John and I headed down Baker Street at a brisk pace, at least as brisk as we could with John's limp. The air was nippy, but at least there was no wind. Part of me couldn't help but hope for some rain, or even snow. I delighted in overcast weather; there was something just too... harsh about the direct sunlight.
"Looks like this is is." I gestured to the door we were approaching. It read 221B above it. It was made of dark oaken wood and had a brass knocker on it, ornate yet simple at the same time in design.
Just as John reached up to knock, a cab pulled up and out stepped Sherlock Holmes. He was in the same long dark coat and navy blue scarf he wore yesterday. I couldn't help but admire his striking eyes again.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John greeted.
"Sherlock, please." Sherlock insisted as he shook my brother's outstretched hand.
I extended my own and he took it, his grip firm and warm even through my gloves. His smile was brief and carried an air of necessity, as if his face was just used to mimicking emotion rather than actually expressing it. It was easy to recognize something I regularly did.
"Maddie," he said with a nod. "Of course, you don't like being called that. I could call you by your real name, if you prefer."
I blinked. How could he possibly know that? John looked just as bewildered. Finally, I found my voice and said, "I want to ask how you knew that, but I don't think you'd answer me."
"What gives you that idea?" Sherlock frowned.
"Well, you haven't told us how you knew all those things about John or myself from back at that lab," I pointed out. "You're kind of... sitting on it, right? Waiting for a grand reveal, or maybe you just like watching people squirm as they try to figure it out."
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, regarding me with a furrowed brow. "You seem to think I'm quite arrogant."
"You are, aren't you?" I raised my brows.
Sherlock shrugged. "I like to think it's confidence. In any case, your face is what gives away the fact that you don't like the name. That is, unless John is using it." He glanced toward my brother. "That's what indicates it's a nickname, not your real one. Maddie is typically short for something anyway, which only solidifies my suspicions. Your brows pinch a bit and you look at the ground. So, what would you prefer to be called? Madison? Madeleine? Madge? I can go down the list."
"You won't find it, the rate you're going," John said.
Sherlock looked between the two of us, clearly skeptical. "What do you mean by that?"
"Mad Max," I replied.
Sherlock looked up at the sky and bent his knees a little, hands balling up into fists. A gesture of pure irritation. "Maxine, of course. It's always something." He recovered and met my eyes again. "So Maxine, then?"
"Max is fine," I told him, which earned me a small glance of surprise from John. "Shall we?" I gestured toward the door.
John went to it, apparently letting the fact that I was allowing Sherlock to call me Max slide. I didn't let anyone call me Max—not that John knew about. Miyako was the first who ever did. In all honesty, I wasn't even certain why I had so quickly corrected Sherlock.
"This is in a prime spot," John pointed out as he reached up and hit the knocker against the door. "It must be expensive."
"The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, owes me a favor," Sherlock explained. "She's letting us rent it out on a discount. I helped her with a case involving her husband in which he was to be sentenced to death in Florida."
"So you stopped her husband from being executed?" John guessed.
"Oh no, I ensured it." Sherlock smiled.
Before either of us could ask the strange man what he meant, the door opened.
A sweet woman that must have been at least in her late fifties stood in the doorway. Her hair was short and curly, the color of caramel. Her eyes were bright despite her age and light brown. She wore a lovely blouse and pants and her feet were in tasteful white slip-on flats.
The moment she spotted Sherlock, she beamed and came out to hug him.
"Sherlock," she greeted cheerfully. "So good to see you again."
"Mrs. Hudson, John Watson," Sherlock introduced, "and his sister, Maxine Watson."
"Hello!" Mrs. Hudson said, smiling widely. "Come in, please."
"Hello, thank you," John replied. He used his cane to lurch up the step into the building.
I followed shortly after, worrying the fabric of my scarf with my fingers as I went.
