BBC Sherlock: The Case of The Colonel Carruthers' Connection

Chapter 2: Second Thoughts

88**88

It was late. He had work in the morning and couldn't stay out all night, but John Watson had lingered as long as he could at a nearby pub, nursing several pints over chips. He was alone. He had no one to call for companionship. Sarah and he were still in an early relationship and he didn't want to frighten her off—any more than he had on their first date—by appearing pathetic. And while DI Lestrade—Greg—had suggested they go out for a pint sometime, John didn't know him well enough to ring him up on the fly. No. he was all alone with his problem. Problems—plural. And after tonight, Sherlock loomed high on his list.

With his elbows on the table and his head resting in his hands, John closed his eyes to think about his peculiar flat-mate—the infuriating eccentric, the conceited git. It wasn't as if he hadn't been warned. Mike and Mycroft had wondered about the arrangement.

Interminable poor health had done much to unravel John's close-knit ties within his military friends. Since his return to civilian life, his financial shortfalls had made it clear how alone he was. So, he took a flat-share with someone, who from the first, didn't appear to be interested in developing a friendship—Sergeant Donovan had mentioned "the freak" didn't "have friends."

A cock up, that. John rued his decision. First blogged about him… Thought he was "oddly, strangely... likeable... then, mad," but now difficult doesn't even begin to describe him …with his public-school arrogance… I really think he's cross at the whole world for being idiots. Most times he's intrusive, pushy, self-centered, and manipulative. Don't know why I put up with it half the time...

John sighed. Some days, his bottled-up frustration with his flat-mate made him want to throttle the consulting detective for being too much of a genius. Although he liked those occasional snatches of Sherlock's humor, most times, all Sherlock wanted to talk about was his damned cases…or his Science of Deduction. It was way past tedious.

John tried to divert their tiresome, mostly one-sided conversations with acerbic asides. Sometimes it worked if he introduced the news headlines, the state of the world, Mycroft—that always got a smile from Sherlock. John liked that they both favored similar things: Chinese cuisine, sometimes Indian, and on rare occasions, long walks in silence—but otherwise, John wondered what else connected them. Social circles, whilst nonexistent for the both of them, would probably not have overlapped even if they were a social lot. It was beginning to seem that all they shared was digs and expenses; that was it—

—Except for the adrenaline rush! John reopened his eyes.

Crossing paths with Sherlock Holmes—granted, it had only been three months since their first meeting—had turned John's life around. He no longer felt stripped of purpose, crippled by trauma. Sherlock's vibrancy was ...contagious. It revived him, or at least that part of him who until recently John had presumed died in Afghanistan—the man who ran towards danger. After all those months of lethargy dulling his spirit, John discovered he still missed—no, needed—the excitement of living on the edge, like an addict needs drugs.

Like you needing a case… It's true, mate, you're obsessed, driven. Whatever it takes… It's your weakness. Without risks you're vulnerable... to another kind of stimulant. Lestrade knows this. Knows you have a hidden stash for the boredom, I'd wager. I have problems with boredom, too.

Recalling their two big cases together, the moments of utter insanity…and exhilaration, John half smiled, Yeah, at least it's never boring around you!

During that first foot-chase—intercepting the black cab on Wardour Street—John had completely forgotten his mental and physical impairments. Pumped by their pursuit, John had connected with Sherlock, really connected. And despite their disappointment at the outcome, they had laughed at themselves, at their own foolhardy daring. John had not laughed like that since, since… well, for a very long time.

As unexpected as it seemed, Sherlock had dispelled John's isolation and loneliness by giving him adventures. Was this why he felt inexplicably drawn to both Sherlock and his work? Is this why he found him likeable? Since being invalided from the army, John had missed feeling needed, feeling alive. He missed being intensely committed to a greater cause and the friendships he had forged in combat, in terror, in the rare slack times between engagements. Coming home, he had hoped to find work, purpose, friendship—something of what he had left in Central Asia—to fill the looming void.

You'd deny it, Sherlock Holmes, but truth is, we both could use a friend.

