A/N: Still in Sher-lock-down universe.
In real life a lot of restrictions in the UK are being lifted in a somewhat confusing manner, so I'd be pressed to explain them. As I get a grasp of the moment I will try to transport it here. See our heroes off these difficult times.
I see that the Spanish Flu, a century ago, did not fare well in books and (silent era) films. Maybe I shouldn't have weaved reality in these tiny stories. While most people tried to live of better times past or future, I'm just too used to trying to adjust when my world implodes. Trying to make sense of the falling debris. Working it into the every day as a new type of rain. And you know what they say about rain in England.
Like everyone else I hope we're seeing it die down here, and that it does not do much damage in countries where it still spreads.
And that we can all find a peaceful coexistence in the times that lie ahead, more equal and free. Where individuals can be judged by their merits and contributions and break free from old, hurtful patterns of thought, and are allowed the same opportunities to shine bright their light. So that the post covid-19 days can be better than those we left behind. Wiser. Deeper. And we can say we learnt a lesson or two.
It's a stupidly long A/N. -csf
Four.
Black, bitter coffee scent permeates my foggy brain, awaking me. I blink my eyes open, shudder myself to a proper sitting up position, look around furtively to figure out where I am. 221B's kitchen. That's alright then. Safe ground. How on earth did I—
Oh, right, Sherlock.
That explains it then.
What's the case this time?
Oh.
'Blushing is an unprecedented reaction to my coffee, John. I shall file it away under "John's inexplicable inner dialogue reactions", shall I?'
'Err...'
He's so cocky, he's truly impossible.
'John, when you're ready, in your own time, I got you coffee. Think of it as a perk, as we're about to solve a mysterious old case that requires some brain power to follow. I am hoping the caffeine will stimulate the synapses and fire up that dreadfully underutilised neurons of yours.'
I squint. He's too fired up for whatever hours-in-the-morning it is.
I bet he never even went to bed.
Over this case?
Right. As if I didn't feel guilty already for deceiving Sherlock into taking my case, disguised as an anonymous case. I made it the more interesting for the absence of an identifiable client, which is usually one of the slightest concerns of my detective friend. By removing one unimportant link in the chain, I made it the focal point in the crazy investigator's mind. Quite the paradox. Unforeseen and unpredictable.
Is there any hope that Sherlock won't ever find out I fed him this mystery?
'John, I took the tiniest shaving from the mask. Please come look at the particular cellulosic structure of the wood sampling.'
That redirects me easily. Sherlock knows I enjoy following each step of his brilliant case solving, not just the magician's reveal of whodunit. He won't show me every step – not to try keeping his methods secret, he's only too happy sharing his success – because he likes to keep this professional façade of a sweat free, near effortless process. That is hardly ever the case, as in fact his incredible streak of solved cases is often the product of hard work and sleepless nights.
'You are trying to determine the type of wood and its age', I gather.
'To ascertain provenance of the mask, yes. So far it has proved to be very elucidative.'
'Really? Which far corner of the world has it come from?'
'With a small margin of error... Scottish pine trees.'
'Scotland?' I repeat, in disbelief. 'That's hardly exotic.' I hold up the tribal looking object from the improvised stand; the fireplace skull. 'It's a fake then?'
Sherlock's clear eyes are hung up on my every move. It's a known quirk of his and I stopped minding a long time ago. It does not phase me any more. If anything, it gives me the warm feeling that I'm no longer alone.
'The client's great-grandfather used local wood, and sharp carving tools, the chisel having a fault along the edge, scratching the wood as it went. The yellow paint is somewhat degraded from a more acid green tone, to be fair I'm still gathering information on the paint as we speak. I'm going through a few standard chemical analysis reactions. The accessories, such as the highly damaged feathers are grouse feathers. The signs are there for a homemade fashion accessory, John. Built to impress and entertain children or small crowds at local festive halls... Are you disappointed?'
Yes. I suppose you could say that. There were incomplete papers among the trunk, accounts of explorers and adventures in far away lands, when I first found the mask. Those are long lost. Harry kept only the mask. Shipped it over upon my request, after long insistence. But the papers she ruthlessly got rid off. I couldn't complain. I had not kept a thing from our childhood home, I had nowhere to keep old mementos. Anyway. Lies. Children's tales. Made grandiose by my childhood imagination.
It's almost like a loss. My great-grandfather, the explorer, was a reference that made my first deployment to the Middle East a bit easier. I was following his footsteps, I could do it because he were Watsons. I found comfort in his conjured image. He probably never even left town. Other than in his stories, that I read as a kid sneaking up to the attic on rainy days.
'Not disappointed at all, Sherlock. Except, hmm, I guess we won't be able to let the client know. With him being anonymous and all.'
Sherlock's attention is steadfast.
'Doctor Wilson can use his blog.'
'Oh, yeah, right. Right... So what are you up to now?'
He finally breaks eye contact.
'Some sleep. I can afford to leave the last few analysis until later.'
'Yes. Of course. No rush.'
'And, John?'
'Yes?'
'Do tell our anonymous client his great-grandfather could have been a vaudeville actor or a serial train robber. In fact he could have been a true explorer, returned from abroad presenting his findings to a museum, and recreating masks for his children to play with. Do tell our client I will continue to investigate presently, will you?'
With a soft smile present the worn out detective to his bedroom.
.
I smile to myself as I softly close the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He's softly asleep now. He really needed to rest.
I guess it wasn't much of a case, after all, but like a worn out child, Sherlock sleeps the content, blissful sleep of the innocent. He has really sunk his teeth into this one.
