Chapter 104 — Oh, Sherlock. You Know Nothing.
Sherlock pressed the doorbell one more time. When nobody answered, he squinted through the frosted glass door panels. No shadows, no life inside. He stood back from the portico, looking to his right, towards the garage door and beyond.
Before deciding on a method by which he could stealthily enter the property, Sherlock peered in through the bay window that faced the street. No movement in the sitting room on the roadside. He couldn't see all the way into the conservatory at the back, where he had deduced John's therapist held her sessions. In fact, hadn't Sherlock himself almost passed out in the chair she reserved for her clients? Although most of his faculties had been compromised, he had detected John's deodorant there on that fateful day Billy had nicknamed CASK Day.
With an internal shudder of the evening he had almost been suffocated to death, Sherlock made his way to the wooden gate on the other side of the garage. He checked his surroundings first before trying the latch. Locked, naturally. Windsor Street was quieter than the last time he was here. Today, there was no ambulance, limousine, nor sports car driven by a determined senior citizen, spinning out of control and colliding with rubbish bins, while a high-as-a-kite Consulting Detective shivered and trembled, handcuffed, in the boot.
On an ordinary day, Sherlock would've left the house. Nobody home, nobody to answer the door. But today wasn't an ordinary day. His best friend was missing and this may be his last known location. As flippant as he had sounded to Rose—that John may have simply fallen asleep on the bus—Sherlock knew that something that delayed the widowed father from returning home for almost three hours was nothing so trivial.
After one more cursory check along the street, Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the gate. He then backed up a few metres, before coming at the wall to the adjacent house in a parkour-inspired wall run. He propelled himself upward, before twisting and planting his hands on the top of the wooden gate, allowing himself to vault over the top of it and land with a slight stagger on the other side.
Coming out of his crouch, he dusted off his hands then stooped to retrieve his coat. Pulling his arms through the sleeves, he quietly took stock of the major muscles and joints that were now protesting. Almost miscalculated there. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart hammering from the sudden burst of physical activity. He was desperately out of shape. That trick could have gone horribly wrong. It was muscle memory and a great deal of luck that brought success after all this time. Definitely another argument against excessive drug use.
By stealth, he proceeded along the length of the house and around to the backyard. A quick glance through the kitchen window told him nobody was preparing an evening meal. In fact, there were no lights on in the house at all, and given that dusk rapidly approached, it was highly unlikely an occupant hadn't turned on one or more lights.
The conservatory jutted out into the garden, the room allowing light to enter from three sides. The windows Sherlock approached meant he would end up peering over the therapist's shoulder. Quite confident there was no session in progress, Sherlock took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom within.
A figure lay sprawled on the rug between the two chairs. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.
John!
He sprinted around the building to the glass doors at the back of the conservatory.
"John!" he called out, jiggling the door handle. Of course it was bloody locked!
Sherlock banged on the glass out of frustration, calling his friend's name once more, but John Watson didn't stir.
Think! he admonished himself. Look! See! Observe! Just how dire was John's situation?
As he reached into his coat pocket for his ever-present lock-picking kit, Sherlock willed himself to slow his own breathing to get a better look at John's.
The ex-army doctor's chest rose and fell a fraction, slow and regular—a good sign.
Not dead then.
Sherlock managed to steady himself long enough to retrieve a tension wrench and a sparrow hook, perfect for the cheap, unbranded Euro cylinder in front of him. What were the chances the therapist hadn't secured the top and bottom bolts? He was counting on it.
Crouching in front of the door, he set to work.
The tension wrench easily slipped into the cylinder, so Sherlock applied a light pressure until the whole barrel turned a little. Inserting the pick and sliding it to the back of the keyway, he proceeded to pick, feeling for the first binding pin.
He could do this when his nerves were frayed. He could do this when he was imprisoned in a room in a rehabilitation centre, coming down off a drug binge, nerves shot, blurred vision and shaking hands, with bent hair pins he'd stolen from a nurse. So he could definitely meet the challenge while his best friend lay on the floor in front of him, more than likely unconscious. He could—
Oh, for Christ's sake!
Sherlock downed tools and wiped his clammy hands on the fabric of his trousers. He was a bit out of practise.
"I'll be with you in a moment," he muttered under his breath to his friend as he started again. John moved his head a little. Sherlock froze, tension wrench still held at an angle, sparrow pick lightly pressed against pin number four.
John was stirring.