The flat we were to look at was upstairs. Sherlock led the way, swiftly ascending the narrow staircase with his long legs. The railing was freshly polished and I could still smell cleaner hanging in the air. Mrs. Hudson must have freshened it up. The stairwell itself was rather dark; the wood was a deep oak and the accenting metals were a low-saturated copper. The only light that hung from the ceiling was dim, but not exactly from lack of trying. Despite the shadowy lighting, I didn't find it to be unsettling or unpleasant. In fact, I thought it was quite cozy.
Sherlock and I reached the top of the stairs well before John. I wondered if I should go back down and help him, but I had a feeling my brother would be livid if I attempted it. That was one thing we had in common: the main one out of the seven deadly sins that haunted us was pride.
"Psychosomatic?" I murmured to Sherlock.
He glanced at me. Even in the dim setting, his eyes were still brilliant. "Oh just wait," he replied, voice equally soft. "I'll prove it."
I supposed that Sherlock proving my brother's leg was fine would be beneficial. For one, it would allow us to actually take this flat. If our new companion was wrong, then there was no way John was going to be trudging up and down these stairs every day.
John lurched up to us and Sherlock gave him a broad smile before turning and opening the door. The three of us headed inside and I found myself pleasantly surprised.
There was a strange amount of clutter scattered about, but overall, the flat was quite spacious. There was a large kitchen with a table in the middle of it like an island, as well as both an oven and dishwasher. The living room was massive. There were was a sofa within as well as two chairs, a coffee table, and a dining table. A hall wrapped around the kitchen to where the bedrooms or bathrooms were, no doubt.
"Oh, this could be nice," John sighed wistfully as he stared around. "Very nice indeed."
"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "I think so as well."
In that moment, my brother and Sherlock spoke in the same moment. While John pointed out, "We should probably get this rubbish cleaned out." Sherlock said, "That's why I've already moved in."
The two of them stared at one another for a moment.
"Awkward." I said, darting my eyes between the two of them.
Sherlock turned away from John and strode deeper into the living room. I then noticed the fireplace and smiled a bit. I could already picture chilly winter days with the fire roaring and a cup of cocoa in my hands. This place really was amazing, clutter or no.
"So this is all...?" John began to ask.
"Well, obviously, I can uh... tidy up a bit," Sherlock said as he shuffled some papers together and picked up a small knife. He stabbed it into the mantle above the fireplace.
At first, I was planning on noting his lack of care for Mrs. Hudson's property, but that was when I noticed the skull.
"There's a skull." Seems my brother noticed too. As he pointed it out, he gestured to the thing with his cane.
"Friend of mine," Sherlock explained casually. "Well, when I say 'friend...'"
"This just gets better and better," I murmured softly. Judging by Sherlock's sharp look, he was under the impression I was being sarcastic.
"So what do you think?" Mrs. Hudson asked. She'd followed us upstairs and was striding into the living room. "There's two more bedrooms upstairs if you'll be needing them."
"Well of course we will," John replied.
"Oh, don't worry dear, there's all sorts 'round here," Mrs. Hudson assured. "The neighbor lady's got married ones."
I didn't quite get what she meant at first. I then glanced from John to Sherlock and it clicked for me.
"I suppose you would make a cute couple," I noted, completely serious. "He's tall, you're short, the contrast is actually very appealing from an artist's perspective."
"Oh shut it," John snapped.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I suppose I just assumed. With how Sherlock introduced John first, I thought..." Mrs. Hudson chuckled before she looked between Sherlock and me. "The room downstairs is the one you two would like; it's the largest."
I shook my head. "We're not together either," I said.
Mrs. Hudson gave me a sly smile. "I know Sherlock isn't exactly someone you would brag about being with, but come now, I see how you look at him!"
John set me in a sharp glare. "What?"
"Most people misinterpret that," I said with a shrug.
"What's that supposed to mean?" John pressed.
"She examines my features because she wants to draw them," Sherlock stated, as if it were a fact that should be plainly obvious.
