Chapter 8: Confrontation
"NOW!"
Hands on hips, she stands in the bedroom doorway blocking Victor's exit. All five foot two of her is bristling with anger, enough to match the staunchest of front row forwards that he routinely faces on the rugby pitch.
"Chlo, I've got too much to do and I'm on a tight schedule; this has to wait until tonight."
"You've been saying that for days. If you won't settle this now, then I'm not going to be here tonight. You've put it off long enough: tell him to piss off, because I've had enough! This flat is not big enough for the three of us, and he's so outstayed his welcome. Even for a friend, nine days is, like, a week too long. And he's not a friend; he's a cretin."
"Keep your voice down. You're embarrassing us both." He finishes tucking in his shirt and pulls the sweatshirt over his head.
"NO, I WON'T, and I don't care if he overhears us! About effing time he does. He's out of here tonight, or else. Ever since he got here, you've been running around like some bloody butler, looking after him, taking him to appointments, acting as his skivvy night and day in that lab. Christ, Vic, the guy's family isn't poor; he could afford a live-in carer."
Victor pulls the sleeves of the sweatshirt down his arms properly, and asks quietly: "What do you know about his family? Have you been snooping around?"
"I checked him out with Alice; she's going out with a Trinity boy from his year. Turns out, he's the second son of some lord muckety muck from West Sussex; big country pile, the lot. They obviously don't give a damn about him, given he's camped out here. Why are you so intent on looking after someone who is such a loser? Let his family sort him out."
The last thing that Victor wants to do is tell Chloe that he's already met Sherlock's brother, and that it was hardly a pleasant experience. "His family didn't put him in this situation; it was your bloody dog that did. If he doesn't finish this chemistry project of his, then it's going to screw up his second year. You know why he's here; it's only 200 meters to the lab, so he can have some hope in hell of catching up, especially if I help out."
She rolls her eyes. "Let him use taxis, for God's sake. I'm fed up with you spending all the time you aren't in class or at practice with that weirdo. It's been ages since we've had a night out, together, without him. You're out all hours; it's not fair! I'm going downstairs now into the kitchen and you're going to tell him that he's got to leave by tonight. It's him or me, Vic. Tonight."
She stomps down the stairs and slams the front door.
Victor fixes himself breakfast; his class isn't until nine. Despite her ultimatum, he knows her well enough. With a day to cool down, she will be more willing to talk about it sensibly when she does get home. If he times it right, he will have an hour between the end of practice and having to show up to the lab. Chloe can be volatile, but she's not stupid. She wants the marriage enough to be willing to put up with a bit of short-term inconvenience. As he cracks four eggs into the frying pan, he wonders whether it's time he put a few markers down that she can't take him for granted.
When Sherlock appears, the boy won't meet his eye. He thumps his crutches across to the loo off the kitchen, emerging some fifteen minutes later, having shaved and washed. Without a word, he returns to the box room to dress. Victor had brought him several changes of clothes from him Burrell's Fields room after the third day of the flat-sharing arrangement.
"Breakfast is ready," Victor shouts and then sits down at the table to tuck into his bacon, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes and a big glass of milk. A rugby forward knows that he has to consume enough calories to make up for what he burns on the field. There is a big match on Saturday and he is dreading it a bit. The team has had a good win-loss record so far this season, but the Crawshay's Welsh Fifteen are going to take some beating. The most famous amateur team in the country had just thrashed Oxford University last weekend; there would be inevitable comparisons between Cambridge and Oxford's performances against the Welsh side. It's all part of the hype building up to the Varsity Match in December.
Sherlock slips into the chair opposite and shoves his crutches aside. He looks at the plate in front of him warily. "I'm not hungry."
Around a mouthful of toast, Victor mumbles: "Tough. Nutrition is needed to heal, so just eat." He spears a sausage on his own plate and bites off a chunk. "Balanced diet— it's been beaten into me ever since school. You need it just as much as me or even more, while your leg heals."
"I'm not playing rugby."
""No, you're healing damaged muscles, nerves and tendons—that's worse, so shut up and eat."
