BBC Sherlock: The Case of the Colonel Carruthers' Connection
Chapter 6: Changing
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FROM A STUDY IN PINK
"People don't have arch-enemies," John observed, speaking over a plate of linguini and clams at Angelo's. It was their first stakeout and Sherlock had set a trap. "…In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life." He chewed. "Doesn't happen."
"Doesn't it?" Sherlock monitored the pulse of nightlife outside the window, watching, waiting for the serial-suicide murderer to take the bait. "Sounds a bit dull," was his preoccupied answer. He ignored John's next question: "So who did I meet?" by asking his own. "What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"
"Friends," John offered, curious about this potential flat-mate. "People they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..."
"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull."
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The same day Carruthers was apprehended at a hotel in London and arrested, Sherlock and John made "first contact" with Moriarty at the pool.
A fifth hostage of Moriarty's Great Game, John had been strapped in a bomb-vest and forced to recite whatever Moriarty dictated. He stood quietly; memories of Afghanistan chilled him as he watched the interplay between the two masterminds. Faced with the all-too-real threat of dying by explosion and unwilling to be the instrument of his friend's death, John seized an opportunity to save Sherlock. Forfeiting his own life for his mates had been drilled in him as a soldier, but the noble gesture was no less a reflection of John Watson's inborn protectiveness for those he cared about.
After that harrowing ordeal, the ominous threat of future encounters with the consulting criminal had given them a real-life arch-enemy, proving John had been utterly wrong about discounting the existence of arch-enemies and Sherlock had been decidedly right about life being dull without them.
The ensuing weeks were not dull either. Several clients showed up, little cases, one after the other, that intrigued Sherlock. Some he solved in the flat, others required leg work, and John blogged about them—Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror, The Melting Laptop, The Geek Interpreters...
Another week later, DI Greg Lestrade called Sherlock and John to St. Bart's morgue to examine the body of a woman. Lestrade hovered nearby, waiting as both men leant over the body to confer about the case. From where he was standing, the DI could hear their soft banter but their words were undistinguishable.
"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock asked John, snapping open his magnifier to take a closer look at the cadaver on the stainless steel table.
Curious about the odd markings on the woman's body, John remained unfazed by Sherlock's question. They had been disputing the contents, the titles, John's writing style for days. The topic followed them wherever they went, including on opposite sides of a morgue table. Sherlock stubbornly refused to concede there was any correlation with the influx of new cases and the blog publicity—'blog-licity' John's coined phrase—which was why John repeated his best argument. "Where do you think our clients come from?"
"I have a website?" Sherlock rejoined at John's ridiculous question.
"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco," John sassed back.
Affronted, Sherlock tilted his head and regarded his flat-mate with veiled surprise.
John was too preoccupied to notice and continued his exam. "…Which is why nobody's reading your website."
Simultaneously, each man straightened up, John because he had finished his exam, Sherlock because John's reproach was all too clear.
"Right then," John reported, expecting to compare his observations with Sherlock's and entirely unaware he had hit a nerve. "Dyed blonde hair—,"
Greg stepped closer to hear; neither noticed Sherlock's silence and cold glare.
"—no obvious cause of death except for these speckles." John did not touch the body with his gloved hand; he merely pointed at the spots with his little finger.
Sherlock's miffed glare became a pout.
" —Whatever they are." John looked up, awaiting Sherlock's input. When none was forthcoming, both he and Greg exchanged puzzled looks over the retreating form exiting the morgue.
Sherlock made no mention about John's provocative comment—certainly not whether it caused him hard feelings—although John's title "The Speckled Blonde" incurred Sherlock's particularly mocking disapproval. More blogs followed: "Sherlock Holmes Baffled, Hat Man and Robin," drawing attention. More clients knocked, more cases, some bigger than others, and some John would never blog about due to their all-too-confidential content.
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It was late evening, many weeks after Carruthers' arrest. A rare moment of quiet had settled over the sitting room in 221B. Sherlock and John sat in facing armchairs, reading. Neither had spoken for a while, until John put down the BMJ and picked up the evening sports page. Moments later, the comfortable stillness was broken by his soft grumbles.
Sherlock's attention drifted from his laptop. John's mouth was set in a thin line of frustration. His reaction was not particularly unusual; the sports news often aggravated him, provoking sighs and soft swearing. Sherlock considered it irrational that John continued to subject himself to the daily disappointment. After listening to huffs of annoyance for more than a minute, Sherlock broke the silence to discuss something on his mind. "Are you aware you're doing that?"
"Doing what?" John looked over the top of the newspaper at his flat-mate. "Oh, you mean, fuming over these bloody football scores?" Vexed, John smacked the sports page. "Sorry. I was hoping for better stats."