I blinked and frowned at him. "That's... spot on, actually." I wasn't used to people guessing that right off the bat.
"Oh, an artist, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a smile. "Well, maybe you can help Sherlock with his decorating. Honestly, Sherlock, the mess you've made." She sighed at the kitchen.
"It's not that bad—and why exactly am I not someone to brag about being with?" Sherlock went over to the desk near a window and opened a laptop.
Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to hear him. The sound of clattering dishes came from the kitchen as she began to tidy up.
"We looked you up on the internet last night," John said as he sat down in one of the chairs.
Sherlock turned, placing his hands in his pockets as he waited for the laptop to boot up. "Oh? Anything interesting?"
"Found you website," John said. "'The Science of Deduction.'"
I began to look about the flat, secretly planning on sneaking upstairs to claim the larger of the two bedrooms. I could only assume Sherlock already took the one down here, seeing as his things were all over the place. There was even lab equipment all over the kitchen table.
"What did you think?" Sherlock queried, smiling a touch.
With just one glance at him, I could tell by his expression he was quite proud of it. However, it became confused and slightly affronted the moment John gave him a face that practically screamed: "Come on, man, really?"
"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" John presented the information as a question more than a statement.
"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly. "I can read your military career in your face and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." His green eyes fixated on me. "Just like I can read your sister's love for art and the fact that she's ambidextrous by her hands."
I frowned and lifted my hands to examine them. Despite me thoroughly washing them last night, there were graphite smudges on both near the heels of my palms and sides of my middle fingers. I forgot I'd been sketching that morning. With how much the markings matched, it was clear I could use both hands equally.
"How?" John said, still clearly skeptical.
Sherlock merely smiled and turned away to look out the window as his laptop finished waking up.
"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson came back into the room, a newspaper in her hands. "I thought that be right up your street. All three exactly the same."
"Suicides?" I echoed. I'd only just landed in London, so naturally, I wasn't up to speed with the latest news.
Sherlock's face suddenly became pensive and he stepped closer to the window, looking down at the street. I couldn't help but walk to his side, curious about what he was fixated with. When I reached him, I saw there was a police car parked outside, the lights flashing but no siren.
"Four," Sherlock murmured. "There's been a fourth, and this time, something's different..."
"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson echoed.
At that moment, footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Sherlock and I turned to see a middle-aged man coming up the steps two at a time. He came to a halt in the doorway, slightly out of breath. Though older than my brother and Sherlock, he looked well for his age. His hair was a steely gray but it was full and thick. His nose was a touch small and button-like. His eyes were a deep chocolate-brown and alert. He wore a white button-up shirt with a dark jacket over it and a black coat over that.
"Where?" Sherlock demanded.
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the man replied.
"What's new about this one?" Sherlock said. "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."
"You know how they never leave notes?" the man asked.
"Yeah," Sherlock responded.
"This one did," the man said. "Will you come?"
"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock queried.
"Anderson," the man answered.
Sherlock pursed his lips and turned his head away, clearly annoyed. When he finally looked back at the man, he said, "Anderson won't work with me."
"Well he won't be your assistant," the man pointed out.
"I need an assistant," Sherlock said.
"Will you come?" the man repeated, his expression strained, but I could tell by the gleam in his eyes he was desperate.
"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind," Sherlock replied, glaring out the window now. He reminded me of a spoiled child not getting his way.
"Thank you," the man sighed. He actually bowed slightly before turning and leaving the room.
"Okay, what?" I said. So he did work with the police, that much was answered, but what exactly just happened? Someone was dead, that was for sure, and that police officer wanted Sherlock to go look at the body. Did Sherlock do this sort of thing often? I stared at him, waiting for a response.
Sherlock didn't reply. He continued to stare out the window while the sound of the man's retreating footsteps echoed up the stairwell. The moment the kachunk of the front door came, a wide smile slowly broke out across Sherlock's face. He turned on the spot and actually jumped into the air with his fists coming up in a ecstatic fashion.
