Devonshire Squires Chapter Twenty One
By the time Mary finished updating him over dinner about her conversation with Lestrade at the Builders' Arms, John was pacing. And fuming. She seemed to think that getting the police to track down every emergency admission with a suspected broken neck last Friday night was going to tell them a lot.
He doubted that.
She'd told him the story about Sherlock being hurt in the fight, and then sneaking out of Lestrade's flat wearing nothing but a sheet.
He said that was nothing new, he'd once worn one to Buckingham Palace.
She told him that despite the best efforts of Mycroft's surveillance teams, not a trace had been found of the consulting detective for the past five days.
He repeated the fact that disappearing acts were a speciality of his.
And then, when she was finished, he had the first proper argument he'd ever had with her.
"Why are you getting involved?!" There was a little more volume in the voice than he would have wanted, but he was angry.
She smiled back at him. "Because I know you want to; it's a case, John."
"I don't care about the bloody case! Lestrade's just involved me because he can't get a hold of Sherlock."
"And that doesn't worry you?"
"I'm done worrying about Sherlock. If he can't be bothered to respond to my calls or texts- or Lestrade's- then he clearly doesn't care what I or anyone thinks. After all, he's got two years' experience of doing what he damn well pleases. And you need to stop meddling."
She put her hands on his shoulders and given him that look- the one that said I-know-what's-going-on-here. "Meddling is not the right word. Try 'reconciliation'. This is important. Why are you being so hard on him?"
"ME?! Being hard on him?!" All of the frustration of the past month since Sherlock's return came boiling out of him. In fact, so much so, that rather than keep shouting, he stepped away from her arms and turned his back on her.
Mary didn't reply. If she had, John would have lost it utterly. When he finally had his temper back under control, he turned around to look at her. She was just standing there, calmly, waiting for him.
Finally, she spoke. "Right. Now that you've got that out of your system for a moment, let's talk."
He tilted his head to the left, lifted his chin, and prepared to resume the argument.
Before he could open his mouth, she came up to him and drew him into her arms. It was unexpected, and for a moment he froze. But, a hug from Mary was special. For one thing, she and he fit together perfectly. He never felt conscious of his height. Secondly, she was always so warm, and the delicate scent of her perfume just felt right. Subconsciously, the tightness in his shoulders relaxed just a tiny bit.
"Feel that, John? It's called love. You and I know what it is. It's comfort when we are upset; it's consolation when we are hurt. You're upset and right now I want to make that better. But, the cause of your anger and frustration is out there on the streets. He's alone, unwell, and in trouble. He thinks he is totally unloved. You may think he has no one to blame for that but himself. But, I know you. You care. So do I. So does Greg. But Sherlock doesn't know that."
He held her for a moment, feeling the warmth. Then he shook his head. "You don't know him. He thinks all this is just sentiment. Emotion… he once said to me that it was the 'grit in the machine'. "
Her quiet laugh surprised him. "Yeah- Only I'm hearing something in that confession you're not. Emotion that he feels is grit, and it slows him up. That doesn't mean he isn't feeling it."
John sighed. "I used to think that, but I was wrong. By definition, he lacks empathy. Well, I learned that to my cost when he decided to disappear. "
She pushed herself far enough away from him so she could see his face, but held on to his arms. "Empathy is about understanding other people's emotions. It doesn't mean he doesn't have his own. Try to see things from his perspective. He probably thought that he was for once putting someone else's needs above his own. So, to save three people's lives, he fakes his death, and stays away until he thinks he'd eliminated the threat to them."
Mary's brow furrowed. "I didn't tell you this earlier, but I will now. Lestrade thinks Sherlock is using drugs again. That newspaper – the one that came out just before he jumped- said he was a junkie, but I thought it was a load of lies like the rest. Lestrade says it was true. Do you think he would relapse now?"
John just closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes. No." He opened his eyes again and said crossly "I don't know, do I? He's an addict. He might be. But I've always had trouble understanding why anyone, least of all a genius, would use drugs."
"Says the man who heads for a scotch every time he gets angry."
He stiffened. But Mary continued. "I'm not saying that you abuse it."
He tried to keep the defensiveness down to a minimum. "I have a rotten temper. A minimal amount of alcohol is a small price to pay for me keeping it in check. And I don't lose control; I have a sister who does enough of that for the both of us."