Sherlock pushes a few things around on the plate, before putting his fork down. Still avoiding Victor's gaze, he mutters, "She's right, you know. I'll pack up my things. If you can help me get them to the lab before you go to class, then I'll get a taxi back to Burrell's Fields."
"No. She doesn't get to order me around. You'll stay."
Before he actually says that, he had not realised that he'd already made up his mind.
"She's your fiancé; she doesn't want me here."
"I do. And that's enough."
"Why?"
"Why, what?"
"Why do you want me to stay? Why won't you do what she wants?"
Victor tackles the second question first. "Because I'm kind of tired of her always telling me what to do. She needs to learn how to accommodate other people's needs, mine included." He decides that he won't answer the first question, because he is not entirely sure why. Or at least, he's not ready to answer that question yet. Is it about Sherlock? Or just about Chloe? He knows for sure that he's fed up with her telling him what to do. For now, that's enough.
"I don't want to be the cause of strife."
"You aren't. Her selfishness is."
"But, you're going to marry her."
"That could change if she doesn't realise that I have a say in this. We're not married yet, and this is my flat. She's supposed to be saving money for the wedding by being here instead of paying for college rooms or in digs, but she spends it all on clothes, rather than actually saving. So, if she doesn't like the fact that I said you could stay until you get back on your feet, then she can go kip on one of her girlfriend's sofas for a while. Might help her keep things in proportion."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Now eat up; I've got to get to class. I won't be at the lab until after practice, but you can set up the second array to go from about four thirty."
oOoOoOoOo
For the rest of the day, Victor worries. Despite his bravado over breakfast, he has never directly challenged Chloe. Despite her histrionics, Victor knows that she has a point. He's spent more of the past nine days in Sherlock's company than hers. But, he's not ready to call a halt to that, not yet, and certainly not just because she is jealous of him spending time with someone else.
At the start it had been necessary, and not just because of the chemistry project. He's been the one to make sure that Sherlock had made it to the hospital to get the plaster cast off, and the stitches in his other ankle taken out. Because he hasn't taken "no" for an answer, the boy has slept, taken his medicine, eaten properly and managed to keep up with the experiments late into the night thanks to having an assistant.
Along the way, something had changed. He's not doing this out of a sense of duty any more. He realises that he likes Sherlock, and enjoys his company. The boy is different from everyone he has ever met.
The biggest challenge had been to convince Professor Blay to give Sherlock and him special permission to use the facility up until midnight. Once again, Victor had braved the man's offices at Trinity College, and made his point as clearly as possible.
"You're the one who said he's a genius, but I'm the one who's put his project in jeopardy because of the accident with my dog. If you'll let him work after hours, then he'll finish on time."
The professor had pushed his reading glasses down his nose and eyed him carefully. "He doesn't know you're here, does he?"
"No, sir. He's already tried to do it his way, which is hiding in the lab. He already got caught once by the security guard."
"I know; it was reported to me. I decided to turn a blind eye to the trespass, so long as it stopped."
"He's not going to stop, sir. That's why I am here—to ask permission, because he won't. With respect, I don't think he gives a damn about rules."
"I'm well aware of Holmes' peculiarities. What's your role in this?"
"I'm just trying to do what I can to make sure he recovers from the injury and that it doesn't damage his academic prospects."
"You're not responsible, Mister Trevor. Accidents happen."
"I know that, sir. I just think I can make a difference here. He deserves that chance."
The raised eyebrow had been enough to signal the professor's scepticism. "That's very decent of you, but I'm sure you have work of your own to do."
"Land economics, sir."
"Oh." There is a universal understanding amongst academics that this is not the most taxing of degrees, and the coursework is notorious for allowing Cambridge's sportsmen all the time they needed to practice. "Maybe you have the time, but what's to stop him from just taking advantage of the access to work himself to the point of exhaustion? That could lead to another accident. You don't know him. I still think he should have taken a term off and agreed to go home. Would have been the more sensible solution all around."
"Um, I don't think 'sensible' is a word he understands. I'm asking permission for access for me, too, so I can make sure that he doesn't over-do it. It's not all night; just up to midnight. That way, he will get some rest."
