Greetings everyone! Once again the case in this chapter is based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Cannon, feel free to take I guess at the original, and I'll tell you if you're right. ^_^
Trigger Warning: The case described in this chapter is a murder case, and the body is described in somewhat graphic detail.
Thank you to everyone who has left reviews, favorieted, and/or followed this story! You're support is much appreciated. ^_^ Also we're a little over halfway now. I have nineteen chapters planned, with maybe an epilogue, haven't decided. I hope you enjoy this week's update!
Chapter 10: Unexpected
"Wrong!" Sherlock declared loudly, throwing the paper he had been reading violently down onto the floor. "Idiots!"
John rolled his eyes and bent to scoop the paper off the floor. If he didn't at least try to stay on top of Sherlock's mess it would engulf the building. "What or who, specifically, is wrong this time?" he asked, setting the paper down on the low table by the sofa, along with Sherlock's tea, and taking a drink from his own mug of tea. This felt like the beginnings of a case, and he'd better get some fluids inside him while he had the chance.
"The yard, the damned lot of them are screwing this up!" Sherlock crossed his arms and scowled peevishly.
John tried hard not to be amused. Sherlock really was a terror sometimes, but it was comical when he started taking personal offense at the proclaimed incompetence of others. John wished he could do a better job of defending his fellow man, but Sherlock's brilliance always made his deductions look easy. Not that John was giving any ground on their personal battle of wills when it came to the human heart, that would never happen.
The ex-army doctor glanced at the paper, frowning at the articles that littered the page. He seriously doubted there was a case hidden in the sales advertisements... "Is there something fishy about those artifacts they're finding at the construction site for the new skyscraper they're putting up?" John asked, gesturing to said article. "They completed most of the digging for the foundation before they found the artifacts, now they're saying those holes in the ground could sit for years while they sell them off."
Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands firmly into his eyes and swore, loudly. "That is probably a laundering operation for stolen items, but you have missed everything of importance!" he ground out, then sighed wearily. "Read the article about the suicide..."
John rolled his eyes and scanned the paper again. At last he saw a grainy black and white photo of a delivery truck surrounded by police tape, and a smattering of officers. He scanned the byline.
Scammonden Bridge Considered High Risk for Suicide
The recent passing of Mrs. Mary Dwight of Huddersfield again highlights the dark past of Scammonden Bridge. Since the bridge was opened to the public on December 10th, 1970, the bridge has been witness to dozens of suicides/suicide attempts. Officials report continued concern around the bridge's low railings, which could increase this risk...
John pulled his gaze away from the article once more and stared at his flatmate in confusion. "So... what? Are you offended by their vague statistics?"
Sherlock sent him a withering glare. "Their reporting of the frequency and quantity of persons who jump off this particular bridge for the sole purpose of ending their life is completely accurate, and utterly irrelevant. However, the death they are using to trump up their paper sales is not a suicide! She was murdered."
John glanced down at the paper, then up again at Sherlock. "And you know this how?
"Look at the truck, John!" Sherlock flailed his arms about as if the answer were staring them in the face. "The damage is all wrong! Think about it. If you were going to jump off a bridge, how would you do it?"
John took another long sip of tea before answering. The readers of his blog always accused him of making up these conversations. He wondered if he should start videotaping them... At length he replied, "I suppose I would climb over the railing first, turn around so that I could see what I was doing, then jump off."
"Exactly! That is how most people do it. Usually feet first, but occasionally someone dives head first. Trying to be original or something, I don't really know why."
"Sherlock! This is a serious topic!" John scolded, but as usual his reprimand was utterly ignored.
"I know!" the world's only consulting detective gestured wildly with his hands before leaning over the newspaper picture. "See the pattern of the glass fracture in the windshield? And the denting over the hood of the cab?"
John squinted at the picture. "Not really..."
Sherlock threw his hands into the air and collapsed dramatically onto the sofa. "Honestly, John! All the damage indicates that the body hit horizontally!"
"And that's important because...?"
Sherlock began to rub his temples as though he were having a migraine. His tone of voice indicated he felt as though he were explaining something to an exceptionally slow child. "How would you throw a body off a bridge?"
