Chapter Eight: Prove Yourself

Still, Sherlock walked ahead of John after that. It was just too...embarrassing. If interacting with him didn't make the man see sense, how could he rid himself of his company? And he needed to. He couldn't let himself be ensnared. He was supposed to be a merely logical human—a reasoning machine —and feelings had no place in such a scenario. Never mind that even Conan Doyle couldn't resist, and gave his character a companion. Things didn't work like that in the real world. Humans didn't bond with automatons—not those with the ability to deny them.

Besides, even if he were a normal man, relationships never lasted. People drifted apart. They moved, ghosted and generally left each other. He'd managed perfectly until now. He worked alone; enjoyed his leisure time alone. And when he got someone involved—always family, of course—he ended up disappointing and being disappointed. Look how Mycroft had messed up this time.

Watson and he had spent a few hours together, and already he had to get away. There was only one trait of his eponym that Sherlock had managed to avoid, until now. Addiction. As soon as he'd become a teen, Mycroft sat him down and pointed out that, when the books were written, cocaine was in everything—meds, Pope-endorsed wine, and yeah, the obvious soft drink. Nobody knew how destructive it was. The same way he hadn't insisted on a Stradivarius for his violin lessons, Sherlock better figure out what to swap for it in his imitation of his model, because he'd prove himself much too stupid otherwise.

Usually Mycroft suggesting something was enough reason for Sherlock not to do it, but he hadn't turned himself into a genius, if hated, only to throw it away for a thrill. Modern drug trafficking didn't lend itself to creating your own exactly percentaged blend, either, so he'd found an alternative way to make himself a nuisance. One that wouldn't end with him accidentally overdosing in a back alley.

But John Watson? His grin, his praises, his stubborn refusal to despise him? A man, even a man stronger than Sherlock was, could all too easily get addicted to that. And he didn't at all fancy having to eventually quit cold turkey. His only alternative was to not become attached in the first place.

If that meant sneaking away, so be it. Especially because Sherlock felt sure he wouldn't be able to swallow a bite if he was invited to lunch. The tour had given him an idea anyway. With his room not viable as a long-term shelter and his brother going about his own business, who was stopping him from going to the university, which would hopefully be in a cool building, and make use of the labs? He could amuse himself with a bit of chemistry, and if anyone tried to tell him that he shouldn't be here, he had a long practice in talking circles around people.

Looking things up took only a moment, and the laboratory turned out to be right in front of the museum director's office. Perfect!

The university wasn't housed in a monumental building stamped with Duke Federico in every other room, true. But it was old enough not to be stifling, which was all that mattered. While earlier he'd bemoaned the lack of anonymity given by a small town, now he appreciated having everything he could wish for at hand. Maybe that was the reason Urbino was called the ideal city? Mycroft would shudder hearing this, and launch into a tirade about architectural plans, philosophy, and other such arguments, but would have to agree with him if he were to be honest.

People ignored him, and he easily located the labs. With everyone worried about exams, the place was empty—supposed to be locked, in fact. Sherlock had never been happier of having acquired the full set of his namesake's skills.

Alone, in a fully stocked lab, Sherlock allowed himself to twirl between the cabinets. What was there to spend an afternoon with? He didn't really have time for something that would increase his knowledge, not that he didn't keep abreast of most recent innovations in chemistry. Experimenting was still a brilliant way to have fun. Now, what to do...

First, he set up an alarm on his phone. He was all too likely to lose track of time, and he'd long learned to set on a reminder. Otherwise, people tended to—depending if he worked at college or at home—chase him away or try to track him down after he missed whatever commitment he had made. In both cases, plenty of yelling was bound to ensue.

A quick survey of the supplies gave him an idea. First, he needed iron, but not in powder form. A few old drawing pins, still weakly stuck to the wall, would do perfectly. They'd held up a periodic table up to five years ago, it was obvious from the difference in photodegradation of the brown paint between them in comparison with the rest of the wall. He was helping the students, really, making sure they didn't eventually fall into someone's beaker and cause an unexpected reaction, or injure someone.

Then, potassium chromate and sulphuric acid. His professors would have lectured him for using them without proper precautions, but how could he be expected to worry about such details when he had much more pressing subjects to debate? One drop of mercury, and…there. The solution was beating, leaning towards the now lonely pin he held above it.

It was almost hypnotic how one single drop of quicksilver would activate the solution, making it look like a living creature. If you could observe living creatures' heartbeat with the naked eye, that was. Sulphuric acid—one of the main players involved—was commonly associated with death, danger and destruction, and indeed deserved its fame. And yet, as long as the correct element was close enough, the least amount of reagent would create something so beautiful. Even with the mixture managing to reach the pin no more than momentarily at every expansion of the fake heart, the result was always its oxidation. In lay terms, the poor thing would end up rusting completely. And when it was completely ruined, the reaction would conclude, and the fake heart stop. It was a constant of chemistry; even the most fascinating reactions ended eventually. Others took their place, true, like the cycles of decay began when the reactions keeping us alive ceased. The only question was, how long would each go on?.