John finished his drink, shoved the glass away, and glanced at Carruthers' letter. In the pub's reduced lighting he examined the crumpled envelope over and over. His row with Sherlock had unsettled him and he just couldn't bring himself to open the troublesome letter. He hadn't needed to; he was certain its contents would be similar to the previous two.

For the umpteenth time, John checked his watch. Half-ten. He stood reluctantly, paid his bill and left, resigned there was no way to avoid his flat-mate or the inevitable confrontation.

Classical violin music softly swelled from their flat as John mounted the seventeen steps. He had hoped Sherlock would have retreated to his own bedroom. He wasn't certain if he'd be ready to face the music and hadn't expected it would be literally so.

Sherlock stopped playing when John reached the landing and looked into the sitting room. Poised with violin under his chin and bow arm raised, Sherlock eyed his returning flat-mate with a curious expression and a scant smile. "Practicing the Paganini Caprices."

"Right!" John nodded, sure he hadn't consumed enough pints to mellow him for this encounter. "Don't let me stop you," he added gruffly, hung up his jacket and turned toward the stairs to his bedroom.

"John!" Sherlock dropped his pose. "A moment. Please."

"Sherlock, I'm tired." Without turning around, John waved a dismissive hand, "and I think we've said enough."

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock snapped. "This needs mending."

"Bloody hell!" John turned on his flat-mate; eyes flashing menace. "What's it to you, anyway?" he shot back.

The bitterness in John's face stopped Sherlock cold. He was unprepared to deal with such intense emotion.

"Hmmm! Cat got your tongue?" John gave him a twisted grin, disappointed by Sherlock's silence. It proved that the detective's intrusion was entirely clinical. Sherlock's "interest" wasn't an overture of friendship and John was annoyed with himself for imagining his flat-mate was capable of anything more. Sherlock didn't care—couldn't be arsed to care—about anyone's suffering. "Stay out of this!" John demanded. "I'm not a machine for you to mend!" He stomped up the stairs and closed the bedroom door with a loud, decisive thud.

Sherlock listened for clues as to what the man was experiencing in John's heavy footsteps overhead, detecting a slight limp in the back-and-forth pacing. He had never considered studying what the sound of footsteps conveyed—perhaps it merited examination. Yes, a paper, revealing what the pace, cadence, force of footsteps—Stay on topic, he reminded himself. You've a more immediate problem to solve.

John Watson had just spurned what Sherlock believed was a quite decent offer to help him resolve whatever was bothering him. Granted, he was accustomed to being rebuffed for his smug candor when probing for the truth or when he disclosed his astounding revelations. In fact, John's reaction was not as bad as others who had ridiculed, belittled, even attacked him. But this time his intention—his goodwill—had been so utterly misread that Sherlock had to question just how he had failed to communicate his honest wish to help the man.

In the next moment, Sherlock was surprised by his unexpected response to John's emotional outburst. It mattered to him that his behavior had caused offense—and that was rare in itself. John's snub felt altogether different from rejections by so many others and the awareness backfooted him.

John Watson was a proud man, justifiably proud, and Sherlock did not take that—or the man—lightly. Clearly that had not come across adequately in their interactions since taking up residence together. But for John to be so affronted at Sherlock's legitimate offer of help was out of character—in degree, certainly and perhaps in nature. While it was true there had been no spoken offer of it when they'd met, the fact that by the end of that first case John's limp had disappeared should have proven that his association with Sherlock Holmes could only benefit him. There had been other indications over the past three months, as well. John had found work and resumed a social life, all derivative of his condition's improvement due to having stability in his life.

Sherlock smiled to himself at that last. I'm the very last thing someone should look to for stability! Still, that's not so terrible a thing. I suppose the good doctor functions in much the same manner for me…

Ah. Sherlock stopped. But I hadn't offered help. I'd told him it needed 'mending'. He rubbed his hand across his lower face. I'd be cross, too, had someone said it to me. Mycroft came forcefully to mind.

Quite aside from John's distress regarding Carruthers' letters, Sherlock's interest in them and their impact on John had only been whetted by John's adamant refusal to cooperate. The more his flat-mate demanded privacy, the more perversely obsessed Sherlock became with what was an otherwise commonplace puzzle.

