A/N: There's always a bit of "just wanna add this and that" involved. Told you I'm not a writer! -csf

. 4th

What have Big Ben's clock face, a leaning tomb and a blind greenhouse in common? Well, they are all Sherlock's known boltholes. Known to his big brother Mycroft, perhaps even known to DI Lestrade by now. And if those two are on our side, it's the off chance that someone else might have got wind of Sherlock's hideouts from the world, that has made my best friend opt today for other such safe places, less known. His emergency boltholes, I should imagine, that he never intended not even me to know.

Well, he's graciously given up their knowledge to me, now his main priority is to keep me safe. I'm a runaway, a fugitive from justice. I will remain so as long as it takes for Sherlock Holmes to prove my innocence. You see, I'm lucky that way. I've got the best friend in the world that one would need when unjustly accused of murdering a man.

More than that, Sherlock took my word for it when I stated I was innocent. It wasn't a small gesture, not when I cannot remember any event in my life around the time of the murder. Sherlock is sure I was drugged and planted at a scene of a fresh crime. After that, I behaved brilliantly; as far as the plotter is concerned. I must have tried to save the dying man's life, getting myself covered in his blood. If it wasn't bad enough I came out of the alley looking dazed and lost, an immediate magnet for the police. The rest of the story being made as we speak.

.

'Sherlock, slow down! You've got bloody long legs!'

My friend reduces his pace fractionally, discretely glancing around us in the crowded streets of London. Among the busy passersby, the never-ending flow of tourists and all the other urban creatures, Sherlock and I have a slight anonymity. People notice us, but they do not pay attention. They recognise us at times, but blood lusted for celebrities, soon they forget us for someone else. Sherlock and I keep marching briskly across London's streets, hoping to reach Sherlock's safe place soon.

'Where are we going to?' I ask my mad friend, in a harsh whisper.

'To the Royal Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain, John!'

I blink. 'Hm... Very nice, we can learn a lot, I'm sure, but Sherlock... it's not really the time to go to a museum.'

'Nonsense, John, it's always the right time to visit a museum!'

I squint. 'Tell me you actually have a plan.'

He glances my way. 'Of course I do. You overwork me that way, John. Always demanding plans, actions, results...'

I frown. What?

'So, why the Royal Pharmaceutical Society? Is there a particular exhibit you are keen on?'

'Of course not. What we need we can only find in the museum's deep basement and archive. You'll see.'

'Is this still about the drugs?' I hazard a guess.

He nods briefly. 'Obviously, John. What else?'

With Sherlock, what else could be just about anything.

.

'It's a health and safety nightmare, Sherlock', I state, sternly.

He shrugs, unapologetic. Possibly because he's already got it his way, as always. 'It's a qualitative analysis, John, of any unusual chemical substances present in your blood.'

'It's been hours. I don't feel hazy anymore. How would you still find traces of whatever they used to knock me silly?'

'The drug has metabolized, it doesn't necessarily mean that it's gone. Byproducts and physiological reactions that respond to the earlier stimulus should still be occurring and can be picked up on if we pay close enough attention.'

I sigh. 'Are you making that up?' I ask, frontally.

'Just a little', he admits, 'but it's worth a shot.'

I shrug. 'You just want to have a play with the cool stuff at the museum', I deduce him. He smirks along, opening archive boxes full of laboratory paraphernalia.

.

Metal supports holding fractional distillation columns separate the dark viscous liquid from its transparent plasma that swirls down to a conical flask with a bright fluorescent liquid bubbling happily. Whatever the strange analysis Sherlock is setting up with my blood sample, it's hazardous and not nearly scientific enough.

It has crossed my medical mind that Sherlock might just be trying to impress me now, trying to help me believe everything will turn out okay.

The deception doesn't bother me much; it's nice to build nice memories, in case I get incarcerated for the anonymous man's murder. I'll have plenty of time to think back on the fun Sherlock and I used to have.

'Sherlock?' I've noticed my friend is looking attentively at me. That didn't bother me; he really does that much more often than any normal person would do, and for longer too. What stroke me uncomfortable was his blank expression, too carefully crafted not to be hiding something deep.

I think he's scared for me.

'John?' he calls my name back to me, acting all innocent.

I fake a tired sigh. 'Deducing me again?'

'Err... No.'

I open my arms in surrender. 'Why not make this easier on you? Go on, do your thing now, and then leave me be.' I challenge him.

Perhaps I shouldn't have. Sherlock's eyes open wide and all of a sudden the room feels colder, the air crisp and it's like the lighting changed as well. All sound magically quietens down, all focus is on Sherlock's magnetic gaze upon me. He slides off his chair in a feline move and circles me. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. He won't say a word, so I keep steady, shoulders poised, jaw set.