"Good statistics are desirable," Sherlock agreed with a half-smile, "The ones I'm currently reviewing are quite positive. Care to hear them?"
"Stats?" John took another glance at the disappointing paper before stifling a yawn. "Let me warn you, Sherlock. I'm too knackered to hear another detailed report about a new kind of ash—"
"Hmmm. I see. Don't suppose you'd noticed, then?"
"Noticed what? Why do you even bother to ask?" John snorted a chuckle. "According to you, I'm too unobservant to notice almost everything."
"True, but I'm referring to something that should be obvious even to you."
"Sherlock…" John crumpled the sports page in frustration. "Unless this obvious thing has to do with bringing long-retired Sir Bobby Charlton back to the game, your question is a non sequitur. Haven't got a clue what you're talking about."
"Clueless, John? I've given you a hint!"
"Enlighten me, then!" John closed the newspaper and dropped it in his lap, far too irked by the sports page to object to Sherlock's smirk.
"Very well. I believe you are aware of the changes in your sleep cycles…? I'm reviewing the statistics now." His chin pointed to a spreadsheet on his laptop. "There's been a significant decline in your nightmares. Last night marked twenty-nine days without one disturbance."
"Wait! You've been recording my sleep cycles?" John goggled.
"Of course. They prove I was right: that locking up Colonel Carruthers would end your sleep-disrupting flashbacks. Not to mention that I was correct when I stated that the Colonel would be charged with violating the Offences Against the Person Act."
"Yet, you mention it," John countered drily. He couldn't refute the Carruthers' connection with the violent night terrors nor Sherlock's connection that exposing Carruthers' scheme had broken their hold. "So, how are you gathering this data?" John's eyes narrowed. Once he would have taken great offense; now he felt touched by Sherlock's scientific interest in him. It had taken some getting used to but John had become more accepting of the man's quirks. "You know, bugging my room is going a bit too far…"
"Not necessary, John," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. "The entire flat no longer resonates throughout the night with your loud outcries of distress; there's been no racket from tossing-and-turning in your creaking bed, no moaning and groaning—"
Not much of that happening anywhere, John thought cynically, since Sarah and I broke it off… not that we'd ever got it on in 221B!
"—plus in the mornings," Sherlock continued without missing a beat, "your face is less drawn; your periorbital pockets are no longer puffy from sleep deprivation. There's more determination in your manner, more purpose and excitement in your step, your mood is less acerbic, your laugh is less sardonic—except when Mycroft's around, then it's merited—and you generally appear more—"
"—Enough, Sherlock." John snapped the sports page open again and raised it to hide his tight grin, unsure if he should be annoyed or flattered by Sherlock's details. "Okay, okay. I get it! You're right. You're always right!"
"Not always right but nearly always, John. I can distinguish from a number of facts which are incidental and which vital, unlike that idiot Anderson who makes incongruous deductions based upon whatever frequently irrelevant data he has at hand."
Sherlock closed his laptop. With a sudden burst of energy he leapt from his chair and picked up his violin. As he tuned the instrument he reflected on John's trustworthiness and courage in every case they had shared thus far. He smiled to himself at his great fortune. Here now was someone who shared his passion for all that was bizarre or outside the conventions and the humdrum routine of everyday life. Correction, not just someone—a soldier and a doctor—an added bonus. "To think, Carruthers believed he could guilt John Watson into suicide," he scoffed softly and then with brio, launched into a selection from the Mystery Sonatas by Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber.
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John had been feeling more like that "John Watson" to whom Mike Stamford had referred; more like that "very good" army doctor he had claimed with pride when Sherlock asked if he had been "any good?" Sherlock was right. John had not felt this good for quite some time. Since the tragedy in Afghanistan, regret had muddied his sense of self, his purpose in life, and made it difficult for John to find forgiveness for the blame he carried. Sherlock's observations had had an unexpected and welcome effect: confirmation that he was on the right track.
It was true. With Carruthers arrested and charged, John's guilt-driven self-doubts had begun to ebb like an outgoing tide. Still, Sherlock was only partially correct as to the reason why John appeared more at peace with himself.
John had chosen to appeal on the Colonel's behalf for a lighter sentence rather than seek retribution with the prosecution to lock him up for a long time. Helping others brought out the best in him, but it also had to do with his loyalty to the dead. He felt he owed a debt to Mac, to each of his dead friends, to be worthy of his survivorship. And deep down, John had hoped—no, needed, to know—that by maintaining his high standards, by continuing down the path of a principled life he had always followed, he would be honoring his friends who died. The Colonel's relentless rancor had made it hard to believe forgiveness was possible, but more, it had obscured for too long what mattered more to John: absolution from the dead he strove to honor.
