A.N.- Haha, I'm spitting out chapters like crazy! My classes are too easy and I've got all this FREE time. Jeesh. I also went to a mixer last weekend and met this really handsome boy… and he's 14, too! THE STARS HAVE ALIGNED. (Kidding, you guys.)
AmalieNico- No problem, it's a really neat handle. And thanks for the praise- John can be adorable when he wants to be (but then again Sherlock can to… to be manipulative, John does it 'cause he's nice.) He's like the buffer to Sherlock's open brazenness.
Madeline? On meds? WHAAAT? Gee, I don't know…
Aroochick- Yeah, there are people watching Madeline and the guys all the time, now. Jim might make an appearance soon, but right now it's all his men. Yeah, the guys just integrated her in; even though Sherlock still can't figure out any important things about her.
My feelings are pathetically sensitive, thank you for all the support! We got over 100 views last night- up to 400-something, now! Thank you all SO much!
Some people might not like this chapter, and I apologize heavily.
The Dame of Baker Street, Ch. 4
"Samples from the lungs, heart, and liver are all at Bart's waiting for me." Sherlock said, "And I found a strange brown substance on the inside of the boy's esophagus, maybe he was forcefully fed something- no, no don't be stupid. John, shut up! I'm thinking!" He snarled at his flatmate. John shook his head and fluffed his newspaper wordlessly, ignoring his flatmate while Sherlock paced around in 221 B agitatedly.
"What about something slick. And sticky. Something brown. Molasses? No, no sugar traces in the mouth. Maybe it was-"
"Vomiting?" Madeline supplied helpfully from the doorway. Sherlock unfisted his hands from his curly hair and sprang onto the coffee table in front of the couch with a laugh, peering at the posters and pictures he'd tacked to the wall. "I heard him pacing all the way from my apartment," Madeline told John as she sat in Sherlock's seat gingerly.
"Out of my seat, Miss Carver." Sherlock called absently from the wall, she stuck her tongue out at the detective's back as John gave them an approving look. Sherlock hoped down from the coffee table and strode towards the fire place.
"Miss Carver, take these and run a DNA scan on them for me." He said expectantly, tossing a bag of tiny hair clippings onto her lap. She shied away from it and gingerly set it on the table beside her.
"Hair analyzing really isn't my field, Sherlock." She said. The detective rolled his eyes and turned so that he towered over her.
"Of course it is. Hair and nails are made of keratin, a protein; and genetics determine a person's hair or the shape of their nails. Right up your alley, have fun." He gave her a tight smile like he was trying to be friendly. John hid his amused grin behind his newspaper.
"I can try it." Madeline said slowly, "But don't expect any concrete results." She gently pinched the bag between two fingers and stood from the chair.
"Ah, you're brilliant, Miss Carver, brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed, shaking his hands in excitement. His neighbor gave him a small smile before shrugging on her coat and leaving. No sooner had the door shut than Sherlock's strained smile disappeared from his face and he collapsed in his chair with a scowl.
"You need to stop doing that." John chided from his seat.
"Doing what? I'm not doing anything. I'm thinking." His flatmate retorted, leaning on his hand irately.
"You know what I meant: manipulating people. Especially women like Molly and Madeline- with you cheekbones and turned up collars and the like." John elaborated. Sherlock gave his flatmate a trying look and shrugged.
"She listened out of her own free will, I'm no mind controller." He said a little bitingly. John "m-hmmed" in the back of his throat with an unamused stare. Sherlock returned the look until he leapt from his chair and resumed pacing.
"Fine! I needed her out of the flat so I could do some investigating." The detective glowered. "And she needs to stop sitting in my armchair, it makes the seat warm and uncomfortable. John," He said, returning his attention to the doctor. "I need you to go root through Madeline's things, bring me anything that might be useful."
"Wha- no! Sherlock I'm not going to just go browsing through her stuff on your whim." John protested. Sherlock gave him a patronizing glare.
"Oh come on, haven't you wanted to know more about her?" He prodded.
"She told us where she's from and what she does." John responded evenly.
"That's ridiculous and you know it. Nobody can be that dull, John."