It was John's turn to glare at his impossible flatmate. Still, if this was going to be a case, it was important for him to pay attention. That and the fastest way to get Sherlock moving was to play along. "Fireman's carry ,probably. I'd lean it on the railing if I could, to control the extra weight, so that I wasn't at any risk of falling over too."
"Precisely," Sherlock cried, jumping back into a seated position. "And the body would impact the roadway sideways! Let's go see Lestrade before he bollixes this case up more than he already has." Sherlock lept from the couch with seemingly boundless energy and reached for his coat.
"This might not be in his jurisdiction, Sherlock," John warned, but he put on his jacket anyway.
"No, absolutely not, Sherlock. No."
"Can't you see you're missing the obvious!" Sherlock insisted.
Lestrade had not been expecting them, but neither was he surprised by their sudden appearance. Sherlock had been making himself a nuisance at the New Scotland Yard too long for it to ever be a surprise.
"Sherlock, I barely tolerate you some days. What on earth makes you think I'm going to sick you on a colleague just because you have a hunch?"
"It's not a hunch!" Sherlock insisted. "It was murder!"
Lestrade sighed and pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "You're sure?
"Yes," Sherlock insisted. "Absolutely certain."
The Detective Inspector glared up at the world's only consulting detective. "You'd stake your reputation on it? This isn't just because you've had a lull in cases?"
Sherlock shrugged, "That too, and this looks like it's at least a six."
"Sherlock!" Greg hissed. "I do not care about your stupid ranking system for cases!"
There was a long silence where the two men stared at each other in a silent battle of wills, before Sherlock leaned down and murmured. "Mrs. Dwight was murdered. Let me find her killer. No one else is looking."
Greg finally looked away and sank down into his chair. "Fine. I'll put in a good word for you, and see if they'll let you examine the body." Sherlock whooped and charged out of the Detective Inspector's office before he was even properly done speaking. "I make no promises, Sherlock!" Greg called after him, knowing that his words, as always, fell on deaf ears.
John, who had been standing to the side, watching their exchange, stepped forward and watched his flatmate's retreating form for a moment before he said. "You know he was just manipulating you."
Greg shrugged. "Sherlock manipulates everyone, it's what he does. But he's brilliant and we need him, and you were right about him caring."
The ex-army doctor glanced down and met his friend's steady gaze and said, "Some days I believe that, some days I think I just want to believe that." John shook his head for a moment then squared his shoulders. "Right, well I'd better catch up with him or he'll take his own cab there and stick me with the bill for both."
The Detective Inspector nodded in understanding. "Go on. Try to keep him out of trouble, if you can."
John glanced over his shoulder with a wry smile. "Don't ask for miracles."
Two and a half hours later, they arrived at the Huddersfield morgue. A dour man of average height and build, with light brown eyes and dark blond hair was waiting for them. "Greetings Gentlemen," he began with a nod as they stepped out of the car that had brought them. "My name is Charles McGregor; I am the director of the mortuary. I understand that you come from London, with the recommendation of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."
John smiled warmly and shook the offered hand, while Sherlock peered eagerly over his shoulder, impatient to get to work. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice," John said, determined that one of them would demonstrate good manners."
"It's no trouble," Mr. McGregor insisted. "I have been authorized to allow you to examine the body of Mrs. Mary Dwight. I feel I must warn you that her official cause of death has been ruled a suicide. The cremation is planned for tomorrow morning."
"For now," Sherlock drawled dismissively, oblivious to John's growing frown.
"It is very kind for you to allow us to re-examine the body," the ex-army doctor continued, elbowing his flatmate sharply in the ribs in the hopes that he would stop fidgeting.
Mr. McGregor nodded. "It never hurts to be absolutely certain in such cases. Her family is extremely troubled by her passing and have been anxious to assist the authorities in any way they can. When Detective Inspector Lestrade contacted our local police station and explained that Mr. Holmes had taken an interest in the details of this case, we were all quite surprised. I know he has a reputation for working difficult, high-profile cases in London, but this seems very open and shut."