That had got him a wry smile. "What does Holmes think of that? He's never taken to listening to anyone before now. What makes you think he will care this time?"
Victor had crossed his arms. "He's not had to deal with a second row forward before. I'm pretty determined, and I have a thick skin."
That made the professor laugh. "You'll need it. It's on your head, Trevor. Good luck. You both have my permission and I'll tell the lab security to let you in – but only until midnight." He made a shooing gesture. "Now let me get back to work."
If only Chloe had been as amenable to the arrangement.
She'd started complaining from the first day. Sherlock was "in the way". It was "inconvenient" to have someone else, anyone else, in the flat because she couldn't wander around half-dressed as she usually did. When they were on their own, having the opportunity to enjoy the eye appeal of her body was one of his pleasures, he had to admit. Not that Sherlock seemed to notice. When he wasn't at the lab, most of the time he stayed in the little box room, earbuds in, listening to music. It was only on his forays to the loo off the kitchen that he encountered her glare of disapproval.
"He's just weird," Chloe had complained. "He asked me to turn my music down, as if it was his place and not mine."
That is another issue. When she is at home, Chloe always likes to listen to dance music like Ricky Martin's Living La Vida Loca at full volume; loud enough that their neighbours had complained. When Victor had found Sherlock with his pillow over his head, despite the earplugs, he'd pried it out of his hands and apologised, with a wry smile. "Well, it's better than her singing along to Mariah Carey or Jennifer Lopez."
"Who are they? The banshees?"
That had thrown him a bit. "No, not Siouxsie and the Banshees; they're like… too old. She prefers the latest club dance pop idols."
"Who is Susie? I was referring to the Celtic creatures who herald someone's death by their wails and shrieks. Your fiancé could well be one of them."
He'd tried to stifle a giggle at that. Chloe did not have a great voice, it had to be said. He'd sort of gotten used to her style of flirting, when she'd put on Christina Aguilera's What a Girl Wants and sang along, off-key, as she led him up to the bedroom. He didn't mind, given what followed. Sex with Chloe had always been the basis of their attraction. That and the look on other boys' faces when she went places with him. "Eye candy" is what his first year roommate had named her.
That is related to yet another complaint Chloe has made about Sherlock's presence in the flat: "He's putting me and you off sex." She didn't like being told to keep her voice down when having a good time in bed. Victor found it rather embarrassing that she is as vocal as Meg Ryan in that film, screaming her "Yes, yes, YES!" At least Chloe's orgasms aren't faked, but he did find it hard to imagine what the hell Sherlock would be making of it all. He'd gotten the sense that the boy had little contact with the opposite sex. The few times he even deigns to look in Chloe's direction, it is in wary bafflement.
To make sure that Sherlock does not overdo things, he's made him eat a meal at the flat before accompanying him to the lab where they work until midnight. Victor had a chemistry O level as his required science at Gresham's, but most of what was going on was way over his head. Still, he is able to follow orders so long as they were well explained. He did make Sherlock slow down and accept that he didn't know all the jargon, but once shown, Victor has proved to be a dab hand at the mechanics and the readings that were needed. Still, Sherlock wouldn't allow him to do anything without supervision, so the idea of him being able to keep things ticking over while Sherlock took a break has never materialised. Shaking his head, Sherlock had said "Can't do it. I have to comply with the rules that say my work is my own."
Victor had rolled his eyes. "Tell that to the other four in here; they've got a regular rota of undergrad students in here doing their donkey work."
"Lazy idiots. Anyway, I don't have the patience to deal with other people."
"You are letting me help."
"I don't have a choice, do I? Thanks to this stupid Achilles tendon, I have to, or I will never finish on time."
Victor knew that both his studies and rugby would suffer as much as Chloe's temper would if he kept disappearing until after midnight. On the third night, he'd suggested commandeering the rest of the bench — unoccupied, apart from a jumble of Sherlock's papers and books, because none of the other grad students in the room wanted to be anywhere near Sherlock.