"Maybe she's not dull, just not willing to tell you anything-"
"That's the spirit!"
"Because you overreact and try to read anything and everything about her. People don't like that, Sherlock." John said promptly before grabbing papers he had to file for work at the office. Sherlock closed his eyes, steepled his fingers and tapped the touching tips of his forefingers against his nose.
"John, what if she's in trouble? She seems like someone who would do that conceal something troubling her. Why don't you go check through her things and make sure she's not secretly a cocaine addict or something." The detective said emotionlessly. A few seconds later he heard John's desk chair scrape backwards and heard his harried footsteps retreat down the stairs and into the hallway. Sherlock smiled and opened his eyes, he reached behind his chair for his violin and began plucking at the strings absentmindedly; waiting for his guilt-tripped flatmate to bring him results.
. . .
"Sherlock!" John said breathlessly, barging into the flat and leaning against the door. Sherlock didn't even look at his flatmate as he continued to pluck at his violin.
"The brand of her undergarments doesn't interest me, I hope you've brought me something useful." The doctor took a deep, steadying breath and clutched something in his hand.
"So I was rifling through Madeline's room to see if I could find anything and-"
"Her cat is of no importance to me."
"But this is." The doctor waved a small floral-patterned box in Sherlock's face. It made a hollow rattling sound like items were sliding around inside of it. The detective snatched it out of his flatmate's hand irately and opened it carelessly. He sat staring at the box's contents for a while blankly until a brief look of horror and revulsion crossed his features. The detective sprang up from the chair, knocking the box's contents to the floor as he began pacing furiously, using his hands to gesture silently at the air while he muttered to himself agitatedly. John glanced at the box and bit back a growl of frustration. Five razor blades, a prescription bottle, and a carefully folded note had tumbled out onto the floor, and the beginning of the note was easily visible:
I'm sorry, I just can't-
John kicked at the carpet angrily while Sherlock restored himself to a cool, collected state and replaced the contents of the box and set it on the table.
"She should be home any moment now. Try not to look like you killed her cat, John. You look furious." Sherlock said blandly. John opened his mouth to deliver a scalding retort but Sherlock pointed at the curtains that were shifting from the slight change in temperature.
"She's back."
. . .
"Hey, sorry that took so long, Sherlock. But the hairs are definitely from the boy they match perf- what's wrong, you guys?" Madeline stopped just inside of 221 B's doorway with a confused look plastered to her face. John was standing by Sherlock's chair with an expression halfway between guilty and furious, and his flatmate was sitting in his armchair with his fingers laced together carelessly and a bored expression. Madeline's eyes traveled over the scene until they caught sight of the small box on the table. Her pulse began to race and almost all the color drained from her face.
"Is there something you've been meaning to tell us, Madeline?" John said angrily, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Sherlock said nothing as he assessed everyone's body language. Madeline radiated fairly obvious things:
Terrified,
Betrayed,
Furious,
Secretive,
Lucid,
Fragile.
John on the other hand portrayed the same things, but from a different standpoint:
Guilty,
Angry,
Distressed,
Nervous,
Cautious,
Furious.
Madeline's pointer finger and her thumb began to make a bracelet around her wrist again, and now Sherlock understood why. With the simplest pieces of information he had learned so much more about his dull neighbor than he had expected.
"So would you mind telling us why?" He said, opening the box and taking out the small bottle. He rolled it between his hands like a child's toy then held it up so Madeline could see the label, even though she knew full well what it read.
"Severe antidepressants prescribed to one Miss Madeline Carver. Take three pills by mouth daily with water and food. Do not skip medications. So my guess is that this is a menagerie of medicines like Trofanil and Paxil, correct? Oh, and look- medications for severe Bipolar Disorder. Well, then." The detective said coldly. Madeline's fingers began rubbing at her wrists harder. "Good Lord, you must have been a twenty-seven on the Hamilton Depression Scale, Miss Carver. The question is: how did you hide it so well? And you should buy yourself better razors, these are beginning to rust." John swiftly stepped over and hit his flatmate on the back of the head with a book furiously, and not lightly, either. The book thwacked against Sherlock's skull loudly and he gave John a venomous glare.