"Sherlock likes to examine everything that has to do with his work, and unfortunately death is one of them," John explained. "When he first started working cases in London he spent a great deal of time at St. Bart's morgue both consulting about cases and learning about autopsies. He can tell at a glance whether an injury was caused post-mortem just based on his practical experience." John shrugged casually. Everything he'd said was true, but it was also an excuse. Sherlock would give him no end of hell if he didn't get to examine this body, regardless what anyone else thought of it...and John thought one arrest was more than enough for this year.
"When he heard about Mrs. Dwight," John continued, "he wanted to study her body to see how the impact had affected it, and if he could deduce the angle of her fall. He thought he saw some inconsistencies in the damage to the truck which struck her."
"Yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade mentioned that." Mr. Mcgregor glanced at Sherlock, who looked as though he was ready to come out of his skin with impatience. "Well, I won't keep you any longer, let me show you the facilities."
They turned and made their way inside. They made it to the examination room in one piece, but John nearly had to trip Sherlock to keep him from brushing Mr. McGregor aside. The ex-army doctor had to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from smiling at Sherlock's childlike energy; he was always this way about a case, but smiling would only encourage him.
"We laid her out on an examination table when we heard you were on your way," Mr. McGregor said as he lead them into the fully equipped facilities. There was a meaningful pause before he added, "The damage was extensive..."
Sherlock was already pulling on gloved and scanning the draped sheet in a predatory fashion when he said, "I examined a body once that had been ground nearly to a pulp in industrial processing equipment. There was a patch of skin that held part of a tattoo that we were able to trace to her ex-boyfriend."
Mr. McGregor blinked slowly before asking, "How, exactly, were you able to do that?"
Sherlock sighed impatiently and replied in a rush of air, "The tattoo had been some idiotic quote the girl was enamored of, and I matched it to the handwriting of the ex-boyfriend. Crimes of passion are so predictable. Have you set out her personal belongings for me as well?"
Mr. McGregor nodded. "Yes, they are on that small table to the side, there. Mr. Lestrade stated you wanted to see them." His voice trailed off as he spoke, revealing his confusion about Sherlock's request.
Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, reached for the expensive looking shoes, and turned both over in his hands. Sherlock made a small sound in the back of his throat, set the shoes down and turned towards the covered body once more. "John, are you coming?"
John allowed himself an amused smile while he pulled on his own pair of gloves. Sherlock's back was turned, thus creating the illusion of privacy. As entertaining as Sherlock's need for an audience could be, this was bound to be some grisly work. He forced himself to take a breath and focus. The good doctor moved to the other side of the table, and together, they drew back the sheet.
The muscles in John's stomach clenched as he fought the impulse to draw in a quick breath at the sight of the body. It was about as bad as he expected, but that didn't make looking at it, at her any easier. There was nothing left of her face, the skull was badly misshapen, and the fractures throughout her skeleton contorted her flesh into unnatural angles. Mrs. Dwight truly appeared shattered.
The good doctor looked up and was unsurprised to find Sherlock intently focused on her neck, or what remained of it.
"Turn the head, for me," Sherlock instructed, and John did as he was ordered, using gentle movements so as not to damage the body any further.
Sherlock refocused the light, and knelt down to have a closer look, prodding the flesh gently. "Ha!" he cried, flashing a triumphant smile.
"What is it," Mr. McGregor asked, stepping forward. "What have you found?"
"Look here," Sherlock gestured, "just behind the jaw. That is a bruise in the shape of a thumb."
Mr. McGregor frowned, looked at Sherlock, then back at the body. "Well, it could be I suppose, but Mrs. Dwight's body sustained many bruises in the fall."
Sherlock, as usual, was undeterred. "John, turn the head a bit farther," he ordered.
John did as he was bid, leaning over the body so that he might also see what his brilliant flatmate had spotted.
"Here, on the other side," Sherlock continued, tracing his findings with his finger, "are four longer marks, those came from the fingers on the rest of the hand. Given the size and depth of the bruising, it was probably a man's hand. Mr. Dwight, most likely."
Mr. McGregor paled slightly when he saw the bruising. "Well, I... I don't know. I suppose it's possible, but-"
"Bruising she would have sustained, when grabbed just like this," Sherlock demonstrating by reaching behind Mr. McGregor and closing his hand tightly around the back of his neck. Mr. McGregor's shoulders hunched in surprise and self-defense as Sherlock straightened, forcing him to stand on his toes.