"If you set up another apparatus to mirror this one, then we can run two experiments simultaneously and you'll get the same amount of data as you would as running them sequentially. That way you'll not only catch up, but you can actually come back to the flat at ten and get some sleep."
Speechless, Sherlock had stared at him for almost a minute before slowly nodding. "That is… possible. In fact, preferable. Managing the adjustments during the run is something that doesn't take any brain power, just attention to detail. I can do the important calculations for both, input the data into my laptop and finish in half the time. With me here to supervise you, I can trust that you won't make any mistakes."
"Gee, thanks for that vote of confidence."
He'd not gotten a response to that sarcasm, which he soon realised was rather typical for Sherlock. Not a great conversationalist. At first, he'd tried to fill some of the time watching the equipment with a bit of small talk, but gave up when Sherlock had snapped, "Talking is one way to distract both of us from doing what is needed, so don't."
Oddly, after the first night in the lab, Victor began to realise that he appreciated the quiet. Chloe was a chatterbox at home, and if she wasn't talking at him, the music or the television was always on. At the lab, he and Sherlock slipped into a silent routine of work that demanded his attention. It was a bit of stop and go; the experiments had to take place on a strict timetable, with solutions added and then heated; Sherlock used a stop watch and precise temperature control readouts. Between the runs, he had a strict routine of cleaning the glasswork that took ten minutes. Sherlock would set a pinger and let the two systems return to sterile conditions.
Between the runs on the fourth night, Victor's curiosity had made him push Sherlock into a little bit more explanation of what the experiments were supposed to be measuring. "Why are we doing this? What's it all about?"
"What do you know about proteins?"
Victor smiled. "That my coach says I need a LOT of it in my diet to help build muscle."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I mean about how the biochemistry of proteins works— DNA, RNA, genes and all that."
"Let's assume I know nothing." It was safer to admit ignorance.
"You do know that the human genome is just about mapped?"
Victor shrugged. "I don't read science journals."
This provoked a sigh. "Well it is, and it will be profoundly important for medicine, but it'll only be the starting point for the area I am most interested in."
"Which is?"
"Forensic biochemistry, specifically something called proteomics, which leads to the detection of certain types of proteins. Forensics involves blood samples, and once you know the human genome then lots of other things can be assessed. Genes on their own are… well, boring. It's the proteins that they give rise to that are the interesting bit. And when proteins are identified that involve toxicology, it creates evidence that no one knew even existed. To make sense of it all, new lab techniques of analysis are going to be needed that look into the biology at a molecular level, and involve data sets that can only be organised with advanced mathematics and modelling. It's going to be massive."
"Forensics… Isn't that to do with crimes? Why is that worthy of study? Wouldn't… I don't know, something more medical be better, more important?" When there was no answer, Victor prompted, "You know, for the betterment of mankind and all that?"
"I don't care about that. There are tens of thousands of biochemists at work in medical fields, nearly all of whom are going to end up working for pharmaceutical companies. That's boring. I'm more interested in the crimes that are committed and the criminals who get away with them because no one can be bothered to apply proper biochemistry to forensics."
"Yeah, but… poisons? That's what toxicology is about, isn't it? Cyanide and arsenic and stuff like that?"
"Those are inorganic compounds – too easy. Tests that can show those have been around for decades, even a century. Any idiot can find the elemental metals. But, biochemical agents can kill without anyone being able to prove it, because they are too fast-acting, don't stay in the body long enough in their lethal form before breaking down, and become impossible to trace."
Victor's dismay must have shown on his face. "Biochemical weapons?"
Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. "No, I'm not talking about things like sarin nerve gas* More a question of unexplained deaths. When the symptoms say there's been a poisoning, but no one can prove it."
"Why does that matter to you?"
Sherlock had looked down at the counter-top, as if considering how to answer that. When he had finally started speaking, it had been quietly said but with real vehemence. "Because twice I have had… experience of someone trying to get away with murder that could not be proven."
"What?" Victor had been so shocked that he didn't know what else to say. "When?"
