Chapter 13

"Here," Mary places the book back in his hands and took the beginner book he offered, "I was looking through it, seems so complex and you've already gotten this far. That is really good!" Together the Watsons started breaking down the barriers of illiteracy in Braille whilst Molly resumed reading the same material Sherlock had previously.

The very next day during the morning routine, Sherlock bounded back and forth across the sitting room like a child with too much sugar. He kept whining for John to hurry since starting the experiment at the morgue would be crucial to solving the present case.

"Would you give it a rest Sherlock!" John fired back a bit too sharply for his personal liking, but it was after all only 6:30 in the morning. He had his reasons. "I will be done faster if I don't have to come in here every five seconds to makes you're you don't destroy the flat or do something incredibly unintelligent. Go sit and play your violin civilly until I'm ready, THEN we can go meet Molly at St. Barts." John herded the man to his favourite place and handed him the violin, much like how a parent would give a dummy to quiet down an unruly fussing baby.

Sheesh! Even babies are more behaved than him.

Sherlock took his instrument and started playing Sabre Dance**, a very uncivil piece, obvious by its given name. He played it a few times through before deeming it as 'boring' and sought other means to occupy himself. That 'other means' was a mix of forcefully banging out irritating rhythms on the short table in front of the fireplace, or playing screeching hissing noise on the violin strings. John hated them both equally. With every sound the poor frazzled nerve of the dear doctor's began to fray faster and faster.

Resounding though the flat and shaking the walls came the oh-so-lovely words no one ever wanted to hear from none other than the one and only, "Are you almost ready? What's taking you so long? What exactly are you doing!? Can we leave nowww?"

Sherlock's endless supply of annoying demanding incessant whining was enough to drive anyone civil insane. It's only a wonder how his brother dear managed it as a child growing up with him. Oh their poor parents...

He couldn't have been happier when John finally announced,"Let's go before you do something that could result in our obliteration or the flat's."

John stepped forward to take Sherlock's arm when it was shoved aside and snapped, "No John! Let me alone!I do not want your help!" Taken aback by the sudden change of spirit, John stood awkwardly by Sherlock waiting for him to do whatever it was by himself.

Sherlock walked slowly with deliberate steps toward the door. His hip grazed the sofa's arm, but otherwise didn't actually run into anything else. John looked on with concerned amazement and wondered,"When did Sherlock learn to walk the flat without tripping into anything?"

"Ermm...That's good, Sherlock," John tentatively offered,"Shall I go first on the stairs or you?"

"You." It sounded more of a command rather than a polite offer.

Sherlock followed behind holding onto the banister only instead of John's jumper collar like before. With every step, he became more sure-footed until three steps from the end. He misjudged the distance and slipped into John, who thankfully had reach the floor so caught the tall lanky man before he hit the banister.

"You alright?" John prompted and righted his friend. A curt nod followed by, "Molly is waiting for us. Come," was Sherlock only reply but didn't release his tight grip on John's wrist.

Sherlock's eyes saw the world like a through a kaleidoscope, distorted colours and shapes, but now they also had hints of insecurity building again.

Sherlock, don't be scared. You don't have to do everything alone.

Gently peeling the long bony fingers off his wrist, the shorter man placed said fingers on his right forearm and took them to the pavement. Sherlock had never said so, but John could feel a difference in their strides depending on where Sherlock held onto him. The forearm was his preferred spot, allowing him to have a spring in his toes, and light on his heels.

Neither man spoke in the ride to St. Bart's and didn't until they reach the hall leading to the morgue.

"John. Wait,"Sherlock turned to face his friend,"Ermm...about earlier at the flat, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I know you were doing what was well-intentioned, and thank you for catching me. I just wanted to do it myself, and ermmm..." He trailed off the sentence and looked away.

It was the unspoken words John heard loudest,"…and to show you what I can do without anyone hovering over me."