"John!" Sherlock called again through the door. John's movements stilled for a moment, except for a twitch in his left hand. "I won't be long," Sherlock muttered once more. "The last time I had to do this," he said, more to himself, but it helped to pretend to converse with John, "was to get out of that God-awful place Mycroft had squirrelled me away in. Do you remember?" With a tiny grunt, Sherlock set the second last pin. "Well, you and Mary were…" He let his last words hang as he concentrated on the last one. John and Mary had been estranged at the time. No point in saying it out loud, not that John could hear him.
"Thank Christ for that!" he exclaimed, as the last pin held in place and the cylinder shifted. He pushed open the door—thankful that the bolts hadn't been secured in place—and scrambled over to his friend.
"John," he said, bending over him. "Can you—" His attention was drawn to a tiny dart protruding from John's neck. "Hello," he drawled, addressing the foreign object. Taking hold using his fingers as pincers, he said, "I'm not sure we've met before." He plucked the dart from John's neck and held it up to catch the light. "Why don't we get better acquainted." He held it to his nose and sniffed.
"Sis…" John said, through an exhausted exhale.
"Shh! ...Thinking!" Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the projectile used to incapacitate his friend. Had he ever seen one of these before? James Swandale, the Poison Giant, their foe from last year, used a rudimentary version in a blow pipe, but this… this was…
"Elegant."
"Sis…" John said again.
"What's that?" Sherlock asked, still not managing to drag his eyes from the poisoned dart.
John made a weak attempt at rising onto his elbows.
"Your… sis…ter," he repeated weakly.
"Sorry, what?"
"… fuck's sake…" John said, hoisting himself to a sitting position.
"No, no, no, no," Sherlock said, pressing a free hand to John's shoulder. "Don't try to get up. Your body needs time to expel the contents of the dart."
"I'm… f-fine," John replied, but he slid back into a reclined position anyway.
"Just take your time," Sherlock said, rising from his crouch and still holding the dart between his fingers. Looking about him, he added, "I have to make sure the house is secure."
He left John's side and crossed the room for the hallway.
"Where's your therapist?" he asked, taking a cursory glance around the living room opposite. Without hearing John's reply, Sherlock strode into the kitchen and scanned the area briefly for signs of life. He deposited the dart into a small evidence bag he happened to have on him.
Did the therapist meet the same fate as John, or worse? He paused, his attention drawn to the staircase. He strained to listen for movement on the floor above.
Sherlock wasted no time in searching the rest of the house. Satisfied that it was quite empty, he returned to the conservatory.
"Do you know who did—"
"Why didn't you tell me…" John said, now sitting up and leaning against the armchair Sherlock had once used. He paused as if to catch his breath. "… you had another bloody… family member?"
"S-sorry?" Sherlock's stomach dropped. How had John found out about Grace? Had Molly told him?
"Eurus!"
Sherlock tilted his head. John was making no sense.
"Your… secret sister!"
Sherlock blinked a couple of times in non-comprehension.
"I…" he said, his brow drawn down in thought. "I… don't have a… a secret sister."
Had the poison addled John's head a little?
Sherlock approached John and asked him tentatively, "What's the last thing you remember?"
"Your sister… as my therapist... she shot me."
So many things didn't compute.
"And where is she now?"
John shook his head.
"What did she say to you?"
"Wait…" John said, holding up a limp hand. "The real therapist. Airing cupboard… somewhere."
Sherlock was immediately on his feet. He traversed the house, upstairs and down once more, opening every single cupboard, peering underneath beds and tables, searching every available space where a person could be stashed—injured or dead. There was no actual airing cupboard.
He paused in a room that looked like a study. Several papers lying scattered on a desk, plus notes scrawled on a calendar told him the real therapist's possible whereabouts.
When he returned to John, his friend was sitting up in the chair, leaning forward, holding his face in his hands.
"I'm not sure the therapist met with foul play," Sherlock told him. "There are several indicators on her desk of travel abroad for a conf—"
Sherlock suddenly cut off his speech when he heard the sound of the front door unlocking. John froze. He'd heard it too.
"Quick!" John said, rising on shaky limbs and gesturing toward the French doors.
"I'm on it," Sherlock said, instead striding towards the front of the house.
"Sherlock!" John protested in a fierce whisper.
In the darkened passageway, Sherlock waited patiently, pressed against the side of the staircase, until the occupant had deposited a suitcase inside and had closed the front door.
They could've escaped, but Sherlock wanted to be sure of one thing—that the real therapist was alive and well.
