BBC SherlocK: The Case of The Colonel Carruthers' Connection
Chapter 3: Rethinking...
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Not a word was spoken between them the next morning. When John came down, dressed and ready for work, he neither helped himself to the morning coffee Sherlock had brewed nor made any effort to grab some breakfast. His brief appearance—an ostentatious and transparent display of someone in a great hurry—was solely to retrieve his jacket and head out straightway.
Sherlock went to the window to observe John's stride: it was less energetic than the previous night's angry departure. He speculated that John was more fatigued this morning from his distressing dreams or possibly felt lackluster without a morning meal—he had not eaten the Thai takeaway from the night before, either. Or was it a sign of still-simmering irritation?
John's silent treatment was going to make getting important information unnecessarily difficult, especially as his nightly disturbances—induced by his unresolved issues—persisted. Not fifteen minutes earlier, Sherlock had noted the worsening severity of John's periorbital puffiness caused by sleep deprivation. While the bulldog set of John's jaw and his furrowed brow indicated that his resentment was still close to the surface, Sherlock would continue to watch for signs of abatement, at which point he expected his appeal to the rational mind would elicit John's cooperation. However, John's dogged stubbornness was proving a formidable obstacle.
The ping of a text on Sherlock's phone drew his glance. Mycroft.
What do you want now? it read.
Sherlock grinned. The limited success of his researches had been frustrating. He had had no more than three minutes within the government's top-secret databases before his access was cut off. Whilst security measures were definitely improving—although had he been a hacker, three minutes would have been enough to do tremendous damage—Sherlock now intended to use this breach as leverage with his brother.
His grin grew into a smug smile. Despite last night's setback, he now had an even more valuable commodity than information: Mycroft's attention. Armed with proof of the government's flawed cybersecurity, Sherlock was certain he could convince Mycroft to let him explore how deplorable government security was, whilst all the time sharing his brother's resources… unwittingly.
To get the answers he sought, Sherlock did more than text back; he rang his brother.
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John paid for his egg sandwich and coffee and headed to the tube, feeling somewhat contrite for beating a hasty retreat to avoid Sherlock. Another night of terrible dreams had left him drained.
John suffered the jostling of the morning crowd and waited a few stops before a seat opened up. He took it. Even though he had two more stops before his destination, he sat with his untouched coffee in one hand and his bagged breakfast in the other and closed his eyes.
He felt humiliated and betrayed by his psychological distress. Worse, last night's disquieting discussion had made John feel like a specimen under Sherlock's microscope. It was not the kind of attention he sought, but more than that, he hated that Sherlock was right: the contents of Carruthers' letters were exacerbating his symptoms. Rather than admit the truth to his flat-mate—John feared Sherlock would not stop probing until he learned all about the tragedy—John chose avoidance. This was not something he could hide for much longer, however, especially with Carruthers resurrecting the past—a past filled with pain and guilt that John had started putting behind him only recently.
"…not the John Watson I know," Mike Stamford had said that fateful day in Russell Square Park.
"Yeah," John had replied uncomfortably, "I'm not that John Watson—" He hadn't been able to finish.
His chance to rebuild his life, to start fresh might all come to a sorry end if Carruthers refused to let the past go. And worst of all was the judgement John dreaded the more people knew what haunted him.
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John stopped for a light dinner at a pub near the surgery after work. He ate alone, not for want of trying. He had asked Sarah to join him, but she had looked at him with her kind eyes and declined. "Sorry, John. I have other plans tonight."
To her credit, she had not held their first date—and subsequent near-death experience with the Chinese acrobats—against him. She had been quite clear afterwards that her preference was for less exotic venues. Their second and third dates had gone swimmingly, so John believed her refusal of his impromptu invitation, especially when she added, "Maybe next weekend?"
John smiled at the possibility and listened to the lively chatter around him. After nursing a second, post-prandial pint, he headed home.
It was half-past eight when he returned to Baker Street. And as it had been the previous night, the melodious violin welcomed him.
"John." Sherlock turned in greeting and immediately ceased playing.
"Sherlock," John nodded, shrugging out of his jacket.
Each studied the other, waiting, wondering who might speak first. After an awkwardly long pause, they broke the silence at the same time.
