Chapter Fifty: A Bit Not Good- Part Three (of three)


"OH." Sam's eyes were out on stalks, totally fixated on the gleaming metal engine that was sitting in its own specially designed stand. Wires were running into it all over the place, leading to computer screens and other machines that John didn't have a clue about. It reminded him of a patient on an operating table, hooked up to just about every piece of life-saving equipment a hospital could throw at them. At each screen and machine, a young man was standing in excited anticipation. They were all wearing their Coventry Uni sweatshirts emblazoned with the words 'F1 Testing Project'.

Sam's voice kept breaking, but it didn't stop him. It sounded like he was reciting something from memory: "Engines can be no more than 2.4 litres in capacity. They must have eight cylinders in a 90-degree formation, with two inlet and two exhaust valves per cylinder. They must be normally aspirated, weigh at least 95 kilograms and be rev-limited to 18,000rpm. No air cooling, turbocharging or superchargers are allowed. "

One of the engineers smiled at the boy. "Yes, it is strange. We could easily make it weigh less and rev more; no problem, just use composite materials."

Sam looked at him askance. "That would be cheating!"

The man laughed. "Yes, it would- which is why they constantly test every single component independently by F1 officials before a car is passed for use."

He looked over at John and Sherlock. "We're going to be testing it running at full throttle for five minutes. I don't suppose you've ever been in a pit during a race, so prepare yourself for one of the loudest sounds you will ever hear. We'll be starting slow, but after twenty seconds we will open the throttle to maximum, at which point the five minute timer will start. You can keep your eye on the wall clock over there; it will be showing the test duration." He eyed the teenager. "You gonna be okay with this, lad? It's so loud it will hurt, even with protection."

Sam nodded. "I've watched it on telly at full volume just to understand it."

The mechanic smiled. "Well, prepare yourself for something a whole lot louder. TV recording microphones automatically dampen down the decibel levels."

He handed them all headphone shaped ear defenders, amazingly thick. When John had his on, he realised the engineer was still talking, but he couldn't hear a thing. The man gestured to his own set and touched a knob on the earpiece. When John did the same, he could hear the guy's tinny voice saying that no F1 engine had its own starter motor; they were always started with an external device.

The engineers and the students in the room all had ear defenders around their necks, which they now put over their ears. The signal was given, and the engine roared into life.

The sound was like nothing John had ever experienced before. And 'experience' was the operative word. It wasn't just a case of hearing it; he could feel it, too. In the army, he'd been next to artillery guns being fired. But the difference between a mortar going off, or even a tank round, was that it was incredibly loud boom- and then it stopped. This noise didn't stop, in fact it was getting louder by the second.

The chief engineer made a gesture, pushing his fist forward, telling the man controlling the throttle to open it up fully. John gasped, as his skin under his clothes felt the pressure of the sound- it was a really strange sensation- like a hand was pushing him. He glanced over at Sam, to see how the boy was taking it; the doctor worried if sensory overload would be troubling him.

The boy's body language said it all. Face set in a grimace of almost pain, yet grinning with delight, too- he was just caught by the combination of both pain and pleasure. Sam hugged his arms to his chest, but John realised that nothing was going to make the teenager move away, and he relaxed a bit.

That thought made him glance back at Sherlock, who was standing behind them.

One look and John realised that it wasn't Sam who was in trouble; it was Sherlock. He, too, had crossed his arms in front of his chest, but unlike Sam, the tall brunet was not taking any pleasure at all from the experience. He looked pale, and he was almost panting. Uh oh. John tried to get eye contact, but the taller man was just staring off across the room at the wall clock that was counting down the seconds of the test.

After a minute and a half, Sherlock just closed his eyes for a moment, and John reached out to try to get his attention. When John's hand touched Sherlock's arm, the taller man flinched and took a sideways step to avoid the contact. His grey green eyes found John's for a split second and he mouthed the words- Stay. He flicked his eyes to Sam and gestured weakly to John that he must stay with the boy. And then he turned and fled from the room.

It was one of the longest three and a half minutes John had ever experienced. The seconds ticked off as he watched Sam's obvious enjoyment, and worried about what was happening to Sherlock. He felt torn. The other people in the room didn't know about Sam, so he couldn't leave him, just in case it all became too much for him. But, his imagination was leading him in places he didn't want Sherlock to be.

When at last the clock hands hit the five minute mark, the engine cut out. At the same time as the graduate students ripped their headphones off, so did Sam. The chief engineer read out,"152 decibels" and the figure was greeted by whoops and cheers, those of the boy blended with the rest of the test team. For an F1 fan, it must have been the experience of a lifetime.

But John was worried when Sherlock did not reappear. He handed back his headphones and Sam's, then thanked the chief mechanic. "Sam, we need to find Sherlock."

The boy looked surprised. "Where is he?"

