Chapter Nine
Sorry for the delay. I've been sick this week.
29 January 2010
Sherlock stared at John for just another moment before coming to himself and taking the phone, turning partially away from him as he faintly registered the inscription on the back of the phone and flipping the keypad open. What would he ask if he had never talked to John through those letters? And suddenly, something John had said in some of the earliest letters came back to him.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked. He continued typing in the silence.
If brother has green ladder-
"Sorry?" said John.
Sherlock briefly raised his eyes to John's. "Which was it: Afghanistan or Iraq?" He went back to the text he was typing.
-arrest brother.
SH
"Afghanistan," John answered. "Sorry, how did you know…?"
As Sherlock sent off his text, the lab door opened, and Sherlock looked up to see Molly entering with a mug of coffee in her hand. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He handed John his phone back without looking at him. He took the mug from Molly, frowning as his eyes found her pale lips. "What happened to the lipstick?"
Molly smiled awkwardly at him. "It wasn't working for me."
"Really?" said Sherlock, turning away. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too…small now." He took a sip of the coffee as Molly made her exit. Grimacing at the taste, he jumped right in. "How do you feel about the violin?" He set the mug down and set his Petri dish aside, opening a web page on the laptop there.
"I'm sorry, what?" asked John.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Sherlock told him, typing on the laptop as he spoke. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He looked around at John. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He gave an impossibly fake smile before looking back at his experiment. Time to test this so-called friendship John is always going on about. Would they still become such close friends if Sherlock threw all his worst qualities at him from the start?
"Oh, you…you told him about me?" John asked Mike.
"Not a word," said Mike.
John turned to Sherlock again. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"
Sherlock turned towards the stool next to him to gather his greatcoat. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." He pulled on his coat, reaching for his scarf. "Now, here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He looped his scarf around his neck as he looked back at John. "Wasn't that difficult a leap."
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" asked John.
Sherlock picked up his mobile and checked it. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He walked towards John. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He strode past John towards the door.
"Is that it?" John spoke up.
Intrigued by John's response, Sherlock turned back and strolled closer to John again. "Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" said John.
"Problem?" asked Sherlock. Please say no.
John gave an almost disbelieving smile as he glanced at Mike and back at Sherlock. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."
Sherlock paused as he leveled his gaze at the army doctor. Here it goes. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid."
John glanced down at his leg momentarily.
"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" said Sherlock smugly, moving toward the door. He was almost through it when he stopped. Wait! You haven't met yet, remember? Sherlock poked his head back in. "The name's Sherlock Holes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."
29 January 2012
"So, I met the most fascinating person today."
John smiled as he pulled a pad of paper out. "Really? He sounds interesting." He put the note on the mantel with the knife and waited as it disappeared and came back.
"So, a psychosomatic limp. I can fix that."
John laughed out loud. "Yeah, I know. Thanks, by the way."
"So, did I change history?"
John frowned. "How would you have?"
"I tried showing off my personality one hundred percent to see if it scared you away. How did I do?"
John laughed out loud. "Terrible. I'm still here."
"Hmm. I'll have to try harder."
"Don't worry. You do."
29 January 2010
Sherlock chuckled a little at John's note before writing one himself. "So, nothing I do is going to drive you away?"
"No, nothing. Your eccentricity was like a breath of fresh air after coming back to dull, ordinary London."
"Always the soldier."
"Apparently."
"How soon after meeting me did you start to see past my so-called cool exterior?"
"Go check my blog."
Sherlock immediately stepped over to his laptop, calling up the webpage. Sure enough, there was a new entry from less than an hour ago. He clicked on it and began to read.
29th January
A Strange Meeting
I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn't because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened.
I was walking in the park and I bumped into Mike Stamford. We were sort of mates when we were students. We got coffee and I mentioned that I wanted to move. He said he knew of someone in a similar situation. So we went to Barts and he introduced us.
Except, he didn't. He didn't introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn't get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn't told him.