"Brilliant!" he exclaimed. "Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." He grabbed his coat from his chair and began to pull it on.
"I'm your landlady, my dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reminded him.
"Something cold will do," Sherlock replied. "John, Max, have a cup of tea, make yourselves at home."
He went into the kitchen while donning his scarf. I could practically feel the excitement reverberating off of him. His green eyes glistened with delight and his movement were swift and deliberate; desperate to get going.
"Don't wait up!" Sherlock called as he darted out of the room, closing the door behind him. Odd—it wasn't the door back downstairs. Where did it lead?
I couldn't help but take a few steps after him, my heartbeat pulsating in my neck and ears. Was Sherlock's excitement just rubbing off on me, or was I really this intrigued by a real crime scene? Serial suicides... no way something like that would exist—these had to be murders, right? Or maybe a cult? I didn't know enough details to figure it out.
"Look at him, dashing about," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "My husband was just the same... but you're more the sitting down type, I can tell." She smiled at my brother who was still seated in the chair. Then she glanced at me. "But you look like you're ready to go dashing after him. Careful, recklessness can lead to some dangerous stuff, you know."
"Of course," I said with a nod, but my eyes were still where Sherlock vanished.
"I'll make you both a cuppa," Mrs. Hudson said. To my brother, she added, "You rest that leg."
The moment she began to head into the kitchen, John suddenly burst. "Damn my leg!" he shouted, making both Mrs. Hudson and me startle. "Sorry, I'm so sorry." John shook his head and tapped his cane against his leg. "It's just that sometimes this damn thing..."
"I understand, dear, I've got a hip," Mrs. Hudson replied, smiling once again before she went into the kitchen.
"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," John said as he grabbed the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had earlier.
"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson said.
"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em," John added, as if he didn't hear her.
"Not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson sang.
I loosed a long exhale through my nose as I glanced toward the window. Sherlock did say he needed a partner... but what help could I honestly be? He'd be better off with John; at least my brother had medical and combat experience alike. Yet, I still felt a pull. I gentle tug that wanted me to follow after him.
"Stop it," John suddenly snapped.
"What?" I asked innocently.
"I know that look," John said. "You get it right before you're about to do something stupid."
"That's awfully assuming of you," I retorted. "How do you know this would be stupid?"
"Have you ever even seen a dead body before?" John asked me.
"No," I admitted, "but that doesn't mean anything."
"It means a lot of things," John said. "It means that you might not like what you see. It means that your fantasies of adventure and all that other nonsense might just be crushed along with your innocence."
"You do realize how old I am, right?" I raised a lazy brow at my brother.
"You know what I mean!" he barked back.
"You're a doctor."
Both John and I jumped a bit when Sherlock's voice sounded. He was standing in the doorway of the room he'd gone into. Behind him, I could see a dresser and the corner of a bed. It had to be the downstairs bedroom; Sherlock's bedroom. The dark-haired man was pulling on black gloves while keeping his green eyes fixated on John.
"Not just that, you're an army doctor," Sherlock added.
John slowly folded the paper and set it down on the coffee table before getting to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane for support. "Yes," he said before clearing his throat.
"Any good?" Sherlock queried.
John didn't waver. He held Sherlock's gaze and replied, "Very good."
"True," I added for my brother's benefit.
"Seen a lot of injuries then," Sherlock guessed. He began to walk toward John as he finished putting on his second glove. "Violent deaths."
"Well, yes," John answered with only a slight hesitation.
"Bit of trouble too, I bet?" Sherlock was now standing directly in front of my brother.
"Of course, yes," John said. "Enough for a lifetime. Far, far too much."
There was only a brief pause that could only have lasted two heartbeats. Then Sherlock smiled, those pale green eyes of his alight with excitement.
"Want to see some more?" he asked.
