Chapter Forty Eight: A Bit Not Good- Part One (of three)


"Hurry up, John. We have less than thirty five minutes to get to Waterloo Station, and you know what the traffic is like at this time of day."

John glared at his friend. Sherlock was standing in the hallway with a slightly anxious look on his face, but that was no excuse. "Well, next time, don't keep me up all bloody night chasing shadows across the rooftops of London; not if you want me to be bright-eyed the next morning." The pair had spent a fruitless night trying to find a suspect who had vanished only moments before the police arrived at a murder scene. After almost an hour of traipsing across London to visit different tattoo parlours, Sherlock finally found his man- only to see him bolt up the fire escape and then off they went. Unfortunately, the man had given them the slip.

"Slip" was the operative word in another way, too. It was also why John was grumpy this morning. He'd taken too sharp a turn around one blind corner down an alley way and ended up on his rear end, after an unfortunate slip on black ice. After ascertaining that his flatmate was not seriously injured, Sherlock gave him a hand up and with a smirk muttered something about prats taking prat falls. The frustration of losing the suspect kept him quiet in the taxi, a fact that John was thankful for as he was having difficulty sitting on the part of his anatomy that was in pain. Even getting home had not helped much. What little time he'd spent flat on his back in bed was not as restful as he might have expected, simply because every time he moved, his bruises complained.

So, when he woke up this morning after a scant ninety minutes of sleep, it was to find Sherlock standing in the doorway of his room, reminding him that today was the day that he had agreed to meet Sam. John groaned.

"It's his fifteenth birthday, and I want to do something special with him. You said you would come." Sherlock waved three rail tickets at John: "The 9.49 to Bournemouth, departing from Waterloo. Sam's mother is dropping him off there on her way to work. We're going to have to be there to meet him."

"Where are you planning to go? You haven't told me yet."

"The final destination is a surprise, for both of you. I think you'll be interested. I know Sam will be delighted."

For a moment, John wondered if he could cry off, using his bruised behind as an excuse. But there was something about the look on Sherlock's face that made him think twice. He so rarely gets interested in anything other than The Work or his experiments; the idea of him actually volunteering to spend time in someone else's company on something that isn't about HIM- well, that's too good an opportunity to miss. Besides, John's one and only exposure to Sam had been unfortunate. The poor kid probably thought he was an idiot, and he didn't like that thought being reinforced by ducking out of the first time they were supposed to be doing something together.

So he dragged his sore butt into the shower, and then took two ibuprofen after he brushed his teeth. That made him wonder whether he or Sherlock would need to know what medicines Sam would have to take and when while they were away for the day. It worried him. What happens if he gets into trouble- has a…melt-down or something, or just can't cope with the noise and crowds? He'd never spent time in the company of an autistic child- well, he had when he came to think of it; Sherlock acted like it often enough. That said, he knew Sherlock well enough to spot the signs, and to do something to avert the worst. Come to think of it, Sherlock actually did it himself nine times out of ten- removing himself from a situation which would cause him too much sensory overload or stress to be able to cope. Sherlock was a high functioning expert at avoidance strategies. (Why do you think I don't do the shopping John? I am not trying to take advantage of you; I just can't tolerate the noise, sights, scents, and people involved.) While true, John knew that it was also a convenient excuse. The only time he'd ever seen Sherlock willingly enter a supermarket was when he was hot on the heels of a suspect who decided to cut through a Tesco as part of his escape strategy. (The Work takes priority over personal discomfort, John. I could focus on the criminal and ignore all those other distractions)

Because it was rush hour, they had to walk to the end Baker Street to catch a passing taxi. And the traffic was slow. He could feel Sherlock tensing up beside him. Most of the time when they were in the back of a cab, Sherlock focused on his phone and ignored the passing cars and the shifting scenery. Not today; he was counting off the familiar sights as milestones on their way, constantly shifting his estimation of how late they were going to be.

"Why is it so important, Sherlock?"

The tall brunet looked at him with a puzzled glance. "Familiar faces matter. She won't be able to stop, the Transport Police always move cars on from the drop off point."

John still didn't get it. Sam was fifteen, it wasn't like he was a child. Surely he could wait a couple of minutes. "Why not just text him to tell him to wait if we are late?"

Sherlock sighed. "You have no idea what a train station is, do you, John?"

The question confused him. "Um…the place where people get on and off trains?" Was this a trick question?

