Chapter Fourteen: Headache
They marched back to their absent suspect, only to find he was out…again. This was ridiculous. "If you don't track down the house owner, I will," Sherlock groused, "even if, with our luck, this was the guilty party, and he already fled. How can I trust your colleagues to find him back, when you couldn't even suspect him in the first place?"
Gemma was about to answer him in kind, judging from the way her eyes narrowed, but John raised a hand, interjecting, "Before we start a fight—the person we're looking for is a Matteo that had a crush on the victim, yeah? It's a bit of a bet, as I'm sure she had a number of suitors, but I might have his number. Shall I try calling him before we say or do anything we'll regret?"
Both shrugged, but Sherlock grinned at him. John making deductions of his own was surprisingly sexy.
The first call went straight to voicemail. Undeterred, John called right back. Such stubbornness, as frustrating as it could be, was undoubtedly one of the man's strengths...as well as Sherlock's, in all honesty.
Finally, a rough voice answered, quite rudely if Sherlock heard right before the doctor put the call on speakerphone. Still, the detective had enough sense to let John guide the conversation. The boy sounded like he'd been crying for hours, and as used to drama as he was—you had to be, in the Holmes family—Sherlock wasn't at all eager to weather someone else's storm.
Without explaining too much (why John was in the military and not in the diplomatic corps was a mystery), the doctor persuaded him to come back home. Matteo promised he'd be back in fifteen minutes.
"We could have a coffee while we wait" Sherlock proposed.
He sort of expected John's objection, as some doctors had completely absurd prejudices about the proper quantity of caffeine a human body should consume, but Gemma surprised him. Didn't Italians enjoy coffee at any time of day and night?
Apparently not, if her stern, "It's past six pm, and the last thing we need is you being hyperactive right now. Or not sleeping tonight," was any hint. Did she remember that she wasn't his mum?
Arguing would take longer than their suspect would to arrive, so Sherlock proceeded to ignore them. If they wanted to dawdle here like costumed (at least Gemma) stalkers, they were free to do so. He would be surprised if no one questioned their presence, if their suspect was later than he'd promised.
Sherlock always hated downtime, and much more so when involved in a problem. Right now, his ability to multitask wouldn't help him, since there was literally nothing to do. Small talk would drive him spare, and standing around wasn't conducive to organising the new data in his mind palace. Not that he had acquired enough to require more than a handful of minutes. As for serious conversation, how could people who treated him like a child be open to it?
John was…puzzling. He was beguiling and friendly, reckless and just a smidge of disciplinarian in turn. While Sherlock usually ran from people who exhibited this last characteristic outside the bedroom as quick as his legs would carry him, he didn't know how to deal with this man.
Sherlock was supposed to always be five steps ahead of everyone else; he was Sherlock bloody Holmes! But the best he could do was to react to the former soldier's current mood. Being kept on his toes felt different, and while he would never admit it to anyone, he liked the sensation. He started fidgeting, trying to burn the nervous energy somehow. John's fingers lacing with his own stilled him abruptly.
"Deduce someone for me," the doctor said. He knew what Sherlock needed—an outlet for his overwrought brain. How could he? Anyone would do the same if they were simply too bored to stay still.
Sherlock should have refused to reward his companions' attitude, but John's intelligence deserved some sort of acknowledgment. It was a rare gift, after all. "You do it," he retorted, "your investigative potential needs improvement."
"Do I have potential?" John asked, a twinkle in his eyes.
"If you were an idiot who couldn't deduce a murder if it happened in front of him, I'd have left you in jail." Their fingers were still interlinked. That was a mixed message, wasn't it? Oh well, John sent enough of those. Let him figure Sherlock out—he wasn't entirely sure of what he meant, himself.
"Whew, thanks. That's encouraging." John giggled. He giggled in E major. How had Sherlock never noticed that before?
Gemma had taken a couple of steps away from them—or had they drifted away from her? and why wasn't he sure?—but now she piped in, "The girl in the apron. You'll have to be quick."
It wasn't her role, but John rose to the challenge. Of course he did. "She's…working at the bakery two streets over, and she's late for her shift because she's been watching cat videos all night."
"You noticed two things out of four, and misinterpreted one, but for a beginner it's not bad at all. She is indeed late for a shift at the bakery, but not because of cat videos. She was up all night caring for her baby. You could have observed that her apron's pockets are full of wet wipes. Carrying these is a reflex by now, even when it's not needed. And the cat themed hairpin stuck to her apron is a gift from her toddler, its position would be an awkward choice for her, but it's perfect for a toddler's reach. With two small children, no wonder she's exhausted. Her hobby is drawing, as despite her rush she glanced longingly towards Raffaello's home, and she used to be in a track team—she runs in proper form," the consulting detective said.