"I believe we should call the New Scotland Yard now, yes?"
"Yes," Mr. McGregor squeaked, and as soon as he did so, Sherlock released him. He fell back hard on his heels and rubbed the back of his neck, looking dubiously at the world's only consulting detective. "I'll go make the call," he muttered, giving Sherlock a wide birth as he left the room.
"Was that really necessary, " John scolded, gently settling the body back into place.
Sherlock turned his piercing towards his blogger. "Our best chance to get to the truth is to act quickly."
John glanced down at the remains of Mrs. Dwight, and pressed his lips together in a grim line. He couldn't argue with that, especially not if this was murder.
"What do you mean you won't reopen the case?!" Sherlock cried indignantly into his phone. He was pacing with frantic energy up and down the hotel room John had booked for them. The world's only consulting detective wasn't about to leave the area on the dawn of such an intriguing case.
"Sherlock, you don't have enough evidence," Lestrade said patiently, on the other end of the line. "People fight, Mr. Dwight was up front about the fact that they'd been fighting the night she died. Her toxicology screen showed a blood alcohol level of .5 percent. She sent her husband a goodbye text just before she's reported to have fallen. It is generally believed that Mrs. Dwight fought with her husband, got drunk, and leapt off the Scammonden Bridge."
"A suicide text? Tell me you're not that stupid Lestrade," Sherlock all but pleaded. "If they were fighting and she felt hurt and wanted to get back at him, or even if she loved him and thought he was too good for her, she would've written a letter. Even people who think their lives are worthless recognize that ending a life, even a worthless one means something to people. No, if there's no note it's likely an accident, if there is one it likely a suicide, and a text just screams 'I was murdered!'"
"Sherlock, the official investigation is over, the cremation's tomorrow. I am not going to put that poor women's family though any more on so little evidence, no matter how brilliant you are."
Sherlock's face hardened and he grew frighteningly still. "Fine." His voice was hard and clipped.
John just barely heard Greg shout, "Sherlock, don't do anything stu-" before Sherlock ended the call.
Sherlock ran a hand through his wild curls, shoved his phone into his pocket, and turned away from John, walking towards the door of their hotel room.
"Where are you going?" John asked, standing from his position on the second bed.
The world's only consulting detective looked coolly over his shoulder. "Mr. Dwight's house."
"What!" John cried, alarmed. "Why? You heard Greg; we're finished."
"I heard that I needed more evidence," Sherlock retorted, turning to fully face John.
"How do you even intend to do this, Sherlock? He's probably at home getting ready for the funeral of his Wife."
A slow smirk curled its way onto Sherlock's face and John groaned, putting his face into his hands. "Who did you bribe?"
"It's not always about money, surprisingly enough," Sherlock drawled. There is always someone in every village, city or town, who knows what you need to know, and will tell you without even thinking about it. You just need to know who to ask."
John lifted his head and glared at Sherlock through his fingers. "And?" he insisted sharply, taking his hands away from his face.
"And while you were arranging for accommodations I was calling a florist. I wanted to send an arrangement to the Dwight household. Not only did she let slip the address, which I already knew from glancing at Mrs. Dwights file in the mortuary, but she stated the arrangements would be better sent to Mr. Dwight senior, since Mr. Dwight has taken the children with him to stay at his parents for the funeral."
"I'm not going with you, Sherlock, you're leaving way too much to chance. What if there's a silent alarm? What if he comes home for something? What if your just wrong?"
Sherlock arched an eyebrow and loomed over John, but the ex-army doctor would not be cowed. "I mean it. Nothing in our deal said that I would get arrested for you."
"If I find nothing at the Dwight household to convince you," Sherlock pressed, "then you can go."
"Go?" John echoed, not following.
"I will release you from your obligations as my blogger, while also keeping my promise to pay for the remainder of your sister's treatment."
John's heart skipped a beat. Free? Sherlock would free him if he was wrong? No more beastly flatmate? No more 3:00am wake up calls? No more running pell-mell all over London chasing dubious characters? Really? ...That should be good news... He should feel relived, not uneasy... and certainly not disappointed...