'Yes...' he starts abruptly. 'I wonder why I stopped doing this. So much information, you are incredibly expressive, an open book really.'

I frown on him. 'You stopped because I insisted. I'm not a lab specimen in a formaldehyde jar.'

He shrugs, inconsequentially. 'How's the headache, John?'

I'm taken by surprise. 'Much better, thanks.'

'Not all gone, though. There's a deep inset crinkle there', he points to some spot on my face, 'that is present only when you are in pain. The severity of its crease a direct variable to the amount of headache.'

'Oh.' I won't comment.

'Then there's your clothes.'

'My clothes?' I repeat.

'Not your standard issue Scotland Yard shirt replacement, one of your favourite jumpers. And aren't you a bit too old to have favourite jumpers? Never mind. I guessed you earned that right. No. I mean your jeans. Not your best pair, been through the washing machine so many times the denim has faded and the seams at the cuffs are threadbare. They are deformed from repeated usage and accommodate your needs well. It is an old piece you seem to favour when you are having a quiet day in. Ergo, you did not expect any formal or important meetings today, as you got dressed in the morning. No work either, you favour more formal, darker tones for work days. Yet you always keep an eye on comfort, that is the one luxury you relish on. Whether it's an old worn shirt, a shapeless jumper or a threadbare pair of jeans. John Watson has been through the army and the war; he has earned comfort.'

'When you put it like that...'

'Then there's your shoes.'

'My shoes?' I do a double take.

'Mud splatters, tiny ones, more likely urban residues and not open rural areas bigger smudges. Not enough in quantity to account for a longer time outdoors than the three and a half miles you walked or travelled to get to the alley. That suggests you went directly to the rendezvous. You are a fit man, you could do the distance on foot in about an hour. Likely you only left Baker Street to lest up with someone. Maybe the victim. Whoever it was, you went without delay, not changing to a better fitting, or more professional ensemble. That suggests the nature of your meeting was not formal. Now, I've checked your phone already – of course I have John, there could have been leads there! – and there were no prior contacts, just a lot of recent web searches on types of skin rashes. Three things, John. One: as a doctor you are not supposed to diagnose yourself. Two: it's clearly just a contact allergy. Three: I may have misplaced some of my sodium hydroxide on the sofa's tweed pillow. I will personally take it to the cleaners if you'll kindly stop using the long sofa as a bed. Kindly remember you will have a bedroom upstairs.'

'Thanks?' I say, unsure, mindlessly scratching my neck.

'Welcome', he replies at once, confidently.

'No recent unexpected contacts on your phone suggest very strongly the lure came to you at Baker Street by post or in person. I asked Mrs Hudson and there have been no visitors. No better fountain of information than a nosy landlady conveniently living below our flat.'

'Your flat now', I correct him.

'Nonsense, you have a room upstairs, John', he ignores my contribution. 'I suspect a letter. Easy to manipulate and it wouldn't miss the attention of the man who has always done the archives, bookkeeping and handled my clients. By the way, John, many potential clients just show up at the door now. The front door is never locked and many just worm their way upstairs and make themselves at home, using me as their "dear diary". It's insufferable that I have to listen to their stories to know if their cases are worthwhile. You used to take care of that for me. You are slacking lately.'

I smirk, knowing he's not that useless himself. At least, I don't think so. He's just lazy that way.

'Can't remember any letter, Sherlock', I remind him, crossing my arms in front of me.

'I suspected as much', he says, pained. 'That entails that the drug was administered to you as early as the arrival of the post. In fact, the letter was most likely the vehicle for the drug.'

'Wouldn't the postman get dosed too?'

'Not if it was inside the envelope.'

'On the paper, you mean?'

'Or hidden in a small spring mechanism that jumped at you and nicked your upper layers of the epidermis, superficially.'

'How do you know this?' I suspect.

He produces a plastic bag with a crunched piece of paper from within his coat. 'I picked it up from the kitchen bin. Where you disposed of it. I knew where to look. You are way too tidy, John.'

Again, he's messing with me, gaging my reaction.

'Can that prove I was drugged?' I ask eagerly, hopeful.

'I'm afraid not. The sample is too degraded by oxidation with the air. The envelope is lined with plastic. It must have been made into a vacuum before posting, and you broke the seal when you opened the letter.'

'And I just threw it away? Not noticing any of that?'

Sherlock looks momentarily confused too. 'Something else got your attention instead. I'd say the written content of the letter.'

'Setting the immediate meeting', I further add. 'And the letter itself?'

'Didn't find it at home or in the alley.'