"Magnificent," John breathed.
Oh my God, did he blush? How could Sherlock not be sure if he himself blushed? He should be aware of his own body.
Thankfully, their suspect arrived at last. Matteo was a mess, tears still streaking down his cheeks. He didn't make a move to dry them, as if he didn't even feel them anymore. Gemma was quick to offer him a tissue, for once without a word, which he accepted sniffling. John let Sherlock's hand go, and awkwardly patted the boy's shoulder.
The detective stood aside for a few moments, before saying, "Would you mind allowing us to come upstairs to your flat?"
Matteo sniffed again a few times, before opening the door for them. "How do you know I live on the third floor?"
"Obvious," was all Sherlock said. He didn't mention the toy sporting the same colours as the football-themed t-shirt their suspect was wearing, perfectly visible on the windowsill of the third floor. Technically, it was still balance of probability, and not 100% certainty, as John would have undoubtedly noted if he was open about it. Letting the boy believe that his powers of deduction were even higher than in reality couldn't hurt, though.
As soon as they entered the flat, Gemma sent Sherlock a dubious side look. If she had complete control of the investigation, she would probably have turned on her heels and started looking for a new lead right then. It seemed that she'd never heard of acting, or even feeling guilty looking suspiciously close to grief stricken. He mistrusted people as a rule. His own acting talent, and Mycroft's greater one were all the examples he needed. If his brother had opted to go professional, he would have earned a BAFTA already. People swore by microexpressions and similar hints, but they clearly missed a recent study. It discovered that people observing commonly known body language signs often misjudged others, who were indeed telling the truth. Probably because true liars knew what to watch for, now.
No, data, data. Hard evidence was the only thing that would do—for him and, hopefully, for the commissioner. Sherlock refused to take into account Matteo's broken answers to Gemma's soft-voiced questions. Yes, he loved Livia, no, he hadn't seen after their museum trip, of course he hadn't hurt her, he wished he could have taken the knife for her. How did he know? He actually tried to contact her, and eventually talked to her flatmate. He'd learned way more details than he ever wanted.
Obvious, obvious. Sherlock could have answered it all himself, whether the boy's words were true or just the simplest of fictions.
There was no way that Gemma would let them out of her sight this time. They wouldn't be able to conduct their own search, not if she had a parakeet's ability to learn. But truth or lie, he could use Matteo's attitude to obtain his compliance. "You don't mind if we have a look at the flat, do you?" Sherlock interjected, before the young man could reply with a cliché to yet another question.
"What…why…?" Matteo frowned.
"Just to exclude you definitively. Because we won't find anything, will we?" the consulting detective said, with the satisfied smile of a cat who'd pinned an exceptionally fat bird.
"Of course!" the boy squeaked, accompanying it with a sweeping gesture to go ahead.
They all rose, and John awkwardly thanked Matteo, before trailing behind them.
"At least, you're supervised this time," Gemma whispered. She looked approvingly at Sherlock when he snapped his gloves on, and followed suit. John rubbed the nape of his neck, looking even more embarrassed than before at his oversight.
Unlike his doctor (why was he even calling John his, an abiding mental impairment meant that he'd never solve the case) having her on the scene was surprisingly frustrating. She was just. So. Slow. She stared at what he was doing, and then touched the same things he had just observed, holding them close to her face. Was she severely farsighted, or insane? Did she imagine that she could hear clues whisper to her, if they were close enough? She kept lingering behind, and then called to him, when he moved forward to the next room. Why would she want to hinder his investigation? Wasting time until she caught up to his deductions would take ages. The sooner they got out of here, the sooner they would get rid of their host's whining.
After an abysmal amount of time, they left the house.
Matteo glared after them, grumbling, "So?"
Sherlock didn't deign it of an answer, more concerned with the pounding headache he'd developed. "I need a coffee. Or four," he groaned, rubbing his temples.
"Can I suggest an alternative that will let you sleep tonight?" John asked.
"I don't need to sleep. I need to solve this, and it's not going to be as easy as I thought it would be," the consulting detective replied, "Coffee."
"Nope, you're not going to investigate any longer today. Not if you're unwell. I want you to solve this case, and your brain needs to be in shape for that," Gemma said, before walking away. "You two better behave tonight."
John chuckled, but immediately bit it back. From the direction of his guilty look, more out of consideration towards the state of Sherlock's neurons than a sign of respect for the officer. "I'm not a detective by anyone's standard, but does she really think we'd follow such a vague order? First a massage, though. What do you say?"
"A massage?" The sheer fact that he was repeating things should be a hint of how out of order his brain was.
