5. Crutch
John walked into his bedroom at 221B and closed the door. He saw where the policemen had disturbed the furniture, and so he took a moment to walk around the room straightening everything before sitting down on the edge of the bed that Mrs Hudson had made up for him. The bed springs creaked.
John looked toward the door. No crutch. No more pain. He reached his hand up and touched his wounded shoulder. It was a bit stiff. They had told him to exercise it, and he had, although they probably hadn't expected him to do it by jumping from one rooftop to the next as he sped through the streets of London after a murderer.
John chuckled. What had he got himself into? How could he have guessed that moving into a new flat would have meant meeting arch-enemies in abandoned factories, or alternating between eating at fine restaurants and shooting down murder suspects. It was true what he told Sherlock downstairs. This was certainly not boring.
And what was it going to be like living with Sherlock Holmes? He was infuriating. Calling him across town to borrow his phone, not to mention having him text a murderer. He didn't want a murderer calling him! Of course that wasn't a problem anymore. The man was dead.
John hadn't killed a man since Afghanistan. But then again, everything had turned out alright, and it hadn't been a mistake to bring the gun. Actually, John couldn't help but be pleased with himself. That was a phenomenal shot. A shot worthy of Brickson or Moran. He may be a doctor, but he was no slouch when it came to his military skills. He was too proud to be.
John took off his shoes and undid his belt before laying back on top of his sheets to stare at the ceiling. The room was not that much bigger than the room in the temporary housing was. It was almost as empty as well, but it felt so much different. Even the air tasted fresher, like the air before a storm. When he listened, he could hear the walls creak. This was an old house full of mystery. But there was no mystery here greater than the one that walked downstairs, Sherlock Holmes. Who was he? How did someone like him even exist? 'Why didn't I know that such people existed?'
The man was a superhero, like Spiderman. How could he just solve crimes the way he did and live incognito? In comic books, they were always written up in the newspapers. John would have to look at the paper tomorrow to see what it said about the killer. They'd have to mention him, wouldn't they?
The more that he thought of it, the more certain he was that Sherlock wouldn't be mentioned. Not only was he the last victim, sort of, but he wasn't an official investigator, and the official investigators would be so irritated by his manner and his going off with the killer alone that they would be more likely to talk about how he hindered the case rather than telling how he virtually solved it single-handed.
'Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.' That's what Donovan had said. Why? He thought that he had an inkling now. Sherlock Holmes was a genius, but he was flighty and unpredictable. He would have taken that pill. Taken that poison pill and died just to see if he was right. Just for the thrill of being that close to death.
John had met thrill seekers before. Saw a lot of them in his job. Throwing themselves in front of a missile to see if they could dodge it. He had a name for them... idiots. Sherlock Holmes was a genius and an idiot. How had he even survived to be the age that he was?
John smiled.
That man is sure to get himself killed. If not by the criminals that he chases, then by one of the policemen who will kill him just to get him to shut his mouth. John chuckled again bouncing a bit on his bed so that the springs creaked.
'Somebody had better watch his back. I suppose, it'd give me something to do, but My God! It's not going to be easy. He seems to have a talent for finding danger even in this playpen of a world.'
Just then the sound of violin music drifted up from below. 'Oh, right. He warned me about the violin.' John listened.
At first the music sounded familiar, but then it changed so he wasn't sure if Sherlock was playing actual pieces or if he was making it up, but whatever, his playing was beautiful. John had never been one for music, much less classical music, but even he could tell that Sherlock Holmes was an excellent violin player.
'How could anyone possibly be this talented?' he wondered.
As the notes wrapped around him, John's heart filled with resolve. 'Sherlock Holmes is amazing, truly amazing. The world is better because there are people like him in it. Are there any other people like him in the world?'
The music swept over him becoming more and more passionate. It reminded him of jumping from rooftop to rooftop. His eyelids started to close and he felt a single tear on his cheek. He opened his eyes again in wonder reaching up to touch it.
'I never thought the sound of a violin could make me cry,' he thought.
Indeed, Sherlock Holmes is amazing. I've got to keep this man alive. That will be a chore, maybe an impossible one. Protect Sherlock Holmes from others and especially from himself. Yes, that's a resolution then. I promise.
Sherlock Holmes certainly needs saving, but if anyone can do it, I can. I'm a doctor and a soldier. Saving lives is what I do. Sometimes I save a life with a needle, and sometimes I save it with a gun.
