I've gotta say – there are some things in life you don't expect to see. A full moon that doesn't come with three times the usual arrests… a domestic dispute where both parties don't start beating up the officer stupid enough to intervene… a New York cabbie slowing down to let someone else go first…
But Sherlock Holmes not paying attention at a crime scene?
Now that's something really out of the ordinary.
I mean, sure, he's been known to wander off on his own, chasing some clue none of the rest of us have noticed, but even then, he's working the case. This is the first time I've ever seen him completely oblivious.
Hell, the attending M.E. is there, bagging up the body, and Sherlock hasn't insulted him even once. Something's not right.
Come to think of it, he does look a little nauseous. Maybe he's caught the bug that's been going around.
Confident that my men have things under control, I figure I better see what's up. The last thing the department needs is a sick Sherlock. He's a big enough pain in the ass when he's healthy.
He's so out of out, I don't think he even notices when I walk up beside him.
"Feeling under the weather?"
His hands are in his pockets and his eyes are on the body bag, but it's obvious his mind is elsewhere. "My health is fine, thank you."
They wheel the body off. This is the part where Sherlock usually pipes up with a cockamamie theory that somehow ends up leading to the killer.
Nothing. Not a word.
"Alright," I say, "something's got you twisted in knots. Spill."
"A surprisingly perceptive if not wholly accurate observation. Why would you assume such?"
"Because you haven't said a word for the past twenty moments. No comments on the position of the body, no ideas about the location of the murder weapon. Nothing. Something about this case bothering you?"
"Not at all. If I haven't said anything, it's because it is patently obvious the killer arranged the scene. Have your officers look for traces of chromated copper arsenate underneath the fingernails of the suspects. I suspect whoever did it will not have had enough time to wash it thoroughly off."
"Good to know. I'll pass it on." After making sure the word is spread, I turn back to Sherlock. "So if it's not the job, is it Watson? I can't help notice she's not here."
"She is working on another case." His eye shift briefly to the side before returning to their usual focus. "But I will admit she is at the heart of my dilemma."
Great. Just what we need. The last time those two fought, the whole department got dragged into taking sides.
Of course, all of them sided with Watson. Me included.
"You want to talk about it?"
"As you are aware, Watson and I have expanded our relationship into a more intimate one."
"Yeah, I know." I'd figured it out when I'd gone to pick up some evidence they had "borrowed" from a crime scene and caught them in the middle of something I had no desire to ever see again.
No one should be forced to know what Sherlock's pasty white ass looks like in a pair of leather chaps and bondage cuffs.
Sherlock continues, patently unaffected by my shuddering discomfort. "Joan – for all that she has risen above the ridiculous limitations of societal conventions - comes from a fairly traditional upbringing. One wherein relationships are expected to follow a certain linear path. Sexual attraction, courtship, perhaps a period of exploratory cohabitation," he raises each finger in turn, ticking each step off with crisp precision. "All leading to the eventual establishment of a matrimonial contract."
His hands shift in his pockets as he lifts his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "While Watson and I have not followed a strictly chronological progression, one could argue that we have, in fact, established all the typical markers of such a relationship, with all the corresponding expectations."
Oh.
Still, though God only knows why Joan decided to cross that line with Sherlock, she's a smart woman. She would have known what she was getting into.
"Is this your long-winded way of saying you think Watson's angling for a ring? 'Cause I'm pretty sure she knows your feelings on marriage. Hell, the entire force knows your feelings on marriage."
"I have one." Sherlock's voice sounds unsure – a shaky echo of his usual confidence. "A ring." He takes out a box from his pocket and flips it open.
The ring is pretty nice, as such things go. Nothing too gaudy, a delicate solitaire embedded deeply into a woven pattern of white gold tendrils.
"I found it in a pawn store. I was there investigating the O'Malley case." His hand are shaking as he holds it out for my inspection.
The poor guy is so pale he's practically turning translucent. "Look, Sherlock, I've gotta say, you get this upset just thinking about it, it's probably a bad idea. Joan's had plenty of opportunities to find someone who'd be happy to sign a marriage certificate with her. She didn't choose any of them. She chose you. Don't you think that says something?"
"Hence my unease."
"I'm not sure I follow."
His head lifts until he is staring at the ceiling. One of the muscles in his jaw clenches tightly before releasing, spasming in way that looks incredibly painful. "I have been quite adamant with my feelings regarding the subject, and I have endeavored to share those opinions with everyone around me."
"So?"
"Watson has always been an adept student. What if she has learned this lesson as well?"
For the first time since we started talking, he looks directly at me. Quiet desperation fills his eyes.
"What if she says no?"