- Are you sure you're okay, John?
- Yes, I am, please stop.
- It's just…you seem awfully calm and it's weird. It's freaking me out.
- I'm not calm. It's the quiet before the storm. I told you, I'm in the bubble. It will eventually burst.
- Yes, right. "The bubble".
John frowns at Harry's air quotes and then shifts his look on the mug of cold tea in his hands; his sister narrows her eyes and leans closer across the table.
- Are you getting enough sleep?
- No, not that much, no.
- Do you need something?
John sighs and rubs his face with both hands, pressing his fingertips to his temples.
- Jesus Christ, Harry…I'm a doctor! If I need something I'll get it myself, relax!
- Alright, alright.
She tosses her hands up with a shrug and lets her arms drop on her thighs.
- If you say so.
- I'm pretty sure I am a doctor.
They look at each other - chuckling - and after a couple of minutes of silence, John stands up, stretches his back and runs his hands through his hair.
- Gotta go. Apparently I have a surgery to run.
- You're the boss, why don't you hire someone to cover for you?
- Why would I? I'm perfectly capable of doing my job. You people have to stop with this nonsense; I'm not a crystal vase.
Harry sighs and looks up at him with an apprehensive smile on her face.
- If you need something…you know that, right?
- Yes, I know, now please, pay up and let's go.
Once outside, after a tight hug she cups his face with both hands while her look softens at the sight of John's darks circles around his eyes.
- How's Sherlock treating you?
- Surprisingly well, to be honest. It's been ages since his last sulk. Must be agonizingly painful for him.
John places his hands above his sister's, smiling – "Let me go" –, and with a small kiss on her cheek he turns and walks away.
Sherlock barges in Mycroft's office, finding his brother glaring at him while on the phone; after a few apologies and a smirk of disgust, he hangs up and leans back on his chair.
- Always a pleasure, baby brother. What's bothering you?
The detective stands in the middle of the room, gritting his teeth and breathing through his nose; his body language suggests anger and resentment but his eyes betray concern and pain.
- I lied to him.
- I'm assuming you're talking about John.
- No, I'm talking about Colin Firth. I just ran into him and I told him I'm a huuuuge fan of The Bridget Jones's Diary.
- You've always been quite abominable at sarcasm. Awful timing.
Sherlock starts pacing up and down, rubbing the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand; Mycroft sighs and shifts on his seat, clearly uncomfortable at his brother sudden distress.
- So you know who did it.
The younger Holmes stops, facing the door and taking a deep breath.
- Yes. Or at least I have a strong presentiment.
- You don't do presentiments. Either you're absolutely sure or you're adamantly ignorant about it.
- I'm sure.
Sherlock turns, takes a couple of steps and flops down a chair at the desk.
- Do you need my help?
- No.
- So why are you here?
- I needed to get it out of my chest. This is killing me.
- Are you sure I'm the right…person for…this?
Mycroft waves his hand between the two of them, a look of sorrow on his face that screamed "I'd love to help but I don't know exactly what you need from me".
- I can't talk to Lestrade, for obvious reasons. I can't talk to Molly, she would probably go nuts, yelling at me and threatening to spill the beans. Mrs. Hudson is clearly out of the picture, neither tea nor biscuits would help.
- I'm honored, then.
- Don't be. I'm not looking for advice or help, I'm just…I need to talk or I'll take it out on him using the most ludicrous of reasons as a pretext. The last thing I want is to make his life more miserable that it already is.
They stay like this for a while, silence falling between them, punctuated only by the muffled street noises outside.
- I told him there will be another victim, that much is true.
- Forgive my audacity but, can I at least know what makes you so sure about the killer?
- A smell at the crime scene. It was all over Mary's body.
- And this smell…told you something about him? Her?
- Her.
Sherlock clears his throat and leans forward, his elbows on Mycroft's desk.
- Do you remember Nana's house?
The older man inhales and then sighs.
- Lotus.
- Precisely.
A knot loosens up in Sherlock's stomach and an unusual warm feeling spreads throughout his body: the thought of the two of them somehow sharing memories strangely soothes him.
- I never told this to anybody.
- Except her, apparently.
The detective lets his head drop back for a moment, his long and pale neck stretched out and his Adam's apple bobbing visibly up and down; Mycroft's gaze travels around the room and then settles on his father's watch pocket in his hand. Sherlock rolls his eyes and snorts.
- Yes, I'm going, don't worry.
He springs up from the chair and closes the door behind him.
It's six in the evening when John pokes his head out of the door to his office and smiles.
- Natalie?
- Yes, doctor Watson?
- How many patients left for today?
- A couple, but one just cancelled. So…yeah, just one.
She looks up at him with a beaming smile, clearly harbouring a major crush on his boss. A bit not good.
- Okay, thanks.
John chuckles, patting the door frame before returning to his desk, and ten minutes later his light snoring is interrupted by a knock on his door and a woman's voice behind it.
- Dr. Watson?
John snaps his head up, clearing his throat and cursing under his breath.
- Yes, come in.
The door opens and in a second the doctor's brain starts to connect the dots in front of him on its own free will.
Designer shoes, expensive bag. Tailored trouser suit, bright red lipstick, dark hair pulled back in a rigorous chignon. Aggressive, extremely confident, probably trying to divert the attention from her vaguely childish look. Nose job? Prestigious and well paid occupation. Stock broker? Publicist? Smudges of ink on the side of her left hand. Professor?
With a subtle and quick motion, John shakes his head to snap out of his thoughts.
What the bloody hell happened?
The woman - forty-ish, left-handed, smoker, owns a cat, divorc- oh god, stop! - stares at him a bit confused and alarmed so he stands up, leaning forward and stretching his arm to shake her hand.
- I'm so sorry, it's been a long day. Please, take a seat, miss…
- Hoffman. But please, call me Aida.
John can't explain to himself why the smile that followed sent a shiver through his spine.