"Oh God, yes," John replied in a small murmur.
"Oh sure, you can go," I scoffed at my brother.
"I'm trained for this, you're not," John said.
"Hold on, John." Sherlock turned and walked toward me. "I know that you're an artist, that's easy enough to see... but there's something more, isn't there? I've been trying to put my finger on it."
"Should I be proud or worried about that?" I queried with a tilt of my head.
"You've never seen a dead body," Sherlock stated, ignoring my question; it was impossible to tell whether he obtained the information from overhearing John or if he deduced it himself. He only stopped when his nose was mere inches from me. He towered over my brother, so naturally he was nearly head and shoulders over me. I felt surprisingly small as he stared down at me, his gaze piercing and demanding.
"No," I answered honestly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes a touch. He had long lashes... My hands tingled at the prospect of putting a pencil to paper. He knew I wanted to draw him; would he sit still and let me?
"You're curious by nature, most artistic types are," Sherlock mused softly. "However, that alone can't be why you'd be so eager for... adventure. You're easily bored. That's why you decided to live abroad. I'd say you were gone for nearly two years. But even being so far from home and anything familiar... you grew bored there too."
I stopped focusing on his eyelashes and the itch in my hands. I now locked my gaze with his and my brows lowered while my eyes widened.
"Okay, you have to tell me how you do that," I whispered. At least he hadn't discerned why I'd really left; I didn't think John could take that kind of stress.
Sherlock merely smiled. "I know a thing or two about boredom. Come along, Max. Adventure awaits."
He turned, his coat twirling around him in a grand flourish before heading toward the door. John was aghast.
"You can't just have my sister come along to something like this!" he protested.
"She's an adult, it's her decision, really," Sherlock called over his shoulder. "Are you coming or not?"
I cast a small victorious grin at my brother. "You heard the man."
John let out an irritated grunt before following Sherlock. "Never mind on the tea, Mrs. Hudson!" he called toward the kitchen. "We're heading out!"
"All three of you?" Mrs. Hudson called, following us to the door.
Sherlock turned and beamed at her. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's something finally fun going on!" He gripped her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
"Look at you, all happy," Mrs. Hudson sighed, but she was still smiling. "It's not decent."
"Who cares about decent?" Sherlock asked before marching toward the front door. "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"
Outside, Sherlock hailed a cab. As the black vehicle pulled over, I blinked, realizing that the three of us were going to have to squeeze into the back seat together.
"Should I just get another cab and follow...?" I began.
"Oh, you're small, in the middle with you," Sherlock said as he opened the door and slid all the way to the other side. He patted the seat beside him. "Come on! No time to waste!"
I looked at John. "I mean, we're practically the same size, you should—"
"I didn't want you to come in the first place," John snapped. "Either you take the middle or stay here."
I groaned and got in. Sherlock was a rather slender fellow himself, so with that and my brother being only slightly bigger than me, to be honest it wasn't that tight of a fit.
"You need to move your ass," I told Sherlock in a murmur. "I can't reach the buckle."
"Oh." Sherlock lifted his hip so that I could buckle my seat belt. My hand brushed against his pants slightly.
"For the record, not trying to grope," I pointed out.
Sherlock actually grinned a little in amusement before giving our cabbie an address.
As the cab drove through the streets of London, I sat with my hands folded in my lap, feeling a touch awkward every time a turn pushed me into Sherlock. I didn't care as much as John. In fact at one point I pushed into him more than necessary to shove him against the door.
"Real mature, Maddie," he muttered.
"You're the one who made me take the middle," I reminded him.
Night had fallen, and the lights of the city smeared across the windows of the car. It wasn't as vibrant and brilliant as Tokyo had been, but really, no city was. London was gray and dismal. It wouldn't have been the place I'd gone to after Japan if John hadn't come home from war.
"You have questions," Sherlock suddenly said.