But he missed the main point.
That throughout this case I was a fraud. A case about a lost mask. An antique artifice that turned out to be a fake in itself. A reproduction or an artistic reinterpretation. A child's toy or a grown man's theatrical costume piece. We may never know. Too much time has elapsed. History has been lost.
I hold the mask up in my hands as I slowly pace the way to my armchair. I'm tired myself, but restless. Something didn't quite sit right in this case, I guess. After the initial euphoria of dubbing Sherlock Holmes, I felt bad for abusing his beautiful trust.
My eyes flicker to the mirror above the mantel. Then down towards the yellow mask.
In the cultural appropriation of a liar and deceiver, I put it on, and check my reflex in the mirror.
I chuckle softly at the grotesque, comical image reflected.
Well, it's stuffy, making it harder to breathe, and sweaty. I don't think the actor would have been too pleased to keep this on long.
I wobble slightly, for no reason, and quickly take a dive on my armchair. I take that wretched mask off and lay it down on the side table. I have to scrub my eyes to clear my sight. I must be more tired than I thought. Age will have something to do with that.
I'll write that blog entry later. The mysterious client already knows.
I let my head fall back on the lumpy upholstery and close my eyes, allowing myself to drift off to sleep.
.
'John, can you hear me?'
I snap my eyes open. What I see deeply troubles me. I'm haphazardly sat on the loo with the lid down, and Sherlock has been splattering cold water on my face. As I blink he hits me straight on with a wet flannel and proceeds to scrub my face.
I rebel at once, coughing and turning away.
'What the—?'
'John! I have unwittingly poisoned you!' he declares, frenetic.
I groan reflexively. 'Not again!'
He blinks. 'Not entirely my fault this time', he defends himself, miffed. Upset.
I look around, still blurry. 'What happened?'
'Follow me to my lab, John.'
I get up groggily. I find that I can stand.
'You mean, the kitchen?'
'Just because you cook there, does it make it a kitchen?'
'It's got a stove, Sherlock.'
'Bunsen burners of an odd shape.'
'And the fridge?'
'Cold storage, obviously.'
'Pots and pans?'
'Beakers and conical flasks too', Sherlock counters. 'John, how often do you cook, as opposed to my scientific experiments?'
I sigh, just as we reach Sherlock's home laboratory.
The man himself pulls me out of my revolving cloudy thoughts as he casually extends me goggles, gloves and mask.
'Sherlock, I told you, we don't really need all this to go out. Some virus precautions are fine, but—'
He nearly rolls his eyes.
I try to reach out for the yellow mask.
He hisses at once: 'Just drop it, John. Drop it at once.'
I instinctively obey, but still ask - 'Why?'
'John, you have already handled that yellow mask more than acceptable, considering the trace evidence I have found on the inner surface of copper arsenite dye.'
Wait. Arsenic? No. Really?
Sherlock hands me print outs of old newspaper clippings. Really old. Then he swiftly turns around and starts pacing up and down the kitchen.
I look down. "The Gruesome Death Of Piccadilly Twins", "Toddler Twins Mourned By Nation", "Piccadilly Twins' Poisoned To Death In Tragic Accident".
'No... I'm not a toddler, though.'
'Age will have saved your life in this instance, John. And I also concede you have not handled the mask enough on a lethal basis. But the clues were all there. Heavy metal poisoning. From the excessive night sweats to the lethargic state I found you in just now—'
I'm a doctor. Those were a collection of very slight symptoms, for Sherlock to have pieced all this together, it is amazing.
Luckily for me, the symptoms will abate in time, once removed the cause.
'The paint?' I try to understand.
'John, I had not finished my analysis. If I had a proper lab instead of a kitchen!' he angrily gestures at the space and refocuses on me with sheer intensity. 'John Watson, you have not only provided me with a case, you nearly provided me with a corpse and a murder weapon.'
I blink.
'I'm a grown man, it would take a few decades of exposure, stop being so dramatic!' I protest, holding my aching head. 'No. Wait. You know I was the client. You found out.'
He huffs.
'Of course. I was bound to. I'm Sherlock Holmes.'
Well, if Lestrade discovered it, I guess it was inevitable.
'You are awfully calm about it', I comment.
'It seems that the mask has already caused you adverse reactions, thus diminishing my urge for atonement from your part.'
I chuckle at his high horse response. So does he.
'Yeah. I did a number here', I admit. 'Silly idea to try the mask on... Thanks for your help back there. Are you sure you're okay with... this?'
He smirks comfortably.
'John, I believe the colloquial term is that you have catfished me.'
'What? Wait, no! Maybe, but I didn't mean to— I catfished you? How the hell was I supposed to know that you'd take this so seriously?'
He eyes me flatly. I blink. Yeah, alright.
Suddenly I gulp dry.
'Wait, if you knew...'
'You are fascinating, John', he answers my unspoken question. 'Just fascinating.'
I try to find unspoken answers in his green eyes. They are fierce like gemstones, and they guard their secrets in their cold water veins. I still don't get it, after all these years.
'So I'm – like – forgiven?'
He nods silently, but out loud says: 'Depends... How soon can you get me a new case? John, it's been ages since I had a case!'
And just like that he turns around and gesticulates all the way to the living room – his office, I presume – making too much fuss to distract me from all that has happened.
I smile on, and decide to take pity on him. I'll search the papers for a new case. One with an identifiable client this time. A nice murder is just what my friend needs...
.