"He had to leave; I think the noise was too much for him."

"Oh." Sam looked confused, but he followed John out of the room, along the corridor and out of the building. John scanned the area around from the doorway. And saw a figure over by one of the out buildings about 100 metres away. Sherlock was sitting down, back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him.

John decided that running would probably frighten Sam, so he just set off at a quick walk.

Sherlock's eyes were closed. His face was turned up toward the sun, as if seeking its warmth. As John drew closer, he could smell the scent of vomit, and spotted a dark patch on the dirt to Sherlock's left. The doctor could hear his ragged breaths, too, and realised that his friend might be in the middle of a panic attack.

Before he could say anything, Sherlock spoke first. "Alright Sam?" He opened his eyes and looked at the boy, with his usual forensic scrutiny, looking for signs of distress.

"Yeah, fine. Better than fine; that was brilliant."

"Good." He was getting his ragged breathing back under control.

"Sherlock…" John was a little constrained. He didn't want to worry Sam, but he was really concerned. Sherlock reached into his shoulder bag and drew out his half-finished bottle of water. He took a mouthful, swilled it around and then rather delicately spat it out beside him, in a rather matter-of-fact way.

The brunet then got to his feet a little unsteadily, avoiding John's offer of a hand.

Sam was looking down at the ground, but also at him, out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Sam, what was the final decibel count?"

"152"

"Then that explains it."

John looked confused.

The brunet started walking while talking in a calm voice. "At 14O decibels of continuous noise, did you know that the human throat and vocal chords will resonate with the sound? At 141, it can induce nausea. At 144 the human nose will start to itch due to the vibrations of the hairs in the nose. At 145 the vision blurs because the eyeball starts to vibrate in sympathy. At 150 breathing is affected, because your lungs start to vibrate to the sound, and you get a sensation of being compressed as if underwater. At 152, the vibration becomes painful because it is felt in the joints. Ear defenders only protect your ears. I am glad the rest of it didn't bother you, Sam."

"Yeah, well- it kind of did, but it didn't matter. I mean, the sound is coming from the engine and I know what the engine is doing, and it's OK. It hurts- yeah, of course it does, but the pain's ok, 'cos it means I was there to see it and feel it and know something more about F1. This is what I want to do. Not the engine thing or work in a pit, but the design stuff. It was just…so cool. The whole thing, this whole day…it's just wicked."

oOo

Back on the train, it was much busier than it had been on the way down to Brockenhurst, so the three of them had to split up. Sam went inside, next to the window, and Sherlock on the aisle, where he could get some more leg room. John sat in an empty seat across the aisle three seats further forward of the pair. But he kept glancing back to keep an eye on the pair.

Sam was exhausted by the whole experience, and he only managed to keep his eyelids open for about fifteen minutes before the rocking of the train put him out. The teenager slumped in his seat and then when the train took an arc to the left, he ended up leaning up against Sherlock, sound asleep for the rest of the journey. The brunet did not avoid the contact. He spent most of the trip with his own eyes closed, but John knew he wasn't asleep. There would be too much stimulation going on- the sound of other passengers talking, the faint rhythmic hissing leaking from someone's iPod earphones, people walking up and down the train corridor on their way to the loo or the buffet car. Not to mention the seven stops, with the guard announcements before during and after each one.

When they got to Waterloo, it was almost dark. This time, Sherlock asked John to lead the way, but stopped on the other side of the ticket barrier, to ask Sam what his reference point would be. "If you give him the shoulder bag, I can use that." Sherlock handed it over, and the threesome set off for the taxi rank. Sherlock had arranged to drop Sam off at New Scotland Yard, so Lestrade could take the boy home to his family for their birthday celebration.

Greg was waiting out front as the taxi drew up. The fifteen year old, now refreshed from his nap on the train, bounded out. The DI had a big smile for his nephew. "Alright then?"

"Yeah. It was great."

"So, what do you say, Sam?"

The teenager looked confused for a moment. "Oh! Yeah- thanks."

Greg just rolled his eyes and smirked at John and Sherlock in the taxi. "Teenagers are all the same- an ungrateful lot. See you later."

As soon as the taxi pulled away from the kerb and headed north towards Baker Street, Sherlock leaned his head onto the cool window and closed his eyes.

John looked at him. "You okay, Sherlock?"

"Mmm. Fine. I'm fine. Glad that Sam can handle that …noise. It worried me that it might put him off his passion. Good to know it hasn't."

As the taxi went around Marble Arch, Sherlock spoke again. "Just remind me, John, never, ever to accept a case that involves a crime scene at a Grand Prix race track. I don't think even The Work would be enough to keep me focused against that kind of assault on my senses."

But you were willing to endure it for the sake of a fifteen year old boy. So much for that self-confessed sociopathy. John smiled, but kept quiet all the way back to Baker Street.