I blinked. Honestly, I was just enjoying the ride and waiting for us to arrive at our destination. But then I looked over to see John had his brow pinched.
"Yes," my brother answered.
"Go on then," Sherlock prompted.
"Where are we going?" John asked.
"Crime scene," Sherlock supplied easily. "Next."
"Who are you, what do you do?" John said.
Sherlock glanced at him. "What do you think?"
"I'd say private detective..." John murmured.
"But?" Sherlock was smirking a bit.
"Police don't go to private detectives," John said.
"Not to mention, when that cop showed up, it was clear that he wasn't your boss," I added. "He asked you to come; he didn't order you. And you yourself said he wouldn't show up unless something was different. Makes it sound like you are only needed if something's too difficult for them."
Sherlock's smirk lengthened to a grin. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world; I invented the job."
"What does that mean?" John queried.
"Means whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me," Sherlock replied.
"The police don't consult amateurs," John said, grinning over at him disbelievingly.
Sherlock only held his gaze for a moment before looking out his window. "When we first met yesterday and I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you seemed surprised."
"Yes, how did you know?" John pressed.
"I didn't know, I saw," Sherlock said.
"Oh, is it grand reveal time?" I said, looking over at the detective expectantly.
He gave me a look that was only slightly annoyed before he started speaking again.
"The haircut and way you hold yourself says military and your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so Army doctor, obvious," Sherlock said. "Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrist. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstance was traumatic, wounded in action then, wounded in action, sun tan... Afghanistan or Iraq."
He'd said the whole thing swiftly, his words precise and calm but at the same time they were... clipped. Like he was some sort of machine just spewing out data. I blinked several times. When he put it that way, it made it seem so obvious.
"You said I had a therapist," John pointed out.
"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Sherlock said. He suddenly turned to look at John. "Then there's you brother."
"Hmm?" John met his gaze. I had to keep a straight face. Ah, Sherlock was smart all right, but there was one thing he hadn't caught.
"Let me see your phone," Sherlock said.
John pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock across me. Sherlock looked it over and held it up for both of us to see.
"Your phone, it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player," Sherlock said. "And you're looking for a flatshare, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then. Scratches all over it, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me—well, near me at least," Sherlock gave me a small glance, "he wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next's a bit's easy, you know it already." He flipped the mobile over, showing off the back.
I elbowed John lightly. "Told you."
John sighed. "The engraving."
Sherlock looked at me now. "Glad to see someone can put some pieces of the puzzle together," he said. "Yes, 'Harry Watson.' Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got extended family, certainly no one your close to, present company excluded."
I waved which earned me a small grunt of amusement from John. Sherlock went on as if he'd never been interrupted.
"So brother it is. Now Clara, who is Clara?" Sherlock smiled a bit, raising his brows. "Three kisses says romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently. This model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months on and he's given it away. If she'd left him, he'd kept it. People do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her."
I felt a bit winded from all the information just pouring out of Sherlock. As he explained everything and put it together, I was just bewildered.
He makes me feel like a moron, I thought. Smart people don't really do that to me. Not people like scientists or tech geeks. They'd studied what they were doing and practiced it like I do with my art. But this guy... he points out things that I could have seen—that I could have noticed—but didn't.
I'd always thought I was an observant person. Sherlock proved I hadn't even tasted the cusp of what observant was.
"He gave the phone to you," Sherlock went on. "That says he wants you to stay in touch. Hard to tell if he didn't give it to Max because he doesn't favor her as much or if she was abroad. You're both looking for cheap accommodation and neither of you are going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe John liked his wife. Maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John demanded, his voice slow and deliberate.
"Shot in the dark, good one though," Sherlock confessed. "Power connection, tiny little scuff marks all around the edges of it." He lifted the mobile to show us. Sure enough, there were marks scarring the exact spot he pointed out around where the charging cable was plugged in. "Every night, he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, see you were right."
"I was right?" John was clearly confused. "Right about what?"