"Please don't be alarmed," he said, in a smooth, low voice, stepping out from the shadows. He held out one hand in a placating manner, but his gesture didn't stop the woman from gasping. Her eyes, shaped by wire-framed spectacles, widened in fear.
"There's been a misunderstanding," Sherlock swiftly added, reaching for the hallway light switch. Flicking it on, he said, "I'm not here to harm you or damage your property." He paused, hoping for a hint of recognition on the therapist's face. He could see now that John's fake therapist bore only a passing resemblance to the real one that stood before him. And she had been travelling abroad, he observed, for quite some time.
"You're…" she began, and Sherlock bristled in anticipation of her recognising him. "… trespassing." She seemed emboldened by her own statement and stood taller.
"Yes. Yes, I am, but purely by mistake."
"Wait a minute," she said, her eyes narrowing. "You're that detective. The one on the internet."
"Yes! Good, you recognise me. Sherlock Holmes."
He stuck out a hand, which the therapist regarded in distaste.
"And…" Sherlock said, turning his failed handshake into a sweeping gesture to the room behind him, "my colleague, Doctor Watson, is with me."
"What are you doing in my house?" Her eyes flicked in the direction of the top of the stairs, prompting Sherlock to wonder if she had something to hide.
"Ah, yes… that I can explain," he said. Explain what? Come on…. Think! "You see… Doctor Watson… h-he lost his wife, quite recently." The therapist quirked a suspicious brow as Sherlock spoke. "Perhaps you read about it… on the internet…. Well, anyway… he hasn't taken it very well. Understandable really. He's been seeing a therapist. Another therapist. And she's complete rubbish. Won't mention any names, but there you have it. We're here because John… Doctor Watson… heard of you and thinks very highly of you. He insisted on coming here today, even though you were quite clearly not available. Conference, was it? Switzerland? Sounds lovely… well, anyway… I'm afraid he got himself a bit worked up and he managed to break into your residence… through the back door… I think it was unlocked anyway… and…" Sherlock scratched his head in an effort to figure out the rest of his woeful story. "And I've followed him in. Now I think I've calmed him down enough to convince him to abandon his plan, and if you would be so kind as to let us slip out the back door again, we won't bother you at all."
"The door was unlocked?"
Was that all she heard?
"Yes," Sherlock said, clearing his throat. "Cheap European lock. Entirely unreliable."
The therapist made a move to get past Sherlock, but he held up a hand again.
"If we could leave without Doctor Watson knowing that I've just told you he's emotionally unstable… he's a proud man... professional integrity and all that... I would really appreciate it."
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
"Thank you," he said, taking advantage of her moment of doubt. "Now if you have any further concerns, please don't hesitate to ring me. The number's on my website." Sherlock spun on his heels before turning the corner and escaping once more into the conservatory.
John was standing by the French doors with his hand on the door latch. Sherlock gave him a quick nod.
"Go!" he said, crossing the room in three quick strides.
"What did you—"
"Just go!" Sherlock urged him.
After they'd escaped into the garden and rounded the corner towards the side fence, John turned to him.
"What did you tell her?"
"That you've gone mad."
"That I've—"
"Keep going!" Sherlock insisted, gesturing towards the wooden gate.
With a tut, John informed him that the gate was padlocked.
"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied irritably. "Climb over it."
"Why can't we go out through the front door like normal people?"
"Since when are we normal people?"
When John gave him a stern look, Sherlock added with a sigh, "Because I implied that you'd be too embarrassed and humiliated for her to see you."
John muttered something imperceptible under his breath.
"Sorry?" Sherlock asked.
"I have just been poisoned."
"A few hours ago. And now you're perfectly fine. Look…" Sherlock approached the gate, and curled his hand around the top of the wooden palings. "Hand," he said. Pointing to the supporting rail, he said, "Foot." He gestured to the side brick wall and added, "Other foot. Pull yourself up and over. Child's play."
"… perfectly capable…" John muttered.
Sherlock watched, with growing incredulity, John's attempts at hauling himself over the gate. With a loud thud and a curse, he deduced that John had landed adequately.
Within seconds, Sherlock joined him on the other side.
"Hope we can get a cab from here," he said, striding ahead of his friend.
In the relatively private confines of the taxi on their way to dropping John home, Sherlock interrogated his friend about what had transpired in Windsor Street, while John also attempted, in vain, to get Sherlock to explain how he had kept a sister secret for so long.