The ex-army doctor shook himself and squared his shoulders. "Deal," he said firmly, putting out his hand for the world's only consulting detective to shake. Sherlock grinned, took it, and pulled his blogger out into the night.
Just as they'd heard, the house appeared to be empty. Still, Sherlock spent ten minutes examining the parameter to check for any alarms that would cut their search short. He'd paused meaningfully a few times, scanning the rooftop, the bushes, and the trees, but he'd never said anything about what he may or may not have seen.
At last he plucked a supple pin out of his hair and picked the lock while John tried not to be surprised that he hadn't expected the hair pin. He'd certainly lived with the man long enough to know he was always armed. Why not also always be ready to pick a lock?
They crept into the house through the side kitchen door. John squinted in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust, while Sherlock blazed ahead as if he had sonar. The good doctor managed, just barely to keep up as Sherlock prowled through the kitchen, then the living room. He didn't stop or seem to examine anything, he was just scanning the area, looking for...well, with Sherlock he was looking for whatever he had deduced might be here.
They were approaching the stairs when Sherlock ducked his head into a small half bath, grinned, and started to dash for the stairs.
"What?" John asked, glancing into the bathroom, then back up at Sherlock's rapidly retreating form. "What did you find?"
Sherlock leaned back at a dangerous angle, hanging onto the railing for balance, so that he could tip his head over one shoulder and speak to John in a near whisper.
"What I came for." He flashed John a grin, then straightened and dashed the rest of the way upstairs.
John looked between the stairs and the bathroom for a few more moments before nearly shouting, "If what we need is in the bathroom, why are you running that way?!"
"Come, John," Sherlock replied, in a much calmer tone, from the second floor. The ex-army doctor rolled his eyes and moved up the stairs to join his crazy flatmate. He found the world's only consulting detective, hunched over a computer in what appeared to be a home office, typing furiously at the keyboard. John leaned over his shoulder, pressing in close so that he could see. There was no danger of making Sherlock uncomfortable, he was too focused on his work, and he didn't seem to have any need for personal space.
John's eyes darted over the screen as Sherlock worked, trying to keep up. Whether he had hacked into the computer in front of him, or simply turned it on, he seemed to be rapidly scrolling through the files inside it, digging deeper and deeper into its core memory. Sherlock was opening and closing things so quickly that John had little chance of identifying them before he moved on to the next one. He wanted to ask Sherlock again what he was looking for, but he knew he would receive no answer, not when Sherlock was closing in on something.
"Ha!" Sherlock cried softly, his fingers dancing even faster over the keys.
"What?" John asked again, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.
"I'm in his security system," Sherlock explained, beginning to open video and picture files. "Very high-tech for a nondescript middle aged man in the shipping industry."
"How is his security system going to help you?" John pressed, "And how is it connected to the bathroom?"
Sherlock's gaze never left the screen as he spoke. "One of the files I passed over detailed shipment schedules. That combined with this high tech security system hints that Mr. Dwight is involved with something illegal."
"Drugs?" John asked, pressing in closer.
"Don't know. I will soon enough, but the bathroom provided me with a more interesting line of inquiry that will yield results much more quickly."
John almost groaned in frustration. "Sherlock, explain this to me in a way a normal human could understand."
"High tech security systems and mysterious shipping schedules form a dubious picture, but the camera hidden in the bathroom forms a much clearer picture. Think about it, Mrs. Dwight was in her early thirties with two children. I was able to ascertain their ages from her file at the morgue, but even if I wasn't, it's safe to assume they are still young, unless she had them in her teens."
John paled and gripped Sherlock's shoulder tightly. "You don't mean... was he looking at his children?!"
Sherlock did pause then, to glare meaningfully over his shoulder at his blogger. "Once again, John, you miss everything of importance. Mr. Dwight fell victim to a much more common temptation." Without looking back at the computer, Sherlock opened the file he had just come to, and pictures of a half dressed teenaged girl filled the screen. They weren't blatantly erotic. She was dressing, or using the facilities, or even examining herself in the mirror of the bathroom downstairs. "Mr. Dwight is sexually fixated on his babysitter," Sherlock concluded with triumph. "Given these pictures, it's very likely that she's still a minor. It could have been Mr. Dwight's illegal activities that caused the fight with Mrs. Dwight, but given that Mr. Dwight is also legitimately involved in the shipping business, and these files were buried much deeper, I'm guessing she stumbled across them and had be silenced."
