A/N: Still British, a writer or famous; and not counting on becoming any of those. -csf
3.
Upon our return from the Scotland Yard the crowds awaiting for us at Baker Street had thickened in numbers and impatience. Bright flashes of light hatched from within the crowd from the moment our car turned the corner, directed at us. The crowd cheered, frantic, turning wild by absorbing their own long contained tension. People were cheering and jeering in the same breath, anything to get a reaction from us, one that would legitimise and energise their presence there, that could acknowledge the effort and time in their lives being dedicated to our lives, mine and Sherlock's. Catalogued as heroes, we were given no more privacy. Barriers had fallen off. We were now one of them. Turning away from them was as disrespectful as verbally stating that those persons bravely standing for hours on the street waiting for us didn't really matter to us. That would be factually wrong. They do matter. But whereas they saw two men they seemed to know so well, we saw an endless sea of strangers faces turned on us, all awaiting the same care and recognition they generously gave us. I guess they deserved as much. But the daunting task of greeting and meeting a still thickening crowd on an individual level was intimidating.
The crowd was about to turn on us; I could sense the shifting tide. All because we were too human to live up to their expectations.
The cab parks right at 221's door at last. We're just two or three steps away from the front door of our refuge. I stiffen my jaw as I prepare to face the human wall separating this POW from freedom.
I'm about to open my door, the closest to the sidewalk, when I hear Sherlock exiting the cab first, from the other side. I'm mesmerised as I watch him get reluctant passage around the car, as the edgy crowd detects his arrogant stance, backing off slightly.
Neat trick; wish I had it in me, but I don't.
Before I can open the cab door as my hand rests on its handle, it springs open by itself. I jump of my seat, startled. But as I look out, it's Sherlock I see just outside, waiting patiently for me to come out. He reminds me of a bodyguard, protecting me. Perhaps echoing the times I have done this for him.
It warms my heart and sooths my spirit. With Sherlock standing strong by my side I can do this. I can even try to enjoy it, as Anderson suggested.
When it comes down to it, my best friend's protective streak doesn't change the strangeness of the recent events. I count myself lucky as I wholeheartedly accept my friend's guidance in this celebrities world he's learnt to navigate already as I – unknowingly – helped spring on him with my blog.
.
Waiting for us in the quietness of 221B was a pile of letters, big and bold, on the living room table. Sherlock ignores them from afar, as he starts pacing the room, absentminded. I go pick them up out of an old habit. Mechanically I'm about to nag Sherlock about his correspondence, and how he routinely ignores their urgency making me go through them for him, when I notice the top ones are addressed to me. And the middle ones. Then there's one for a mysterious"doctor Wilson" and then all the others insist I'm "doctor Watson".
Sherlock's been temporarily left out of his own consulting business.
'You're having fun', my friend snaps at me, with just a look into my eyes. Holding himself perfectly still now, as if he's found his prey.
I feel awkward but brave on: 'Well, yes, a bit, Sherlock. Never in my life have I got such a reception.'
'You like it.' There's something borderline indecent in the way he denounces my pleasure in being sought after by people in need. As if I wished for their need. I don't.
'Helping people with their life changing problems? What is there not to like?' I battle on.
He's now circling me, studying me with the attention he usually reserved for his toughest crime scenes, and it's hypnotic.
'It's not about the power', he reads me. 'Good. It's too much power for one sane individual to have.'
'Oi!' I defend both our sanities at once. He steps back, thoughtfully, but soon starts again:
'You are a giving person, John. Whether it's the jumper off your back, or lending money you'll never see again (and I'll pay you back those five hundred pounds next week), or even giving up your time to our work when you can hardly afford it because you work too much on your other job...'
'My real job, you mean', I correct patiently.
'It's all the same, John', he continues, unaffected. 'You think that if you had what you call my "gift" you could save the world, one person at a time.'
'I'm not that naïve.' I give him a captain Watson patented glare.
'But you are that idealist', he strikes back. Then turning around sharply to the window he stops scrutinising me and simply concedes: 'We'll do it your way then, John. For the rest of the weekend you'll be the great Baker Street's detective. Not to worry, I'll provide you the genius, you'll be the front. You can have a taste of what it's like for me.'
I can feel an anger surge through me, although I can't tell where it's coming from. I know this is a battle. He'll volunteer the rationality for the weekend, will he? Does he seriously think my life is that easy? I just get up in the morning performing stupid medical tasks till I grown weary and go to bed at night?
I can show Sherlock what my "other job" is like, in return.
'This weekend in Baker Street, Sherlock, and you'll have a couple of days at the surgery with me when this is all over. Is that a deal?'
He'll handle the patients, their concerns, their raw humanity when faced with serious illnesses... You have no idea what it is like for me either, Sherlock.