"She pretended to be your therapist," Sherlock summarised, overriding John's protests, "and your bit on the side—"
"Sherlock."
"And Faith Smith. And now she's pretending to be a sister I never had."
"I'm not sure she's pretending. Mycroft—"
"I don't have a sister, John."
"Yeah, but Mycroft said—"
"Said what?"
John gritted his teeth. Perhaps Sherlock should back off a little and let the man have his say.
"Mycroft dismissed what he'd said earlier, but the impression I got—"
"His words, John. What did he say, exactly?"
John exhaled deeply.
"When you went off the rails," he began, "and he was using government resources to track you, I called him on it. He said something along the lines of you being a security concern and the fact that he was your brother didn't change anything, as it didn't the last time."
"The last time? Clearly he's talking about the Magnussen thing."
"No… no, I don't think so. He said… God, what did he say?" John bowed his head in thought. "That's right. He said, it didn't the last time and it won't with Sherlock. Doesn't that imply the last time wasn't you?"
Sherlock shrugged lightly, but internally he wasn't feeling as flippant. His skin began to prickle.
"There was something in his eyes after he dismissed my comment much later," John went on. "Like he desperately wanted me to believe him."
Sherlock tilted his head back against the seat to ruminate on John's words. Mycroft's hiding something? Surely they didn't have a secret sister. How utterly ridiculous!
"And what did this Eurus woman say? Her exact words. Don't leave anything out."
John folded his arms in front of him and regarded the view out the window for a moment, tapping his arm in thought.
Turning back to Sherlock, he said, "She didn't say much… You had chips. And you were nicer, she said. Not what she expected. Used some ridiculous Northern accent."
Synapses began firing in Sherlock's Mind Palace.
You're not what I expected, Mr Holmes. You're… nicer.
Dread rippled through him. Somebody had been toying with him and he didn't like it.
"And…" John continued, "she had a note. Faith's note. Culverton Smith gave it to her after some friend… a mutual friend, she said… put them in touch. What note was that?"
"What friend?"
"Dunno. She didn't say."
John let him process his answers in silence for a few seconds before he prompted Sherlock about the note.
"Oh. It was nothing much," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "Faith wrote on it that her father wanted to kill someone. I deduced trivial things about it: she lived alone, she was a keen cook, but she had a teeny-tiny kitchen."
John nodded into the silence, which Sherlock was sure was filled with the thudding of his heart.
"She said she added those deductions," John mused.
"More than likely," Sherlock remarked, a hint of disappointment in himself marring his tone. She'd made him perform. Like a circus monkey.
"But you didn't get the big one, apparently."
Sherlock stopped breathing, his throat tightening.
"What?"
John gave a light shrug.
"The big… clue?" he added.
The white noise buzzing in Sherlock's mind increased its intensity.
"Baker Street!" he called to the cab driver. "Turn here!"
"What?" asked John as the cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror. "No… no, no, no, Sherlock. I have to get home. Rosie, remember!"
"Stop the car!"
After the cab squealed to a halt, Sherlock alighted amid John's protests. He didn't have time for explanations. He had to get home and examine the note. How could he have missed another clue? A big one! In his drugged out state, he had still been capable of observing, but he hadn't been firing on all cylinders.
A missed clue!
Sherlock crossed the road and hailed a cab approaching from the opposite direction as John's taxi continued on.
"Baker Street!" he bid the cabbie as he climbed in.
.
Author's Note:
The scene where Sherlock finds the hidden "Miss me!" writing on the note actually belongs to TLD, but I kinda forgot about its significance (thanks thedragonaunt for pointing it out!) and therefore Sherlock's lowkey reaction to finding the note again in my previous chapter doesn't seem appropriate. But I think it fits well here anyway, with Sherlock prompted to take a closer look at the note after hearing John's story.
The whole therapist "in a sack in the airing cupboard" thing seriously annoyed me, if only for the idea that if she was in there for quite some time (between John's first visit and his last) then surely the smell of her body decomposing would've alerted curious neighbours! I hope you don't mind the liberty I've taken here. Just assume in my fic that Eurus was having a little joke with John about the therapist's whereabouts.
Another tardy update, though. Sorry about that. Busy schedule, low enthusiasm for writing. Please say hi to let me know you're still out there and reading! I would love to hear from you, and I'll try really hard to get back to my normal updating frequency. Thank you to those who frequently give me feedback and especially those who reach out to me when I fall off the edge of the planet.
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