John's face remained rigid with anger and disgust, and Sherlock smiled coyly. "Well?" Sherlock continued. "Have I convinced you?"
The ex-army doctor's steely gaze met that of his companion. "Break this thing down, we're taking it with us."
Sherlock grinned. "That's the spirit!" He quickly secured the laptop, it's power cord, and a few interesting looking flash drives that had been stored near it. Tucking the package under his arm, Sherlock ushered John silently back out onto the street.
They walked along, each lost in their separate thoughts, until Sherlock reached out and linked his arm with John's. He started to look up but Sherlock hissed, "Don't," and he turned his gaze back to the road before them. After a few moments, Sherlock spoke again, "We're being followed."
A chill prickled along John's spine. "You're sure?"
In his peripheral vision, John could see the scowl spreading across Sherlock's face. "Sure enough. When we pass that alleyway up ahead, we're going to duck into it."
John nodded slightly to show his assent. He thought they would make a sudden dash for it, and hope to lose their pursuer with the element of surprise. Instead, Sherlock gently nudged them to the side so that when they came to the mouth of the alleyway, they were almost inside it already. John's muscles tensed in anticipation, then in surprise when Sherlock suddenly pressed him back against the wall, looming uncomfortably close. The ex-army doctor looked up and drew in a sharp breath as Sherlock leaned in. Why had they stopped like this, still half out of the ally? They were supposed to be running, not getting ready to make out like a couple of teenagers!
Realization finally dawned as Sherlock's arms crept around John's back and drew him deeper into the alleyway, and out of sight of the main street. As soon as they were concealed they both took off running. Hopefully their tail, if they were being followed, would think that Sherlock and John were not aware of them, that their stop in the ally was exactly as it had first appeared to be. It made sense, as a decoy, considering how often John was obliged to announce, 'He's not my boyfriend!'
Sherlock cut into a side street, then back into another alley a little ways down, with John right behind him. They stopped to scale an old fire escape and dash across the roof of a long, narrow building. John was ready to go to ground, wait things out on the roof, but Sherlock didn't slow. He dived over the other side of the building and disappeared from sight.
John sighed in exasperation and prepared to do the same. He faltered when he peered over the edge. There was no stairway on this side... Sherlock was sliding dangerously fast down a drainage pipe! He drew in breath to argue, and let it out again in a frustrated rush. Sherlock was too far away to hear him now, and he wouldn't stop even if he could.
John started to throw a leg over the side of the roof, planning to pick is way down a bit slower, using the drainage pipe as an anchor, when movement flashed in the corner of his vision. He stilled and swiveled his head around to see better. Sure enough a hunched figure was creeping up on Sherlock from the next alleyway over. Either there was more than one person following them, or they'd been cut off somehow. This person was fast, too fast.
"Look out!" John cried, scrambling over the edge of the roof in a vain attempt to get to his friend in time.
Sherlock's head jerked to the side for a moment, then fully around as the smaller figure closed on him and pressed a sweet smelling cloth over his face. Sherlock jerked away but when he felt the prick of the needle, he knew it was too late. His vision swam as he stumbled back, something flashed in the moonlight and a deep, sultry voice murmured, "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."
A voice broke through the darkness. "I've got him, really. We'll be fine."
Sherlock felt as if the whole world were wrapped in thick cotton, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to move.
Warm hands picked up his own and began, gently, to clean them. He'd suffered some minor abrasions in the slide down the side of the building, but that hadn't been important at the time; speed had been paramount. The firm, but gentle fingers pressed a sanitizing solution into his skin that burned where the skin had broken. A cool damp cloth was run carefully and deliberately over each hand, and between the fingers. Whoever was tending to him was thorough. The hands left for a moment, then returned with a soft, dry cloth, pressing insistently into his skin to soak up the excess moisture. This was followed by the gentle application of an ointment, probably a antibiotic ointment, that drain pipe had been a bit rusty. When his hands were lifted so that bandages might be applied, Sherlock managed to turn his head and open his eyes.