"Why didn't you say anything to us?" The doctor said with barely controlled fury rising in his voice. "We're your friends, we could've helped you. Why in the world would you ever want to hurt yourself?" Madeline's blue eyes were wide, and she was beginning to have trouble seeing because of the tears blurring her vision. She pulled her right sleeve back a little so her neighbors could see the faint pink lines tracing across her skin like they were drawn with a straight edge. A few darker ones seemed fresher, like they'd been drawn only days ago.
"I- I don't know." She said in a thin, scared voice. "I don't tell anybody, I just don't. It's one of those things you deal with on your own." John stepped forward with the most outraged look implanted onto his features, but calmed himself and extended a hand to his neighbor.
"That's not something you deal with by yourself." He said in a softer voice. "Here, we'll help you." He guided her to the couch and let her sit before taking a comforting seat beside her.
"I don't know." Madeline said shakily, "I really don't know where to start. I've always had feelings like that, emptiness and loneliness, or the thoughts that I just couldn't do anything right no matter how hard I tried. It felt good to watch my pain bleed out, and it helped to watch the wounds scab and heal into scars." She brushed at her eyes angrily as John gingerly reached out to rub her shoulder. "Sorry," She said.
"No, no. You're fine." John said. Sherlock sat silently in his chair while the other two talked in hushed, comforting tones on the other side of the room. A small grin slid on and off of the detective's face periodically. How could he have missed such a thing? Some detective, she was very clever. Smile. But- she really was in pain, is this what normal people felt? Frown. Normal people, how boring. Smile again. She hid it so well, though. Are other normal people as internally complex? Back to a serious frown.
"I don't have a seriously demented or tortured past. Or a tragic backstory," Madeline murmured quietly to John, "I've just got this, and it's occupied a large piece of my life for as long as I can remember." Her confession was interrupted by Sherlock standing and pulling on his coat. He knotted his scarf around his neck and strode to the door.
"John, as I recall we have a case to solve." He said callously. The doctor stared at him incredulously.
"I'm a little preoccupied, thanks very much." He responded,
"Just commit her to an asylum and be done with it." Sherlock snapped snarkily. "We've got work to do." He added, trying to soften his first statement.
"I'm not crazy!" Madeline said forcefully, standing and rounding on the tall man. He stared back at her with emotionless blue eyes and an unreadable expression.
"No, just too common for your own good."
"And what does that mean?" Madeline snapped.
"Exactly what it should."
"Sherlock!" John interjected, "I'm taking her with us. I don't want to leave her alone right now."
"Like there's a chance in hell you will." Sherlock said icily before disappearing down the stairs and striding out the door. Madeline and John watched him go silently.
"I'm fine, John. Sometimes my meds just don't work." She said quietly. John reached for her wrist and pulled her sleeve back down to cover the pink lines.
"You know what, then that's okay. I'm a doctor." He said fondly. Madeline gave him a grateful hug before she took her medications, rebuttoned her coat around her shoulders and followed John down the stairs and outside, where Sherlock was waiting for them. He snarled an abrupt "sorry" at Madeline's feet before turning and taking deep strides down the street. Madeline sighed at the relaxed feeling flowing through her body. It wasn't just from the medicines flowing through her system. It felt like a weight had been lifted off of her chest. It was still there, hanging dangerously above her; but she had the feeling that she'd have the help of two men to help her lift it up and away.
A.N.- SHIT CHAPTER, I KNOW. Pardon moi Francais. I had this chapter planned from the beginning, this is actually the scene I based the story off of. (Sad, huh?) You are reading the work of a bipolar girl with suicidal tendencies who takes no medication and gets along fine, but there are some people who have it way worse and have to take severe meds for it.
For those who don't know: Bipolar is when you have epic and frequent mood swings (manic/ mania and depression swings). You can go from laughing happily one minute to a suicidal ball in a corner the next. (It ain't pretty, I'll have you know.) Sorry Madeline has no seriously cool backstory, but remember- she's unbelievably dull to Sherlock…. Until now. And until Jimmy decides to make an entrance….
Review, please! Love to you all!