as she remembered him, walking hand and hand through London, remembered the sound of the masked man's voice as he pointed the gun at his chest. She remembered her wonderful Henry handing over his watch and wallet, begging only that the man didn't touch Jane. She remembered the way he'd reacted when the attacker had pushed her up against the brick wall, hiking her skirt up at the thigh. She thought of the way Henry had lunged for the man, how the attacker turned before he could grab him and put a bullet though his chest.
She'd sank to her knees and cradled the love of her life in her lap as he bled to death in a London alley. She could still feel his blood sticking to her hair and skin, could still hear his whispered "I love you" as he took his last breath. She hated herself everyday for not being able to save him, it made getting shot feel small in comparison.
"Jane?— Jane!!!" Sherlock's voiced called and the feeling of his hands gently shaking her shoulders finally broke her out of the flashback that gripped her.
"Breathe, Jane!" He demanded. Soothing a hand down her arm as she shook violently.
"He— he didn't leave me, not willingly at least. He was shot, just a few weeks after I made it home, protecting me from a robber who tried to assault me." She whispered.
The guilt slammed into him like a ton of bricks as he realized what he'd done. He'd been so desperate to show off that he hadn't considered the effects his words might have, let alone the fact that he'd be so tragically wrong.
"I'- I'm sorry. Please forgive me." He stammered. "Had I known, I never would have said anything"
The guilt in his eyes told her that he was telling the truth. She wasn't angry with him, he hadn't known what happened to Henry. The mention of it had sparked a violent flashback, PTSD had that effect on people, especially broken army doctors. She took a shaky breath and squared her shoulders.
"I know, I'm sorry I still have a hard time thinking about it. I loved him more than I've ever loved anyone in my life, but I'm learning to cope. He was wonderful, he'd want me to be strong." She said. Her voice wavering slightly as a single tear rolled down her cheek.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly, one glance at him told her that the guilt was still plaguing him. After composing herself she considered the man across from her. A study in contrasts, so cold and sterile one moment, then guilt ridden and sympathetic the next. He was certainly a puzzle. Her reverie was cut short when the cab pulled to a stop. He opened the door and held out a hand to help her out and she flashed him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
The pair then strode off towards the flashing police lights and crisscrossed cation tape that decorated the street. The lights caused strange reflections in the glittering rain, giving the entire scene a sense of urgency and movement. Sherlock had settled into his mask of cold indifference, not because of her, but because he was already turning every bit of that spectacular brain to the details of the case before them.
