First Class is nice, but it's not magical. As he expected, John's leg aches like hell as he limps up the walk towards the Cushings' house. He's straining to keep up with Sherlock, who is clenching his fists in the effort to slow down. It takes decades, but eventually they reach the front door.
A woman who looks remarkably like Sonya but twenty years older answers the door.
"Good evening," Sherlock says in a clipped, professional tone, with a disinterested smile. "Mrs. Cushing?"
"Yes," she answers, narrowing her eyes.
"We are with the firm Perkins, Morton, and Cope. Is Siobhan Cushing at home?"
"Why?"
"We just need to speak with her about the flat she abandoned in London. It'll only take a moment."
"The flat she… What are you on about? She didn't… No. Siobhan is not well. You can call and make an appointment with her, you don't just show up at someone's door. What the hell is wrong with you?" She slams the door.
John adjusts his hold on his cane and turns to leave. "Well, that went well."
"Yes, it did," Sherlock murmurs without irony, tracing his lips with his finger as he examines the face of the house and then points at an upstairs window that is, to John's eye, indistinguishable from the other. "Look, the curtain's drawn but observe the outline of her head. The headboard is against the window and she's sitting in bed, leaning against it. She will have heard the doorbell, but she's not curious enough to turn around and see who's here."
"She's not well, her mother said."
"Indeed. And her mother has not been sleeping. She normally wears makeup and takes great care with her hair, but is currently doing neither of those things, though she did go to work today, reluctantly. She's quite concerned."
"But Siobhan is alive."
"It would seem so. Tomorrow, I'll see for myself."
"And that means Alex is dead?"
"Most likely." Sherlock doesn't seem the least bit troubled, but John wouldn't have expected anything else. He can be troubled for the both of them.
"And why aren't we telling that woman that her daughter's been killed?"
"Because then the killer – Daniel or Jason, whichever it is – will discover I'm onto him and flee, and I'll never get the evidence I need."
John feels slightly inhuman to be accepting that answer so easily, but then he thinks, why shouldn't he, he'll wind up accepting it in the end anyway. The Cushings will be told when Sherlock decides it is time for them to be told.
Back at the hotel, he's grateful for a hot bath that gives his leg some minimal relief, and for the pills in the black box, which he opens in the privacy of the bathroom. Time to start tapering off, he thinks. They really make him nervous.
He emerges from the bathroom in his pyjamas to find that Sherlock has appeared with Indian takeaway.
"Dimmock texted. Neither Alex or Jason was on a flight to Hong Kong in the last week."
John nods. That was expected. The takeaway, on the other hand, is unprecedented. "You bought food?" he asks incredulously.
"You're hungry," Sherlock replies as he puts the containers and forks out on the little table.
"I am. Famished, actually. This smells delicious. Chicken vindaloo? Sherlock. This might be the nicest thing you've ever done for me."
Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "I would've thought saving your life was the nicest thing I've ever done for you. In the future, I'll remember that picking up your favorite Indian dish will suffice."
"No, I'm afraid you'll have to save my life as well. But thank you for this." John pauses in amazement before digging in. "Sherlock, you got food for yourself?"
Sherlock says nothing, but rips off a piece of naan and dips it in the chutney. They eat in silence for a while. It's really quite good. Like most Londoners, John is attached to the idea that the only decent food in England is in his city; it has never occurred to him that one could find excellent Indian food in Chapeltown.
After dinner, he stretches out with a luxuriant sigh on the bed. Just the one bed. Before Sherlock jumped and they went on the run, he would have insisted on separate rooms, or at least separate beds. Now, it barely registers. This was the room that was available in the hotel with the best location. He didn't bother to look for another hotel. For weeks, they shared the same room, the same culvert, the same doorway, the same old car dumped by the river. They curled up side by side and though they rarely touched, they could feel one another's breath. They never shared a bed, but only because they never had the luxury. The truth is, John's happier than he'll admit to be sharing a bed with Sherlock tonight. "Sharing" is hypothetical, of course, since it's highly unlikely Sherlock will lie down at any point. But he'll be close by, and John knows he'll sleep better for it and if he has a nightmare, he'll wake up to Sherlock staring down at him, in that particular way that is simultaneously a bit disturbing and infinitely comforting. He's missed that. In the hospital, he woke from nightmares and there was nothing but the humming and beeping of machines and occasional footsteps in the hall. He'd reach for his mobile then, and more often than not, there would be cryptic texts from Sherlock.
Calluses on base of index finger and knuckle of middle finger, right hand. He's a cook, why would he say he's a gardener?
SH
When he had nothing to say, which was usually, he said nothing, but stared at the little screen in his hand and basked in its blue light until he could go back to sleep.
Billiards chalk on his sleeve and mud on his right – not left – trouser leg. Alibi.
SH
When he had something to say, he did.
Can pemphigus vulgaris afflict a woman in her early 20s?
SH
I doubt it. Middle and old age exclusively as far as I know. Why?
JW
But now, John lies on the bed with his arm covering his eyes and drifts off bit by bit to the sound of Sherlock tapping away at his laptop and muttering to himself about Siobhan's uni records and Jason's life before Nigeria and the glaring lack of data in Daniel Beecher's flat.
When John wakes up in the morning, Sherlock is, not surprisingly, staring down at him.
"Waiting for me?"
"Yes."
"You could've woke me up."
"You needed the rest."
"How long are you going to be like this?"
"Like what?"
"Uh… solicitous. Unusually concerned for my welfare. Caring whether I sleep or eat."
"It's what you do for me, isn't it?"
John sits up and rubs his eyes in shock. "What? Yes, of course, for you, but that's… That's what I do, isn't it?"
"I'll stop if you like."
"No, it's fine, really. It's just… not what you do. Typically. I appreciate it, very much. I just can't imagine it will last."
"Of course it won't. But you're injured and I need you to keep up. Get dressed. I'll meet you downstairs."