I googled him when I got back to the flat and found a link to his website The Science of Deduction.
It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.
So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.
Well, well, well. Looks like someone's already hooked. Sherlock smiled. This may be easier than I thought.
30 January 2010
Sherlock glanced out the window of the cab as it approached Baker Street (what a relief it was to have access to his funds again), and he saw John limping up to the front door. The doctor knocked on the door as the cab came to a stop, and Sherlock got out, greeting his future flatmate as he paid the cabbie.
John turned towards him as he walked over. "Ah, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock, please," he corrected, shaking his hands.
"Well, this is a prime spot," said John. "Must be expensive."
"Oh, Mrs. Hudson—the landlady—she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."
"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"
"Oh, no," said Sherlock. "I ensured it." He smiled at John, pleased at the stunned look on the doctor's face, as the front door was opened.
Mrs. Hudson opened her arms as she stepped forward. "Sherlock, hello."
Sherlock turned and walked into her arms, hugging her briefly, and then stepped back and presented John to her. "Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson."
Mrs. Hudson and John made their greetings, and Sherlock led John into the building. Sherlock trotted up the stairs to the first floor landing and then paused and waited for John to hobble upstairs. As John reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door ahead of him and walked in, revealing the living room of the flat. It felt strange inviting John into Baker Street to show him the flat when it was John who had drawn Sherlock to Baker Street in the first place.
John followed him in and looked around the room and at all the possessions and boxes scattered around it. "Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."
"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." Sherlock looked around the flat happily. "So, I went straight ahead and moved in."
He had spoken right over John, and it took a second for him to register the man's words: "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out—"
John paused, embarrassed, when he realized what Sherlock had said. "Oh… So, this is all…"
Sherlock walked across the room and made a half-hearted attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a couple of folders into a box. "Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up…" He suddenly spotted the letter he had been writing to John before he'd been called away on a case lying on the table. He scooped it up, strode over to the fireplace and picked up the penknife, continuing his comment. "…a bit." He stabbed the letter into the mantel.
John lifted his cane to point at the mantelpiece. "That's a skull."
Sherlock glanced at the skull. "Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'…"
Mrs. Hudson entered the room, picking up a cup and saucer while Sherlock took off his greatcoat and scarf. "What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."
Faced towards the wall, Sherlock rolled his eyes. When would Mrs. Hudson realize that he was not gay?
"Of course we'll be needing two," John told her.
"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." Mrs. Hudson dropped her voice to a whisper. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She then walked across to the kitchen, turned back and frowned at Sherlock. "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made." She went into the kitchen and started tidying up.
Sherlock tidied up a few more items, only just now realizing how stupid it was not to have cleared space for John. After all, he knew very well that John would move in. Then again, when had Sherlock ever been considerate of anyone?
"I looked you up on the internet last night," said John.
Sherlock turned around to him. "Anything interesting?"
"Found your website, The Science of Deduction," said John.
Sherlock smiled proudly. "What did you think?"
John threw him a "you have got to be kidding me" type of look, and Sherlock frowned, taken aback. I thought you thought I was brilliant.
"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," said John.
"Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone," said Sherlock.
"How?" asked John.
Sherlock smiled and turned away. Not quite yet. This needs…timing.
Lestrade soon made his way up to the flat, inviting Sherlock to a fourth serial suicide. (A fourth! Oh, it's Christmas! ) Sherlock hurried through his goodbyes, grabbing his coat and scarf in a flurry and heading out the door. He stepped out onto the landing and stopped, his mind warring with itself.
Invite John! He's said it himself that he goes on your cases with you!
But who knows when that will be. It might seem a bit off-putting to just walk up to him the second day I've met him and ask if he wants to go see a dead body.
Sherlock shook his head after a moment. No, he's not ready. He turned and started down the stairs.
"Damn my leg!"
Sherlock stopped and smirked. Or maybe he is. He turned and moved back up to the landing as Mrs. Hudson reached the door.