"—Stopped for a bite after work."
"—Second-day Thai was tasty."
"Oh," they both said simultaneously.
John looked away. "Glad it didn't go to waste," he said and hung up his jacket.
Again, both stood there uneasily, until John turned to go upstairs. "Yes, well. G'night."
"John!" Sherlock set down his Stradivarius and called after the retreating form. "Upon reflection, you were… you were right!"
John halted on the first tread, surprised. That almost sounded like an apology. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was being disingenuous but his own curiosity and Sherlock's tone compelled him to turn around.
"Last night… I crossed the line." Sherlock's expression was only mildly contrite.
"Yes. You did." John nodded and folded his arms.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed—a look John wasn't sure how to interpret. Was it in puzzlement? … Suspicion? Would there be something more forthcoming? John waited and was rewarded for keeping silent.
Sherlock hesitated then blurted, "Intruding on your privacy was not my intention."
"Okay," John stepped down and moved back into the sitting room. He clasped his arms behind his back and crossed toward his chair. "So far, so good. Go on." Keeping his eyes averted as he remained standing, he tilted his head as if to listen better.
Sherlock followed John with his eyes. "And…and… and, I…um… I should have listened when you told me to stop."
John nodded. "Look, Sherlock. I get that you deduce people—it's what you do—but it's when you show off by exposing us… That's what makes it unacceptable," John lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock's intense scrutiny. "Last night, I didn't ask you to tell me what you thought. In fact, I told you to stop. But you did it anyway. You do this to everybody, not just me."
"Some people deserve it." The words were flippant but Sherlock's face was grave.
"No. I don't think so," John lips pursed in thought, "Well, okay, maybe, but most people don't deserve to be humiliated the way you do it. You don't seem to care how hurtful it can be. In case you haven't heard, it's not good to provoke people. We react badly."
"I shall take that under advisement. Can't promise I'll stop provoking people when I deem it necessary," Sherlock tried a cautious grin. "Although it's clear, I shouldn't use my deductive tactics on friends…um, colleagues, …er, flat-mates," Sherlock fumbled, clearly befuddled by their conversation. He gave up with a shrug.
John recalled weeks ago on their last case when Sherlock had introduced him as a "friend" to Sebastian Wilkes. Wilkes had questioned Sherlock's use of the term; he had repeated friend with an almost surprised sneer. That hadn't stop John from correcting Sherlock, asserting his association with the detective was that of "colleague," as it was a bit premature to be actual "friends."
Wilkes had snickered in self-amusement: We all hated him. John also recalled Mycroft's, "You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?" It occurred to John that Sherlock's pointed use of friend with Wilkes had been deliberate. And in hindsight, telling.
He regretted that moment with Wilkes and flashed Sherlock a scapegrace smile. "Friend is okay." John mumbled. "But…if you persist in demeaning people and friends with deductions, then expect unpleasant consequences, which I'm sure you've dealt with often enough…" John paused briefly and sighed. "Last night, when I told you to shut up—"
"—Yes. Twice," Sherlock nodded.
"I came pretty close to hitting you," John admitted. Their eyes met and held for a moment.
"What stopped you?"
John glanced down and rocked on his feet. He exhaled a soft, humorless chuckle. After a moment, he looked up again at Sherlock. "You were right."
Sherlock went still—waiting—not trying to force a resolution this once.
John shifted his focus beyond Sherlock as if he was seeing the truth in the distance. The sorrow in his eyes was fleeting, and he blinked it away. "Yeah! Of course you were right! Colonel Carruthers' letters are opening up old wounds.…" His voice caught and he cleared his throat. "Look, Sherlock. It's been a long day. I'm knackered. Let's drop it for now."
"For now?"
John stared at his flat-mate for several beats then turned on his heel. At the base of the staircase he paused. "For now," he said without looking back and continued upstairs.
"John," Sherlock called from below sounding as if he had something more to say, but merely said, "Good night," instead.
John closed his door and Sherlock resumed playing. He smiled at Sherlock's apology—a rare occurrence, if that was what it was. He hoped the haunting visions would leave him be this night.
Once abed, John thought he recognized the music from the previous night—Paganini Caprices—and soon fell into an untroubled sleep.
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