Damn, maybe he had sunstroke. Usually chemistry didn't make him maudlin. But today he felt odd. He should just have made something explode. That kind of adrenaline rush always boosted his mood, despite people at his university forever whining about it. He doubted that the Italians would welcome the idea, especially if it was louder than he expected—which had happened in the past. Exams were stressful enough without adding blasts to the mix.

It was still a pity, though. It was a pity, but there was nothing to be done about it. Maybe tomorrow would bring something more interesting.

Careful what you wish for wasn't a saying that Sherlock had put stock in before. He regretted none of his actions, and besides, wishes? They didn't shape reality in any way, why would anyone feel guilty about them?

When John called the following morning, he was half-tempted not to answer at all. It was for the best to keep some distance. Why hurt and be hurt? The call kept ringing, though, and in the end the journalist answered, determined to tell him to learn to take a hint.

"Oh thank God, Sherlock, people keep glaring at me here, I just wanted to apologise because, well, I don't think we can see each other anymore."

It was what the journalist had always wanted, so why did that sentence wound him now? And why would people be glaring at John anyway? He wanted to ask. He wanted to cuss him out for coming to the obvious decision after following him so far. Instead, he just said, "I understand. Of course. That's for the best."

John's next sentence threw his world for a spin...again. "I mean, I don't think you fancy visiting the local jail, do you?" A self-deprecating chuckle echoed through the line.

"Wait, what?" Sherlock didn't mean to yell, but John claiming to have followed a white rabbit through the local undergrowth wouldn't have astonished him more.

"You can laugh at this, heck, I'm half-tempted to laugh at this, but I have been detained by the police. As the suspect in a murder. It should be easy to solve, if only because I would never murder someone like that. Damn, I've been trained to kill and am a doctor, you'd think I'd know how not to make a mess. Some people just won't listen," John quipped.

"Wait—they caught you for bloody murder and you thought you would call me, instead of a lawyer? You're supposed to have a brain, try to use it, will you? Or don't. If your reaction is to joke about murder, you'd better not say another syllable. I'll be there." Sherlock shook his head. It was one thing to think that they would be better off far away from each other. But allowing the man to be jailed for his own idiocy? For a week, maybe. But not on such a ludicrous accusation.

He hung up without replying to the faint, "It won't help," coming from the line. John's lack of faith in him didn't matter. He couldn't certainly do worse than the man himself.

Before he disappeared completely, he shot off a text to his brother. – Watson stands accused of murder. I expect you to help solve this. He wouldn't be here at all, if it weren't for your interference. S

Mycroft replied immediately. -He what? I hoped he'd be a good influence on you! M

- He might still be, if only by making us be good influences on him. The man is a nutcase! S

His brother had more to say—in fact, a lot more to say—but Sherlock had already lost his patience with him. He had places to go, and he was already googling law firms on the way. He should make his brother hire Italy's most famous lawyer just to teach him a lesson about not butting into other people's affairs.

The police station was just outside the city centre. Literally the first building on the right, when one rushed out of the main entrance into the square hosting the large parking where buses and every other car owned by an Urbino citizen—it seemed—stopped. Pollution had to be the reason that Sherlock's breathing was suddenly more difficult. He wasn't breathless from the trip…and he certainly wasn't anxious. He was going to get in, explain things, and either drag John out, or at least ensure he had a lawyer before lunch.

Striding inside, he looked around, hoping against hope that his friend would be in sight. Instead, a policeman behind a counter mumbled, "Desidera?"

What he wished was to never have had to come here, to begin with. But you can't always get what you want. Instead, he said, "John Watson."

The cop—a fifty-something, grizzled man—visibly rolled his eyes. "And you would be?" he asked, his accent atrocious.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied.

"Not fun." The glare that accompanied the cop's words would have scared a lesser man.

"I'm not trying to be," the journalist countered, glowering right back.

Finally, two synapses seemed to make contact in the brain of the cop. Accidentally, no doubt. He tilted his head, stared at Sherlock as if he was trying to deduce him, and before the journalist could tell him not to bother with efforts obviously beyond his capabilities, he announced that Sherlock had to see the police commissioner. Perfect. At least someone who could presumably do something, as soon as the journalist demonstrated to them how stupid they had been.

The commissioner's eyes rose from the document she was examining. "Chi l'ha lasciata entrare?" she barked.

Sherlock—in her own language—pointed out that he'd been sent in by the man in front, whose name he neither knew nor cared about. "I'm here to discuss the John Watson case," he said.