'Maybe the real murderer took it away. I was dazed, it would have been easy to take it from me. I probably didn't even put up a fight.'

'It was a clever precaution', he agrees.

'Yeah, unfortunately.'

'But he didn't quite count on your soldier background shinning through.'

'What do you mean?' I ask at once.

Sherlock smirks fondly, almost proudly. 'You did fight him, John. He was getting something away from you, something you deemed important even in your addled state.'

I look down on my hands. Did he see signs of a fight in them? I took a desperate shower at Baker Street, I must have washed them away.

Then I spot it. Just a small bruise, not really a cut, on my right hand.

'What is this? Did I punch him or what? It's not even my dominant hand.'

'No. It's your gun hand, though', Sherlock points out, very serious. 'I saw it the moment I first laid eyes on you. Why do you think I haven't left you alone for a moment, unless you were surrounded by officers of the law? You used your gun hand, it must mean you felt threatened in that alley. That, John, is something I take very seriously.'

.

I'm looking away to the empty corridor leading to this basement when a pack of crisps lands near me. Guess Sherlock found the vending machine. I snap my attention back to the detective. 'This is all very entertaining for you, I'm sure', I start, as diplomatic as I can given my aggravated headache, 'but is there really a point to all this? Are you just acting out because I'm your friend?'

He smiles briefly at the mention that I'm his friend, and my heart feels constricted for the shy genius that spent so many years in self-imposed isolation.

'You are my client, John', he reminds me I occupy a double position today.

'Then treat me as a client. You are never this nice, this sociable, with our clients.'

He frowns. Maybe he thinks I'm trying to put up a fight because I'm becoming too restless or too selfless.

'Okay. Get up. On your feet, John! And shut up', he adds, as if he'd been dying to say that for a good while.

I swallow dry. Well, I ask for it, didn't I? Asked him to be the jerk, cold detective that can solve the case. Very well, I'll do what I must.

I get up, obediently.

'Your blood sugar levels have plummeted. Hence, you are currently grumpy. Still, you raise an important point, John. You can be my client. More so than that, you can be my victim.'

Well, doesn't that sound ominous? I'm immediately intrigued as to what he means by those strange words.

Sherlock gets up too and circles me again. 'Do keep as still as you can, John.'

I nod, and rapidly realise that's breaking the rules already. I clear my throat and focus on my task, staring blankly ahead.

Sherlock pulls out the magnifying lenses again. Then, focusing on my hands carefully with sudden interest, he pulls out a UV pen. In the dimmed lights basement where the white light from the long lab benches is the only lighting source Sherlock upon us.

Is he using forensic techniques on me?

'Your hands are lighting up, John', he comments, amusedly.

'I've washed my hands', I feel the need to assert.

'I can still discern pen marks, transferred from the wet ink on the paper you wrote on.'

'Don't remember writing anything today, other than signing my name at the Yard, over and over again.'

'It's your left hand, your dominant hand. As in all left-handed people in the occidental culture, when you write you go over the words with your hand, leaving word smudges on the lateral palm of your hand. The effect varies with the type of ink and pen, but it's generally visible regardless, because as you go over the paper the ink hasn't dried completely yet. Therefore you accumulate the mirrored ghosted prints of words on your skin. Stand still, John.'

'Why?'

'I'm cranking my neck here. I prefer to photograph the evidence and study it on my phone.'

'Oh.' Makes sense. 'What does it say?'

He shakes his head, as he shoots the picture under the UV light. 'Not sure. I've got the beginning of the message more clearly than the ending. Perhaps suggesting rush, you hurried over the words too fast, creating a blur on your skin.'

'But what do you have there?'

He angles his phone so I can see it too. 'What can we make of it?' he murmurs.

'A name, a location and something else...' I mutter. Still doesn't ring a bell.

' "Chandler" – a name; "Cap alley" – a reference to "Cardinal Cap Alley" where the murder took place; and what could potentially be "10" or "11"...' Sherlock reads.

'Chandler...' I repeat. 'Where did I hear that name before?'

'Any memory resurfacing?' Sherlock asks me, hopeful.

I shake my head. Not really, no. 'Think that's a number eleven, for the time', I try to help.

He hums. 'Doctors handwriting', he strikes it off. 'We know the time and the place, John. The name is the valuable clue, when taken into consideration with the previous findings. Army related, this Chandler person who contacted you is most likely the victim and not the murderer.'

'So what are we going to do? Go through the phone book directory and try all the Chandlers in there for one that is army related and that won't pick up the phone? It'd take you forever.'

'No. Not me, John. This is your speciality', he tells me frontally. 'Must I do everything? Get a crack on, John! I'm hoping to get us home for the night.'

.

TBC