"Maybe to you it is. To Sam, it will be an unfamiliar place, a huge open space that is absolutely crammed with people, jostling, pushing; crowds of faces that he can't recognise, can't read to know what they are doing, or thinking about him. It will be full of noise and confusion. Some people will be running, which is frightening if you don't know why. There will be booming announcements on the public address system that are loud enough to be heard over the crowds of people talking, shouting. Then there are the smells- diesel from the trains, car exhaust, the food outlets- Waterloo has twelve retails units selling hot food to travellers. Oh, and then what about the visual impact? There are signs, enormous TV screens with moving images and electronic billboards, the train arrivals and departure boards. It's one huge assault on the senses, John, and hard as hell to manage on his own. Chances are, he will never have been to a station on his own, and it could quite simply be terrifying. So, unless you want him to start off his birthday with an experience he will never forget for all the wrong reasons, it is very important for us to get there before him."

"Oh." Yes, he could see that now. John had always loved the hustle and bustle of stations and airports. The excitement of people going to and coming from places- it was all about anticipation. "So, how do you cope?"

That made Sherlock look away from the window and back at John. He had a furrowed brow. "What makes you think I do?"

John cocked his head to the side in surprise. "Well, you don't appear to be bothered by it. After all, we've been in stations on numerous occasions when chasing suspects or looking at crime scenes."

"Yes, exactly."

"..?.."

Sherlock sighed and looked back out the window. But he did answer. "The Work, John. I can cope with anything if it's for The Work. I can just block everything else out. But, take that away, and I am just as uncomfortable as I suspect Sam will be, if we don't get there soon. Why do you think I never take the Underground? Even for a case, it's just too much. And taxis are generally quicker, although this one is trying its best to be the exception that proves the rule." In frustration, he leaned forward and tapped the glass sliding window that separated the cab driver from the passengers. The red light came on as the driver turned the intercom on.

"What can I do for you, Mate?"

"We're not tourists. Take the quicker route. You know as well as I do that Westminster Bridge will be better at this hour than Vauxhall, and you can get onto Station Approach where we need to be dropped off. And hurry. Any hope of a tip depends on it." He switched off the intercom, and ignored the cabbie's scowl.

John tried to control his smirk. Sherlock was the bane of the London taxi world. He always had a better grasp of how to get from A to Z, despite the cabbies' famed "Knowledge" that made their service stand out from any other metropolitan area. But none could compete with the consulting detective's grasp of London traffic and its ebb and flows during the day. Unlike a cabbie, he had an incentive to take the quickest route, not the one which would earn him the most money. "A conflict of interest, John; and I don't pay them to take advantage of me." Well, actually, nine times out of ten when the two of them were in the cab, the doctor was the one who ended up paying. It had been a topic of discussion. Sherlock eventually allocated a sum to monthly taxi fare expenses and somehow it showed up in John's bank account. It was easier than trying to keep track of receipts.

As their cab started to pull into the rank of taxis depositing their passengers at the station, Sherlock rapped on the window again. "No- take us to the car drop off point."

"I'll get in trouble, if I go other than where I'm supposed to."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Oh, all right." The cab swerved out of the line of cabs and passed the lot, heading for a place reserved for car drop offs. John could see a young man standing there on his own, and guessed it was probably Sam.

As soon as the taxi rolled to a halt, Sherlock was out his door and onto the pavement. He walked straight over to the boy, who was looked down at the pavement. John thrust the money at the driver and got out, walking the twenty feet to join them.

Sherlock was standing about a foot away from Sam, talking quietly. For a moment, as he reached halfway to the pair, John was struck by the oddness. Sherlock was looking away from Sam, out at the steady stream of cars coming to drop off people. Yet, he was speaking to the boy, even if John couldn't make out the words over the sound of the traffic. Sam, on the other hand, wasn't looking at Sherlock either; his eyes were fixed on the pavement, with his head held at an awkward angle to ensure he could hear what the taller man said. The casual observer would know that something was just peculiar from their body language.

Sam was of average height and build for a fifteen year old; John saw enough of them as a GP locum to be able to size up weight and body shape to determine the general health of a youngster in the midst of puberty. Spots on his face would make him even shyer; sudden self-awareness of his own body and the changes it was going through would be unsettling for a normal adolescent. What would it mean to someone who was autistic? He remembered Sherlock's comment: "I could feel my bones growing."