"The first time when I was ten; a boy drowned in a pool, only I don't think he drowned. But, the police wouldn't look any deeper than the obvious. No one believed me when I said it was murder. They just ignored me when I said maybe he was poisoned."
Victor looked at the two sets of glass works in front of them. "So, what does all this have to do with that? Should I be wearing some more protection if you're working with poisons?" He'd insisted on wearing goggles, because Bunsen burners and glass always made him a bit nervous. The idea that Sherlock might be experimenting with toxic substances had not occurred to him before now.
"Relax. There's nothing lethal here, more's the pity. Not allowed to—stupid rules say I shouldn't do that in a shared lab. It's part of the reason why there is such a need for more and better research in this field. Over the next decade, forensic identification of proteins produced by the body in reaction to the presence of a toxin will open up new forms of evidence-gathering. It will revolutionise crime detection; I'm developing a new way to identify proteins quickly, an experimental protocol if you will."
"Is this what was in that report I picked up from Professor Blay and brought to you in the hospital?"
"That was the literature review, the design of the experiment and the logistics. He had to approve it, and that was the start of the delay. My first version focused on whole human blood, but he wouldn't let me do it; said I had to 'walk before I could run' or some other pointless tripe. While I wait for the human genome to be fully mapped, over twelve weeks, I'm applying a proteomic approach to investigate the heat shock response in Escherichia coli. That's a bacterium."
"I've heard of it – E. coli; it's what gives you food poisoning." He had looked aghast at the solution bubbling in the Erlenmeyer flask in front of him.
Sherlock sniffed. "Only some strains. Most are harmless and live in the gut of warm-blooded animals. What matters is that the E. coli genome was mapped ages ago; it was one of the first. By bringing together biochemical and genetics techniques I'm subjecting the bacteria to a heat shock and observing what happens as the proteins denature."
"Heat shock? What's that?"
"I'm using a triad approach: first off, I see what happens to a solution of E. coli during a heat jump from 30 degrees to 46 degrees centigrade over 3 minutes; then I do another run comparing those results to a different heat shock, raising the same temperature increase over ninety seconds. That should happen after Christmas. Finally, probably around Easter I'll do a third run to test the proteome expression profile associated with a decrease in temperature— that's the cold shock response. It's all to see if the resulting protein formations differ. That's going to take some serious data crunching once I have the MALDI-TOF MS results."
Victor had to smile. "That's amazing."
Sherlock had been wary. "Why? Do you actually understand what I am saying?"
"No. It's amazing that you can get all that out in one breath."
Sherlock had looked a little disappointed.
Victor had given an embarrassed laugh. "Don't mind me; I'm just an idiot. You said so yourself. What's maldy toff… or whatever you said?"
"Matrix assisted laser desorption ionisation-time of flight mass spectrometry."
"Sounds like something out of a sci-fi film. But clearly you do know what it is, and if Cambridge's professor of organic chemistry says you're a genius, who am I to disagree?"
"Did he? Really?" Sherlock had seemed surprised by that.
"Yeah."
"He didn't bother to give any feedback, just the grade for the proposal."
"Take my word for it, he's impressed by you."
The timer on the lab bench had pinged.
"Back to work."
Author's Note: *Invented in 1938 by German scientists and banned under Chemical Weapons treaties, the first use of sarin occurred on March 16, 1988, at the end of the Iran-Iraq war. In the Kurdish town of Halabja, about a dozen miles from the Iranian border, Iraqi aircraft appeared overhead, spreading a gas that killed over 5,000 people. Eye witnesses who survived in Halabja were utterly disoriented by the attack, as they watched birds fall from trees and animals and neighbors collapse to the ground, writhing in pain. The second confirmed use of sarin occurred on March 20, 1995, when the Japanese new religious movement known as Aum Shinrikyo used the gas on three subway lines in Tokyo, killing 12 and injuring and producing symptoms in thousands of others. And now thanks to the Russians, we have Novichok (Russian: Новичо́к, "newcomer"/ "newbie") a series of nerve agents developed by the Soviet Union and Russia between 1971 and 1993, and deployed in 2018 in Salisbury, England, less than thirty miles from where I live.