Sherlock tossed his mobile back to him and kept his gaze out the window. "The police don't consult amateurs."
"My turn," I said, prodding him in the arm. "I get how you figured out about the art and ambidextrous, but how did you know about Japan?"
"Ah." Sherlock nodded. "Yesterday, in your pocket I could see a wrapper sticking out. Kitkat, but not only that, sake-flavored Kitkat with Japanese Katakana on the wrapper. Now, it's possible it was a gift or you ordered it online, even possible that you only passed through Japan and grabbed some in the airport. However, your scarf's tag also has Katakana."
He reached over and gripped my yellow scarf and showed the small white tag sewed into the seam.
"Again, a possible pick up from an airport store, the ones in Japan are high end enough for a scarf of this quality," Sherlock said. "Yet, the scarf is starting to fray at some of the seams and the threads are stretched thin in some areas, giving away its age and how many times it's been washed. If we go with the theory that you've been in Japan since you got the scarf, I'd estimate you've been there about two years, possibly three, but you could have just worn the scarf often which would give it a more weathered appearance.
"Now we move on to your mannerisms. When you thank someone, you tend to bow a bit. You're also highly aware of your surroundings and are careful not to bump into anything or anyone. This is consistent with how people in Japan typically act. This along with your scarf says that you spent a long time there. Art is something that is rather big in Japan, so it's no surprise you would attempt to establish your career there."
"You knew I was bored," I murmured, narrowing my eyes.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Another shot in the dark. I didn't put it together until I saw you again today. You tend to space out when people are talking about mundane things. You're polite, but distant; quiet. However, the moment there is a hint of excitement, you're fully engrossed; you talk more and ask questions. Hence the fourth suicide and wanting to come along. Of course, it's clear you care about your brother and want to help him, but he isn't the only reason you came back."
Sherlock glanced over me, his eyes narrowing.
"You claim that you are in as dire straights as your brother when it comes to finances, and yet you don't seem to be as worried about them. You're clothes are higher end, better quality than most, but still modest," Sherlock noted. "My guess is that you want to help your brother but you know he doesn't want to feel like a charity. So, you let him go through this song and dance of getting a flatmate with you so he can feel like he's contributing and you aren't taking care of him."
"Is that true?" John asked me.
I broke eye contact with Sherlock and began to fish for my phone. "I just remembered that I'm expecting a text—"
"Maxine!" John snapped, snatching my mobile away the moment I managed to free it. "You're not broke?"
I tried for the phone half-heartedly. "The text is important, if I could just—"
John shoved the phone back in my hand but did not take it off the device. "Why would you lie to me about that?"
I cleared my throat awkwardly and glanced at Sherlock. "How did you figure that out?" I murmured softly.
"Your mannerisms around him make it quite clear," Sherlock said. "Despite him having a bad leg, you keep your distance and let him get around on his own. To some this might seem cold, but you talk and interact with your brother like you're close. He's the only one that can call you 'Maddie' without you looking like you'd swallowed a lemon. So what does this tell us? You clearly care about him, but he doesn't want you fawning over him, so you respect this and keep back."
"Okay fine," I sighed, knowing I'd have to answer to John later because of this. "But how did any of that tell you I was bored in Japan?"
"Because you know your brother doesn't like people hovering over him, even his closest family, and with how much you respect that, one would think that you'd stay in Japan even when he returned back from deployment. Or at least only come to visit temporarily," Sherlock explained. "But you've come to stay, and you're well off when it comes to finances which says that failure wasn't why you left Japan. You came back not for your brother or for cash, but because you'd grown bored there."
Once again, I was astounded. He'd picked off that information out with practically nothing.
"That's amazing," I breathed.
"It is," John agreed. "It was extraordinary, truly extraordinary."
"Really?" Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised. "That's not what people usually say."
"What do they usually say?" John asked.
"'Piss off!'" Sherlock supplied with a grin.