When he got to them, Sam didn't look up. John took a breath, and opened his mouth to introduce himself, but Sherlock caught his eye and gave a tiny shake of his head.

John's concern showed in his quiet "Not good?"

Sherlock just said,"Hmm. This is John. We can do introductions when we're on the train. Are you ready to move, Sam?"

This was answered with a tiny nod.

"Have you got your reference point?" Another nod. Sherlock waited, while John puzzled over his question, but didn't interfere. It might refer to something the two had been talking about while John was paying the taxi driver.

Finally, Sam said. "Coat; I'll focus on the coat." His voice broke, going from a boyish treble to a teenager's tenor on the last word, and he flushed pink. John remembered how embarrassed he'd been when his voice suddenly betrayed him; Harry kept ribbing him about it for ages.

And then they were off. Sherlock strode through the archway into the station. Sam followed about 18 inches behind, his eyes glued to Sherlock's back- specifically, the bottom of his coat. John followed behind Sam, mirroring the distance he was keeping from Sherlock. The doctor realised the sense of the spacing as soon as they got onto the station concourse, which was absolutely teeming with arriving commuters, all rushing every which way to the six different entrances to the four Underground lines intersecting each other beneath the rail station. Sam was close enough to Sherlock that few people would try to squeeze between them, but far enough away not to bump into him when his course altered suddenly to deal with someone walking in front of him or across his path. Because Sam was watching Sherlock's coat, he didn't get the full visual impact of the station. And it was like a game, keep up with the tall brunet's darting journey to Platform 9. John was hard pressed to keep up.

When they reached the barrier, the flood of arriving passengers were pouring through most of the exit gates, but Sherlock headed for the one entrance onto the platform and fed his ticket into the machine, walking through when the electronic gates opened. John fed Sam's through and the young man shot through as if he thought the gates would spring back and catch him.

Once on the train, John realised that they would probably have the area almost to themselves- ninety per cent of the traffic at this time of day was going into London, not out. Sherlock chose an unoccupied foursome and put Sam on his inside, facing away from the direction of travel before taking the seat next to him on the aisle. John sat across from Sherlock, making it unlikely that someone would sit with them. A voice announced the train's destination and that the doors would be closing in one minute. Sherlock looked at John, but he could tell what his flatmate was saying was also for Sam's benefit: "We don't go all the way to Bournemouth; we get off at the seventh stop, Brockenhurst."

The train began to trundle out of Waterloo and southwest out of London.

John began to realise the Sherlock had planned this very carefully to avoid sensory stimuli. Looking at scenery out of the train window was easier if you were looking back at things the train had already passed. Looking forward would mean adjusting your eye continuously to keep pace with the train's speed. So many things to think about. He wondered how parents would ever realise the impact of something so simple as which seat they put a child could make such a big difference.

Before the train reached full speed, Sherlock reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a bottle of water for each of the three of them. "Sam, this is my friend, Doctor Watson. He shares my flat at Baker Street. He's a doctor, but don't let that put you off. He also used to be in the army, and he works with me on cases."

John was watching Sam as this introduction was made. "Hi, Sam."

The boy just looked at Sherlock but then John realised that he was also being scrutinised by the lad, only out of the corner of his eye. He smiled reassuringly.

"Is he OK about people like us?" Sam was probably remembering the first time he'd seen the doctor, when John had managed to do just about everything wrong, because he didn't know the boy was on the spectrum.

This brought a smirk to Sherlock's mouth. He stared straight at John and said, "I trust him, and now that he knows, so can you."

John shot a look back at the tall brunet."Yes, Sam; If I can put up with Sherlock, I'm pretty bullet-proof."

Sherlock reached back into his shoulder bag and pulled out a wrapped present, which he put in front of Sam.

Sam's eyes grew wide looking at the shape, which suggested a book of some sort.

"Go on, open it up. You've got just under ninety minutes to plan your visit, and choose what you want to see."

Sam ripped into the paper, his excitement eclipsing any attempt to look a bit more grown up and nonchalant. "OH!"

John was able to read the cover upside down: The National Motor Car Museum, Beaulieu.

The brown haired boy didn't say thanks; he just opened the book and started reading. And he ignored them completely for the next hour. Sherlock reached into his bag and handed John a copy of the Times newspaper, and he pulled out his phone. The journey passed in companionable silence.