He shrugs, giving in to our little arrangement. Maybe not aware of the full implications of our deal. I'll make sure this happens faster than those five hundred pounds I'll probably never see again. The weird thing is that Sherlock is usually... rich. Unlike me, I'm always tight for money. Surely he didn't borrow the money just to see if I'd lend him and for pong I'd patiently wait to have it back... Would he?
'Fine, John, if you insist, I'll do your job for you as well. Although my speciality is with the dead ones... After you, John', he leads me on with the tip of an ominous outstretched finger towards his metal and leather armchair.
I hesitate for a second. What am I getting into?
The leather seat that has been carrying everyone but Sherlock himself today is comfortable and well-angled towards the whole flat. I'm the first person a visitor coming in sees and I can keep careful watch over them the whole time they're there. It makes me feel important, if a well placed chair can do that.
I hesitate for a mere second. What have we got ourselves into? Is this... ethical?
With a deep breath, I give in. If there's a thing Sherlock should know about stubborn John Watson is that he won't back away from a challenge. Bring-it-on.
He does.
Sherlock mysteriously moves behind the chair to the window, opening it, and shouts out to the crowd waiting below. To the real Baker Street.
'Doctor John Hamish Watson will now take cases. One at a time, he'll see everyone. You get two minutes to expose your case and he'll email you the solution to your predicament!' With one glance over his shoulder to my panicked face, he then adds: 'Don't spare doctor Watson of even the most trivial ones!'
I swallow dry, as I hear clients rushing in.
.
There would be no "one at a time". I sat at Sherlock's chair, with my notebook on my knee. On the opposite armchair sat a restaurant chef, a fireman, two flamenco dancers, triplets, an old man, four loveless young ladies (no, the "bachelor" bit was overrated... Sherlock, could you show them the door now?), a zookeeper, three undercover police officers wanting assistance on their ongoing investigations, a school kid looking for his pet hamster, a landlord, a teacher, a burglar, a dentist, and Mrs Hudson (for curiosity sake).
A couple of hours has gone by already and I'm floored by exhaustion. Not to mention all the typing I'll need doing with what Sherlock feeds me from the case resolutions.
'Get it now, John?' he asks me, as Mrs Hudson goes back downstairs and a real client has yet to come up. What he's really asking me is "giving up yet, John?"
No.
He chuckles, not innocent at all. 'Have it your way, John.' He turns to the door, and I muffle a whimper, but just smile for my next client coming in.
.
'John?' It's Sherlock's sleep-filled voice that startles me, sounding both worried and amazingly human. He comes up the corridor in quiet steps, his dressing gown flapping behind him like his long coat does during the day. He looks like he's just woken up, wavy hair in disarray and puffed cheeks, hopefully not because I woke him with the white overhead light I kept on in the kitchen. He frowns as he finds me at the table, confirming his suspicions.
'It's past four in the morning, John.'
I nod. I know.
'The emails?' It dawns on him, slowly, what has been keeping me up. With possessive long fingers he grabs my notebook from the table. 'You emailed the ballerina to tell her where her missing dog was? The dog must have been found and returned by now, even before you sent her the answer!'
'I promised to reply, Sherlock', I remind my friend as I sip some coffee, cold by now. 'I'm afraid I'm not the fastest typist.'
'That's not how you spell"detective", John', he suddenly zooms in on my laptop screen. 'You overlooked good spelling in your current state.'
I push him out of the way to better see the screen. Oh, great! Now I'm a weekend "detektive" with bad spelling skills.
Sherlock pulls a chair to seat by my side. 'I cheated', he tells me, attentively. 'You know I don't take every case. You shouldn't either.'
I nod. 'I know. But this weekend I will.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Of course you want to help everyone. Very selfless of you.'
I nod again. 'I can try.'
'You're a doctor, doctor', he's mocking me now. 'Why not go out there and heal everyone in the world? There's plenty of sick people to keep you busy...'
'Because there are other doctors, Sherlock.'
'There are other detectives too.'
'You're one of a kind, Sherlock. You're the best.' I explain what he should know by now. His face softens at once.
'Let the others get the easy cases, John. Suits me best, too. I don't like to waste my time with cases under a Seven.'
I blink. My friend's quirky rule starts to make good sense at last. Or is it the late hour influencing me?
'Now, John, will you go rest?' he asks of me, softly.
I nod at last, feeling more dead than alive.
'And John?' he still calls, looking fleetingly guilty.
'Yes?' I face him honestly.
'Part of those people standing out there on the street today were not clients.'
'I get it. Some just wanted to look at us.'
'More than that. Some were from my irregular network, John.'
I strain my tired attention to Sherlock.
'You fear the much for our safety?'
He rolls his eyes. 'No, I wanted there to be hundreds of persons on the street outside 221B.'
I blink. 'What for? To frighten me?'
He becomes impatient and gets up without answering me. Leaving me only with that confession of his involvement.
Why would Sherlock want to ensure there were so many people calling out my name in earnest on the street, calling me a hero?
.
ToBeContinued