"Just this once, dear," she was saying. "I'm not your housekeeper."
"Couple of biscuits, too, if you've got 'em," he heard John say from the sitting room.
Mrs. Hudson poked her head back in. "Not your housekeeper!" She turned and stepped onto the landing. "Oh. Back already?"
"For the moments," Sherlock told her. "I seem to have left a crucial piece of the case behind."
"Well, good luck, dear," Mrs. Hudson told him, heading down the stairs.
Sherlock stepped into the sitting room doorway, looking over at John sitting in the armchair, looking at his abandoned newspaper from this morning. At home already.
"You're a doctor," Sherlock announced himself.
John looked up at him.
"In fact, you're an army doctor," Sherlock went on.
John cleared his throat. "Yes." He leaned heavily onto his cane to push himself to his feet and faced him.
"Any good?" Sherlock asked, wanting to see if John's spirit had been crushed along with his body. His letters hadn't shown any depression, but you never could tell with some people.
"Very good," John replied without any hesitation.
Sherlock inwardly smirked. It's always the people who are best in their field whose confidence in their ability never wavers.
He took a few slow steps towards him, seemingly considering his words. "Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."
"Mm, yes."
"Bit of trouble, too, I bet."
"Of course, yes," John told him quietly. "Enough…for a lifetime. Far too much."
Sherlock stared at him another moment before letting the other shoe drop. "Wanna see some more?"
"Oh, God, yes," said John, the interest palpable in his voice.
Sherlock immediately turned and hurried down the stairs, unmindful of John's cane, but it made no difference; John was right behind him, unaware that he was hardly using the cane as he hurried to keep up with Sherlock on the stairs. They swept out the door—after bidding Mrs. Hudson goodbye—and hailed a cab.
Sherlock fiddled on his phone as John sat glancing every so often at him. Eventually, he put his phone away. "Okay, you've got questions."
"Yeah, where are we going?" asked John.
"Crime scene," Sherlock replied. "Next?"
John looked at him. "Who are you? What do you do?"
"What do you think?" asked Sherlock, interested to see just how smart this army doctor was.
"I'd say private detective…" answered John slowly.
"But…" prompted Sherlock, sensing John's doubt in that sentence.
"But the police don't go to private detectives."
Sherlock smiled a little, surprised at the insight. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."
"What does that mean?"
"It means when the police are out of their depth—which is always—they consult me."
"The police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock glanced over at John to see that he was very much intrigued by him. Hmm. Well, John's letters indicated that he enjoyed my deductions. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."
"Yes, how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq."
There was a pause while John absorbed that, and Sherlock wondered whether he should go on or not. Had John had enough or was he still curious?
"You said I had a therapist," John spoke up.
Given the green light, Sherlock went on. "You've got a psychosomatic limp; of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."
"Hmm?" asked John.
Sherlock held his hand out for the phone, which John handed over. "Your phone. It's expensive—e-mail enabled, MP3 player—but you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." He turned the phone over as he talked. "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."
"The engraving."
Sherlock turned the phone over to view the engraving on it. "Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is.
"Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently; this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then; six months on, he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it—people do; sentiment—but, no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"
Sherlock smirked. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though." He brandished the phone again. "Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He plopped the phone back into John's hand. "There you go, you see? You were right."
"I was right," John repeated. "Right about what?"
"The police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock waited for John's response, his first impression, knee-jerk reaction. This is what would truly tell him what kind of person John was.
"That…" began John hesitantly.
Sherlock tensed.
"…was amazing," John finished.
Sherlock paused. Surely, he had heard wrong. No one thought he was amazing. "You really think so?"
"Of course it was," John went on. "It was extraordinary. It was…quite extraordinary."
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"'Piss off'!" Sherlock replied, smiling briefly at John.
John smiled with a chuckle, and Sherlock realized that he had not really accepted that John was telling the truth about their friendship until that moment.