5. Restaurant

It had been more than a week since I'd last meet Lestrade. We had both agreed that there was no emergency to solve the case. I had done some research about the penal code ruling the Hexagon, overjoyed to discover within the texts a solution that allowed me to put an end to Andrews' victorious and self- satisfied smiles. According to the article 143 and following ones of the French procedural penal code, detention pending trial can be enforced in crime or infraction circumstances, punished by more than three years of imprisonment for these ones.

As everyone knows - at least I hope so... - France, contrary to the United-Kingdom and to the English justice in general, divides her infringements into three categories: minor offence, infractions and crimes. Breaches classified depending on seriousness and so, the gravity of the penalty incurred. This system seems clever if we stop to the theory. However, in practice, this tripartite classification doesn't make sense. Am I the only one who thinks that it is appalling to define an offense by its penalty severity? The purpose isn't to discuss our neighbours' justice but still...

Since the French penal code defines rape as a crime in its article 222-23, detention was imposed to Andrews. This little stay, soon definitive, would permit to leave our little hunter facing the prison environment. And enable him to learn that being on the victim's side of rape isn't a fulfilling sexual experience. Although, personally, I never had to experiment with the thing... Who knows, maybe it could turn out to be... surprising. I'll ask Donovan one of these days.

Even though, officially, Andrews' case is still classified as "ongoing" in Scotland Yard's cardboard boxes, I took me less than one hour to dismantle this little bugger's alibi. One visit in the Diogenes Club was enough to solve this puzzle.

"Even if you have trouble understanding it, brother mine, when I come here, it's in order to be left in peace. Not to be bothered endlessly." Mycroft pushes the door of the comfortable office his co-founder status in this club offers him.

"Oh please. You have a huge mansion and a life without friends for that..." My brother doesn't rise to my comment. What a shame. Taking place behind the impressive wooden desk, he scrutinises me with his sharp gaze, hands linked at the level of his mouth. Does he continuously copy me on purpose or is it genetics that lacks inspiration? "Seriously, what interests do you find in reading the newspaper here, surrounded by so-called octogenarian gentlemen -who are, at bottom, nothing more than a bunch of goldfish just like the others? When you could simply..."

"Sherlock. The facts, please." Mycroft's words are almost flung in my face. Obviously, I'm bothering. At least more than usually. I decide to go over my eldest's bad mood and sigh before beginning to reel off my extended speech about Andrews, sliding the file on the desk.

Mycroft informs me that he wasn't with Andrews the night of the rape. How surprising... Actually, he was, but not exactly as he deigned to told us. Andrews is in fact Mycroft's chauffeur - hence his more than questionable suit and flabby backside. As planned, he dropped him off in front of the Royal Opera House,however he didn't enter the building after parking the car. But he could have: in there, there is a sort of waiting room dedicated to those who, too poor or unread, are just waiting patiently.

So, Andrews disappeared from all radar during a large part of the play. At least that's what we thought before my brother inspected the cameras covering Coven Garden's area. On one these, we could clearly catch sight of our suspect getting a smaller silhouette under control - with great difficulty, just saying... - and then guiding it out of the camera's sight.

Case closed, then. But somewhat disappointing. Admittedly, Andrews didn't suspect that his employer was my brother, but he surely knew my name. Given that Lestrade constantly beg for my help, it would be very easy to disprove his alibi. Truth would have been exposed, one day or another.

So, Andrews now rots in preventive detention for almost ten days. To be honest, I stopped counting. Lestrade has all the data he needs at his disposal, it's his job to take care of all the paperwork now. I don't know why but I'm thinking about the victim as my bow gently takes a stroll on my violin and my fingers pluck its strings. I'm doing my best to distance myself from all kind of feelings likely to slow me down - namely more or less all of them - but, as John keeps repeating, I'm only human. And thinking that I can push my limbic system* on standby is pure utopia.

(*Part of the brain considered to be responsible for emotions and feelings.)

I already had the occasion to observe my senses go into panic several times. To feel my neurons activating one by one, making fear, pain or sorrow rush into my organism. Most of these experiences involved John on the verge of death. However another one, far older, relates to the death of Redbeard and how, in an instant, a little boy who already feels lonely as if he's the only one in the world falls into complete isolation.

With this thought, my arms stand still, as if they were paralysed. I lock up the memory of my childhood dog where it always should have stayed and set down my violin on its base. The echoes of the second movement of the Concertante Symphony for violin, viola and orchestra in E flat major by Mozart slowly fade away in the flat.

"That was beautiful, I really like it." My heart skips a beat. Wasn't John supposed to go out with his actual girlfriend tonight? I turn around, not letting anything appear, and face my flatmate with his elbows propped on the glass kitchen door.

"Mozart." John seems to appreciate classical music. Rare are the times he doesn't pay me compliments when I'm playing. Yet he is unable to recognize most of the pieces. The Concertante Symphony, or Sinfonia Concertante in Italian, is part of the major work of Mozart, and Mozart one of the greats in general. "Since when did you come back?"

No need to ask, if truth be told. The half-empty cup of tea set on the table behind him and the fact that he took the time to remove his coat soon give me the answer, but I want him to say it. Between his part-time job in the hospital and my investigations, the time we spend within those walls lowers each day.

About three months ago, John was asking himself if this job, purely to put food on the table, was really worth it. Our increasing renown handed us more clients that we could see on a silver platter. And I think he'll agree to say that inspecting a crime scene is far more joyous than prescribing pills all day long. I had ended up being delighted with the idea of seeing my flatmate, my friend, following me in all of my cases. His life would have been endangered even more than it already was but I would have protected him. Isn't it what I'm the best at?

"A small quarter of an hour. You seemed focused..."

The hem John's lips make as he smiles makes me smile too. Whatever may be the reason. John begins to move again and disappears from my sight a few seconds. When he comes back, he is holding his cup of tea. In a quite feminine and British manner.

"I always am. Had a good night?"

"Hum, well, yes."

I sit in my black armchair while John raises the liquid, probably lukewarm, to his lips.

"Not really, no."

"I beg your pardon?"

John looks like he's outraged but is in fact intrigued. He always tends to exaggerate. He's wondering how I'm capable of knowing that, what details in his appearance or his behaviour makes me deduce it. And that's exactly why he casts a glance at his jumper. I love seeing him lost. Trying to understand the trick, the eternal trick that enables me to see everything people want to hide from me. In vain, of course.

"You left the flat at precisely 20:15 to be certain that you'll arrive at the restaurant at 20:30. Which proves that you're involved. On the other hand, your clothes suggest the exact opposite. Simple beige pullover, just like the ones you wear every day. I know I'm not well situated to give lessons but it isn't really... romantic, is it?"

"Sherlock..."

"You went to your favourite restaurant, the one you always go to. What causes you to know the menu by heart and explains why you're no longer taking pleasure in eating there. You'd like to change. She doesn't want to. So you keep inviting her to this restaurant every Saturday. She doesn't like change, she doesn't like to go out. The more the weeks go by, the shorter your dinners are. Less time wasted thumbing through the menu, which means less time passed looking straight into each other's eyes without saying anything. I think that..."

"Sherlock, I broke up with Beth."

I slowly uncross my hands, restraining my cold and sharp gaze. One by one, I review the emotions a human being can go through after a break-up. Regret? Sadness? Bitterness? Joy? No, it's not that. This glimmer in John's eyes doesn't match with any of these. Relief ! It's relief. The feeling that you've just freed yourself from a burden. That you put an end to something that you knew wasn't viable.

We stayed there for a moment, staring at each other in silence. John finally began to laugh, he also happy about this news.