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Captain John Watson served with Carruthers' daughter, Captain Mackenzie Mason, when he was assigned to Helmond Province. Along with the other surgeons, nurses, and paramedical members in their unit, theirs was a tight-knit group, no different than the intense bonds between the soldiers on the frontlines. Under uncomfortably hot conditions in a crowded emergency department, subject to the pungent odors of blood, burned flesh and toxic residue, the staff remained focused on the basics and clinical aspects of patient trauma care. The medical team relied upon each other to stay sane despite the insanity of a foreign war, the constant influx of wounded who burst through the OR doors, and the vivid reminders that Death was a misstep away.
Fast friendships formed within the operating unit and continued outside, during the lulls between treating casualties, when the surgeons chit-chatted about sports, celebrities, food—anything to distract them from horrors they regularly witnessed. Inevitably, as they grew to know each other, their conversations turned to the deeper topics of personal philosophies, future plans, and family matters, both the good and the bad.
Most found it easy to confide in Mackenzie Mason. She was a sympathetic listener. One evening, John had found himself sharing his concerns about his sister when he and Mac had taken a dinner break.
"It's no secret, they're in love." Dinner tray in hand, he had followed the tall young woman to a table in the Officer's Mess. "But I'm afraid Clara won't be strong enough to deal with Harry's drinking—we've been down this road before."
"Sorry." Mac sat down and picked up her cutlery. "I know alcohol dependence is considered a disease, but I see how it can be a mental obsession that causes a physical compulsion to drink."
"True." John took the seat opposite the pert "ginger," aware she had spoken as if from experience. He hesitated at first then asked anyway, "Someone in your family with a similar compulsion…?"
She laughed, her amber-hazel eyes crinkling. "Well, I'm quite well acquainted with obsessive compulsives, you know." When she realized John was not in on her joke, she told him about her renowned father.
"Everyone who works with him knows." Mac tucked into the precious, rarely available green salad but only poked at the rehash of spam and boiled potatoes. "So I'm not revealing any secrets. Dad has a mild obsessive-compulsive disorder. He's actually proud of it. He says it makes him perfectly suited for military life. And surprisingly, research backs him up."
As most in the RAMC, John had known Carruthers by reputation only, but what he knew was impressive: upon completing the Defense Medical Services training program at Whittington Barracks in the late seventies, Walter Carruthers distinguished himself through his devotion to work. He had volunteered as needed, worked well with others, obeyed orders, meticulously followed rules and procedures and made every effort to get the job done. A consummate career soldier, he rose through the ranks; his attention to detail was second to none, earning him honors and medals and eventually the two "Bath Stars below the St Edward's Crown"— his Colonel insignia. Once assigned to the 256th, City of London Field Hospital in the 2003, he ensured order was upheld by all under his command. He remained a formidable force who championed the medical-service needs of all Army personnel and their families, including aftercare for those injured on operations as well as funerals and repatriations.
"Huh? Didn't know about the mild OC," John replied, hungrily scooping up the pile of hash on his plate, grateful it was palatable, "but it explains a lot."
"Holding oneself to the highest standards…" Mac listed on her fingers. "Courage, discipline, respect for others, integrity, loyalty, and selfless commitment in service is one thing." She pushed back in her chair and smiled at John. "Kinda describes you, Watson. That's impressive since you don't have OC, but my dad...well, can you imagine having someone like Colonel Walter Carruthers—the apotheosis of the military-career man—as your father?"
"No." John shook his head, recalling the difficulties at home with his own parents and his father's lack of commitment to his marriage and children. "Can't say I had that problem… "
She sighed. "It's not always easy to live up to his standards of excellence. Growing up, I hadn't realized how extraordinary he was. Since I signed on, I have not met many officers who identify with and support the military's objectives as completely as he does. He lives and breathes it. Now I realize that's what sets him apart. And he built his reputation on being perfect in everything!" Mac smiled with warmth in her eyes. "That included being the perfect dad. With mum gone since I was eight, he had to do double duty. Yeah, that was real tough, but he was amazing. Definitely up to the challenge. Although sometimes he was too perfect and I'd have to tell him to step back and give me room to breathe. Still I love him and wouldn't want him to change."
"Must have been hard, then, living with an obsessive compulsive perfectionist?"
"Yes and no. He's critical but with a forgiving side. Anyway, as an army brat, I'd seen all kinds of parents who may not have been classified OC but acted far worse. Talk about irrational!" She grinned before attacking a slice of potato. "Okay, sometimes it was a bit rough, but I knew he'd do anything for me. I realize now, he was compensating for our loss."
Although never good at expressing personal sentiment, John had admired her resolve to love a man who seemed quite difficult.
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more to come...