"So you're his lawyer?" There was sarcasm in her voice. Obviously Sherlock, with his beige, short-sleeved shirt, white shorts and sandals, didn't look the part. Which was completely idiotic. Why would lawyers go around in suits when it was 33°C out?

He shook his head. "He doesn't have one...yet. But he will, very soon."

"Then who are you?" Bony fingers started tapping on her desk.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"This is the police station, boy, we're not here for you to prank. You have exactly five seconds to turn around with no repercussions, and be grateful for it."

Sherlock sighed deeply. How many times had this happened? If he'd kept count, there would have been no space for anything else in his mind palace. He took his passport and threw it down on her desk.

She refused to check it for the five second she allotted him, but since he was still there, she finally glanced at it. A sneer stretched her lips. "The last thing I expected was for our main suspect's accomplice to come forward like this."

"I'd ask if you were drunk, if it wasn't obvious that your vice of choice is much more expensive. But if you think that you can hold us until we pay to have your clearly absurd accusations dropped, you have another think coming."

She blushed brightly. "How dare you!" she shouted. Her voice lowered to a furious hiss. "If you're that eager to go to jail, you could have just asked."

"You are accusing me without any hint of evidence, why wouldn't I assume you did the same thing to John, since you just seem to want an arrest?" There were actually at least another three clues, but this wording would hopefully make have her explain the evidence they had against the doctor.

"Any hint? What about both of you using fake names? The most glaringly obvious of fake names, too? Criminals usually make a token effort to be able to pass off their documents, but not you. Do you really think so lowly of the police? We're not Carabinieri, you know!" the commissioner snapped, eyes narrowed.

"The Carabinieri might be the butt of jokes for their stupidity, but I bet that even they wouldn't assume a name to be fake just because it's known. Simply because something is improbable, even highly improbable, discounting it immediately as impossible without further analysis is the way investigative errors are committed. There is such a thing as homonyms, you know!" Sherlock retorted, fighting to keep still. Usually he would leave when faced with this much idiocy, as life was much too short to be wasted on fools. But he couldn't leave John in the hands of someone who couldn't even recognise a proper document of identity from a counterfeit.

"Oh yes, because there are so many John Watson and Sherlock Holmes couples in the world. And especially so many John Watsons who also go by a completely different name, initials included, and just stumble on my crime scenes. I have not studied statistics, but I say the probabilities are against the two of you. Now, if you just tell me what you had against that poor girl, I might just persuade the Public Prosecutor to consider some extenuating circumstances. What did she ever do to you, besides obviously being too naive in her trust? There was no sign of sexual assault nor robbery. Or maybe you were interrupted? Is that why your accomplice was heading back? What was he seeking?"

"If I'm accused, I'll have to seek legal counsel before I answer any of that. But I'll give you a free tip: knowing who the victim is might help me explain my relationship with her." Seriously, who let this person in office? He supposed it was a question of seniority, as she did look to be at least in her late sixties, but idiotic people didn't improve with age. They weren't wine!

"As if you didn't know," she rebuked.

"I really don't, as John was less than forthcoming in his call. I'm sure you have it recorded, even if you weren't present for it, in case you distrust me. I hope you don't expect me to be a mind reader. Now, do I need to call a lawyer only for Mr. Watson or for myself, too?"

"Well, if you say that your name is really Sherlock Holmes, why don't you deduce it?" she snapped.

"With your attitude, I don't need any deduction to see that you are persisting in your baseless accusations. I will inform the lawyer that he'll need to take both of our cases," he said.

If it wasn't so obvious how much she liked to catch other people out, Sherlock would have kept John company in his cell until someone made her see sense. Instead, she replied, "I'll give you and your friend a chance to prove your identity, then."

That was more than he expected. Perhaps she did retain some measure of common sense. Just what did she want? A call from their freaking ambassador?

"If you're really Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, then you shouldn't have any trouble solving this case before we do, don't you? Of course, I'll expect some of your precious evidence, not just finger pointing at any other plausible murderer". She smiled like a wolf ready to bite.

How he kept himself from screaming, he wasn't sure. He wanted to yell that he wasn't a bloody Victorian detective, wasn't wearing a deerstalker, and would she ask someone called Ulysses to prove his identity by coming up with the winning plans for a war? Then thought of John—and him—having to wait for these people to prove they were innocent, never mind catching the actual murderer. He might not be the world's only consulting detective, but he had no doubt that he could do better than the whole police station combined. "You're on," he said. "And you included John all by yourself...so you obviously agree to releasing him into my care?"

She blinked. That was not the reaction she had expected. "You'll have to be supervised by an agent at all times. To make sure you don't flee."

He shrugged. "Obviously. I hope you have at least one agent that will be capable of participating in an investigation, instead of hindering it."

"Oh, I have just the one."