But, as much as it had stung, John had been justified in asking, "What's it to you?"

It begged the question: Why did it matter? Even if Sherlock succeeded in resolving the question with logic, assuming that the same logic might also answer why it mattered to him that he had offended John, would it resolve the larger, underlying, niggling question: What was John to him, after all?

Sherlock had been pleased that his quick assessment of John Watson upon their first acquaintance had borne out over time. He had given him the Baker Street address without reservation. Whilst their hastily decided living arrangement was initially utility-based for financial reasons, John had since proven to be a convenience. He tended to the mundane, tedious tasks of daily living—shopping, bill-paying, talking to Mrs. Hudson—things that would only have dulled the finely honed edge of Sherlock's brilliance had there been no John to take it on.

And yet…John Watson was a curiosity. On the surface, he seemed bland and ordinary, but his sharp wit and his snarky asides spoke of one who saw the world from a slightly jaded perspective, not unlike Sherlock's own. In addition, John's military training had already proven handy and would likely do so again in a pinch, of which Sherlock expected many. Marksmanship of that caliber was a rarity. John's integrity, honesty, calm, and courage were assets and qualities necessary in an ally. Well, well, Sherlock thought, how very odd that I should see him as an ally…

John Watson served another practical, quite useful purpose: John was, as he had told Sherlock, a very good doctor. His medical insights were thorough, helpful and kept Anderson at bay. He was an interactive audience, better than the skull, a sounding board, a person who stimulated deductions. While cold, impartial, rational thinking was the proper and only way to approach a problem, John's social insights provided Sherlock context for his findings. Upon reflection, John Watson, despite being intellectually inferior, was less an idiot than most people. Unlike his reaction to most people, he didn't dislike John.

Sherlock caught the reflection of his surprised face in the mirror over the fireplace then smiled at a sudden realization about his flat-mate: he enjoyed this man.

As to the other side of the equation, he only partially understood why John might seek his company. Sherlock was no one's idea of a conversationalist. But his desiring John's company? That was unexpected and a revelation. And quite possibly, it was the answer to John's bitter, "What's it to you?"

It was not the strictly logical motivation that Sherlock always insisted underpinned everything he did. Perhaps John's question had arisen from his perception of the unlikelihood of Sherlock developing an interest in friendship. He had shown no interest in John's concerns prior to this. Sherlock had assumed that the solitary existence he preferred would be John's choice, as well. Hadn't he said, "So, you're on your own, like me." Taking that as his cue, Sherlock had proceeded to give John his space, satisfied that John was content to do the same.

Three months on in their arrangement and with no current cases of consequence to occupy him, it shouldn't have mattered whether he liked John or not to follow through on determining why Carruthers' letters triggered the army surgeon's terrible nightmares. Sherlock had helped the few clients he had liked with their problems over the years—Mrs. Hudson, Angelo—but for the others, liking or not liking was irrelevant. The cases themselves had to stand on their own, had to be sufficiently interesting for him to take it on. Sherlock wouldn't accept a case as a favor.

As he reviewed these months flat-sharing with John Watson, Sherlock saw he had made a concession in that no-favors rule; he had granted a favor and all unawares by including John on his investigations. Had anyone asked him why he included John, he would never have admitted that. Rather, he'd have said he needed the doctor's medical expertise—Met personnel being what they were—and that Dr. Watson needed the first-hand perspective in order to accurately report their doings on his blog.

The footsteps above him had ceased. Doubtless John had retired for the night. Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. He had no intention of doing as John had demanded. He would get to the bottom of it, with or without John's help. For John's sake, ostensibly—and just maybe, for his own.

Determined, Sherlock set his violin and bow down on the work table, sat and opened this laptop. He laced his fingers in front of his mouth in thought and stared at the screen. A moment later, he wiggled the fingers to loosen them up and began typing. Once he made quick work of Mycroft's current access codes, he would have twenty minutes—at the most—before his brother's security would shut him down. Sherlock input the name Colonel Carruthers in MI5, MI6, and military databases. What he could learn in eighteen minutes might be useful…

8**8