"Don't worry about before. I t's already forgotten. I'm glad I caught you in time." he gave a manly pat on the shoulder,"By the way, when did you have time to learn to walk the flat?"

"When do you think?" Sherlock smiled slyly returning to his normal cheeky-self, "obviously at night when you're asleep. I don't have time during the day. I worried about waking you when things accidentally toppled over, but you never did come down stairs. I've counted the steps around the flat several times now, but not nearly as many times for the stairs. Mrs. Hudson might have heard me since the floor boards creak at specific point. She never misses a thing I do, well except all the 'good' thing. Only picks up on the 'bad ones'. Shame on her".

"Oh. Ok." The internal workings of John's mind started piecing the parts together. It was the most crucial part, particularly the answers for the bruises. They came from falls in the flat not from fist fights with criminals. If calculated right, then it was about a month Sherlock had been doing his practising a few nights each week. "Actually, I did wake up to noises, but I had assumed it was you working on an experiment or just doing your questionable version of "cleaning the flat". I'm sorry. You could have just told me instead of keeping it secret."

"If I wanted you to know, I would have told you a month ago," he deadpanned.

John wiped a guilty smirk away and berated himself, "So I had counted the exact amount of time. What a shame I didn't do anything earlier. Some friend you are John Watson. Never assume with Sherlock, always be more than one-hundred percent certain."

"I'm glad you told me Sherlock, please don't hide anything else from me now on. Come, Molly in the middle of a corpse, but she's waving us in." John offered his arm to Sherlock and this time it wasn't met with an unfavourable response.

The three spent practically all day at the morgue doing various things. Yet not once did either Molly or John complain about doing something for him, whether it was reading out results or filling up test tubes with different substances. At times their patience would start to run thin, Sherlock wasn't the easiest of men to work with, but a "look" to each other gave a boost of energy to go on.

The time had reached three in the afternoon. Thankfully, the experiment had a long waiting time so John and Molly caught a quick bite during her lunch hour whilst dragging along a reluctant child who wanted to stay at the "playground" longer.

By the time two of the three were full, happy, and rested; they returned to collect the final data and record the result. According to Sherlock, this particular experiment would explain everything he needed to know about the murder weapon and motive. What exactly the experiment was in itself left the other two clueless. John could sort of follow his confusing reasoning, and Moly only understood the chemical side of matters.

"Molly, is the solution darker or lighter than the other one?" Sherlock held the test tube up to the light for her, "John, could you get me the results for the first experiment?"

"It's is a much darker shade of red, and according to the results here." John held up the paper next to Molly's, "It says the composition of elements are nearly tripled from the first."

"Perfect! Exactly what I had predicted." He handed off the test tube and gleefully clapped his hands, "Come along, we must pay a visit to the wonderful Scotland Yard." Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, as if NYS would actually ever be called 'wonderful' is certainly a laugh.

"Please John. Not like before," he held out his hand until it came into contact with the person he trusted. Molly smiled to John, she understood. Words were rarely needed between those two, save for maybe a few if absolutely necessary, otherwise it seems as if those two were joined like a hive mind. Perfectly in tune to each other's actions and thoughts.

** «The "Sabre Dance" (Armenian: Սուսերով պար) Russian: Танец с саблями) is a movement in the final act of Aram Khachaturian's ballet "Gayane" (1942). It is where the dancers display their skill with sabres. The movement, especially its middle section, is based on Armenian folk music.» Courtesy of Wikipedia. - - Go listen on YouTube. It is a not a long piece.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

If you're curious to know, I am passed through the former Yugoslavia riding a bus whilst writing this chapter on my phone's note-keeper app. The beautiful lands with so many lovely mountains, rivers, trees, and small villages...most of all the languages and dialects. Ones that I know not a word of, but they're so pretty to listen to.

Thank you for everyone's lovely comments, I will reply ASAP.

I tried to post it earlier, but the website kept malfunctioning. :(