John glanced down at his face and smiled in relief. "Hey," he murmured, his hands continuing their diligent work.
Sherlock blinked and his fingers twitched in John's grip. He managed, with some effort, to bring his tongue forward and wet his lips. At length he rasped, "What are you doing?"
John looked at him again, slightly perplexed as he secured the bandages on one hand and reached for the other. "I'm bandaging your wounds."
"...Why?"
John's eyebrows furrowed closer together and he frowned. "Because you could get a nasty infection otherwise," he spoke slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. "I'm surprised you're awake already. You were injected with a very heavy dose of sedatives."
Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut for a moment and murmured, "After periods of sustained, high dosage use, protracted tolerance develops. Tolerance should diminish over time, but can still remain remarkably high depending on individual body chemistry." He blinked his eyes open to see that John's amused smile had returned.
"I see your cognitive recall is operating just fine," the good doctor replied, securing the bandaged on Sherlock's second hand, before sitting on the side of the bed, his hand still resting on Sherlock's forearm.
"We're in hospital," Sherlock observed, moving his head slowly to prevent the room from spinning.
John nodded. "Yes, you were unconscious by the time I reached you, so I called for an ambulance. I did some rescue breathing too, because your respirations seemed dangerously sluggish." Then, as an afterthought, John added, "Whoever they were made off with the laptop."
Sherlock made a face. He had surmised as much already, but that kind of theft indicated that this was more than a simple murder. He'd have another chance at this game. He mused aloud, "The rag that was pressed into my face was soaked in chloroform." Was the rag only a distraction, or had it been meant as insurance on the plan to sedate him? This was possibly irrelevant, but he couldn't be certain.
John's frown deepened. "I'm glad you woke up so quickly. They still want to keep you overnight for observation, though."
Sherlock's gaze at last fell to the cumbersome medical boot that came up to just below John's left knee, and the crutches propped against the side of the bed. "Broken ankle?" he asked, raising his eyes to meet John's gaze.
John shook his head. "No, but nearly. It's a very bad sprain, and they want me in this thing for two weeks, just to be safe. Think we can avoid chases for that long?"
The ex-army doctors tone was amused, but the world's only consulting detective was frowning. John was a doctor, and he had been trained by the army. He should know how to scale a building and land with the proper support...unless he was rushing. Had he rushed to Sherlock's side after shouting his warning? Had he stayed with him all this time? "You didn't need to hurt yourself," he mumbled, still feeling a bit foggy from the sedatives.
"I wasn't trying to; I was worried about you. It's a good thing I was there too. When the paramedics arrived your oxygen levels were uncomfortably low. They gave you Naloxone, but the cocktail you received was mostly barbiturates." John squeezed Sherlock's forearm lightly. "I'm glad you're alright."
Sherlock frowned. "You didn't need to help me; your sister's treatment would still have been paid for; I've made arrangements to ensure that." John raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock pressed on, "I always keep my promises, assuming I'm not lying when I make them in the first place."
Wry amusement was painted on John's face, but the eyes that locked with Sherlock's were still and serious. "I wasn't about to put you in danger for my sister's sake. I wasn't even thinking about her, to be honest." When Sherlock's frown deepened John finally chuckled. "I care about you too, you know."
Sherlock fixed him with a weak glare. "That could be dangerous for your health."
John's smile was undeterred. His thumb had begun rubbing soothing circles into the skin beneath it. "You're not as much of an ass as you'd like people to think. You like to go on about being a high functioning sociopath. Thing is, sociopaths aren't born that way. I've done the research. Sociopaths often start out as very caring people and are made the way they are because of how much they care and how much they are betrayed." John shook his head, looking serious. "I don't think you're a sociopath. I think you just act that way because it feels like it's less of a risk."
Sherlock fixed him with a weak glare. "You're quite sure of that, are you?"
The good doctor's warm smile returned. "It took me a while to get there, but yes. Yes, I am."
Sherlock grumbled a bit, and looked away. The gentle pressure of John's had on his forearm never wavered.