"Let me try to take your pain away. I am a doctor, you know—distributing pills isn't the only thing I am capable of. I'd suggest somewhere you can sit, or even better lie down. Depending on how severe it is, we can sit on a bench or go wherever you want," John said, gently taking his elbow.
"You just want to get me in a bed." Sherlock laughed, then whined, his own voice echoing in painful ways inside his head. "Fine. Come along and prove yourself, doctor."
"Gladly." John actually saluted him.
Mercifully, the detective was too miserable to enjoy the hint of military behaviour in any embarrassing way. His hotel wasn't far, so they headed there. Mycroft was likely to be off somewhere, discussing or admiring art—not that annoying his brother would be anything but a perk.
John was polite with the receptionist, whose welcome was entirely too loud for Sherlock's taste. At last, he was safe in his room. His friend went to close the shutters, so that no sun, still bright and painful, could enter the room.
Sherlock flopped on to the bed, face down, and grasped the pillow, holding it over his head. If nothing happened, his brain was going to fly apart.
A moment later John tapped his shoulder lightly. "Hello there," he said, holding a cup of water to him.
Sherlock downed it automatically, his brain finally acknowledging his own parched throat. A wordless gesture, and John brought him another from the en suite bathroom.
"Now, if you could put the pillow where it's supposed to be, I'm going to help," the doctor whispered.
Again, Sherlock complied. Later, he would wonder if John realised his pliancy was a sign of how ill he felt.
John's hands were strong and gentle, starting on his shoulders and raising slowly to his neck and, eventually, scalp. "Relax," he murmured.
Sherlock hadn't realised he was so tense. He would have been outraged by anyone insinuating that he was worried about the case. Anything could be a reasonable motive for his current pain: lack of coffee, people's idiocy, Italian noisiness. In truth, though, his body had gone tauter with every missing clue, every trail that didn't bring to a satisfying conclusion. He couldn't allow himself to fidget as much as he was used to when under stress, lest his companions doubt him.
John found every tendril of frustration, and unwound it, slowly and surely. When asked permission to sneak those blessed hands under the shirt, to better handle the bunched up muscles, Sherlock, once again, obeyed wordlessly, undoing the buttons and shrugging out of it. He was busy enough not whining, especially when his pain abated with every touch. He wouldn't survive the shame of sounding rapturous rather than pained.
He found himself falling asleep without intending to. When his eyes snapped open, he looked around, only to find John sitting in the only chair in the room.
"I know I should have seen myself out, but I wanted to make sure you were alright. If this didn't work, it could mean that there were deeper problems than all that tension you were carrying. Sorry," the doctor said.
"Nope, you were brilliant," Sherlock replied, on his way to the bathroom. Once again, he needed a drink. Water, of course. The shirt was still on his bed, but he didn't care.
When he went back, John had risen, and was one step away from the door. "Wait," he said.
John did so, looking expectantly at him. Which was a problem, as he had no idea why he'd said that in the first place.
"What time is it?" he asked. Stupid, he raged internally. As if he didn't have a mobile phone to answer that question.
"9:30 PM. More than time enough for dinner, rest…or any kind of misbehaviour," his friend replied.
"And Mycroft didn't come around at any point? Nor text?" That was odd. As much as his brother didn't want to be identified with his namesake, the sanctity of mealtimes was something he'd always insisted on. While Sherlock wasn't as reliable as a companion, his brother would usually swing by the hotel, and text if Sherlock wasn't there, to remind him that food was to be eaten. An annoying habit leftover from their home life, when Mycroft invariably called him for meals, trying to make him give up whatever purposefully noxious experiment he had concocted.
"No one came, which I'm thankful for, or this might be awkward to explain. Your phone didn't make a peep either while I was there. Maybe you have it on silent?" John replied.
"If I kept it on silent, why would I even have a phone?" Sherlock snapped. It wasn't as if they'd been in a church, movie theatre, or anywhere else noise was unwelcome. It was easier—and much more satisfying—to ignore his brother's texts than to risk missing actually important notifications. He wasn't worried per se. Mycroft, at the respectable age of 32, certainly didn't need to either report to or check on his baby brother.
Still, a change of pattern in the current circumstance bugged Sherlock. No, his brother wouldn't be found in a pool of his own blood (not unless Sherlock himself went off the deep end someday), but it was exceptionally bad timing on his part.
"Is everything okay?" John asked, interrupting his inner rant.
Sherlock looked at him, almost surprised to see him still there. For all that he'd asked him to stay, nobody had ever taken kindly to his mood swings. The sleuth himself hated his mercurial emotions, but if anyone seemed to doubt he was worthy of his name, he could have quoted a considerable amount of Doyle canon to support his giving into them. Facts trumped assertions. Now, he just shrugged. "I'm sure it is. Just my brother being annoying. It's basically his life's magnum opus. Art my arse."