She smiled at him. "I know that. But maybe that's what Sherlock thinks about drugs. It's common enough; people on the Spectrum are prone to self-medicating."
"Why would he need to?"
"John…we don't know anything about what happened while he was away. Lestade says he's come home dragging some pretty heavy baggage. And then he's found the one person he really cares about is no longer living in Baker Street, is happy in another relationship, and about to make it permanent. I'm surprised he doesn't hate me. But, he doesn't. Because he loves you."
John sighed.
"No, I don't mean it that way." She shook him playfully.
He sighed again. "If he really felt anything like that, then he would've wanted to work with me again. You weren't there at Font Street. He was…clear…that he didn't want me there."
"Punching him is kind of a potent way of rejecting someone, John. In the face of that, are you really surprised he is avoiding you? What's the easiest way to avoid pain? Deny its existence. Reject someone first, before they can reject you again. Running away means he doesn't have to face the fact that the pain is still there. And when all else fails, medicate it away. According to Lestrade, Sherlock's a past master at it."
"Yeah, well, that's his own decision. Let sleeping dogs lie is my motto these days."
"John…" Her mobile went off, interrupting her. Mary broke off their hug and picked up the phone from the coffee table. "It's Lestrade." She swiped twice and held the phone up towards John.
"Hello, Greg. I've got you on speaker phone. Have you found something?"
Her eager tone reminded him of someone else. John rolled his eyes.
"Yes. You were right. We've tracked down a couple of 999 calls from last Friday night that fit your description. One was a drunken assault at a Camden boozer, but the second one was to a construction site on Fenchurch Street. According to the Bishopsgate police report, it was a fight club venue and the guy got sent to St Thomas's A&E."
John butted in. "Do we have a name?"
"According to their records the patient was named Stuart Bradshaw. He had a surgical procedure… something called a verte…a verbo…" Lestrade stumbled over the word.
John completed it for him, "a vertobroplasty?"
"Yeah, one of those, whatever the hell that is, and he was discharged on Monday. I've got a home address that's near Peckham. Planning to interview him tomorrow at 9. Want to come?"
John snorted. "Yeah, like I can just drop out of work to do that. I'm not a locum anymore, Greg. It's a nine to five, remember?"
"Well, maybe you'll change your mind when you listen to this. I've got a bit of the recording from the control room. I'm sending it in an MP3 file to you now. Text me if you want in tomorrow morning after you've heard it."
It came through four minutes later. By then, Mary had made them a cup of tea and they were seated again on the sofa. Again on speaker phone, they listened as the first voice came on- the 999 control room operator, who then connected the unknown caller to the ambulance service. The man making the call seemed calm, even though he was reporting what he said was a "suspected broken neck" in a conscious patient who was "experiencing paralysis in his arms." Unusually, the caller said he wasn't near the victim, and they listened as the recording caught his movement through a crowd, with the caller demanding "Let me through." Then in the background over what sounded like a tannoy, someone announced "I regret to say this is the end of this evening's event. Your bets have been recorded and your wagers will be honoured."
Then a lot of voices, some arguing. Then in the background, John heard another voice, one he instantly recognised.
"That's Sherlock, isn't it?" When he nodded, Mary leaned forward, trying to hear, but the words weren't distinct, especially when they were drowned out by another louder voice complaining "This just sucks; he's got to be moved. We can't risk it, or the Cunninghams are going to be compromised. We need this venue for a couple of weeks."
Someone with an east end accent growled back. "I don' give a monkey's uncle about yer precious venue. The fighter's what counts."
Another voice spoke up. "Calm down, coach; e's not dead yet. I say, we all just beat it. You heard the guy. Ambulance is on the way. None of us can be here when they arrive, 'cos the filth won't be far behind. The venue's done for anyways. We jus buy a new ring and set up elsewheres next week."
A different voice came in; "Hey, Crusher, You'll be okay. Just remember the code. No names, no blame. Just keep your mouth shut and you'll be looked after." Then the sounds of footsteps moving away.
The same guy who had called the ambulance commented, "They're bastards, but don't worry. I'll get you sorted out."
This time, Sherlock's reply was clear- a simple "Thank you."
"Do you need to see a doctor?" The concern in the caller's voice was clear.
"No. I'm fine. Did the ambulance service say they'd put a professional on the line?"
"Oh, God! I forgot! Are you still there?"
A new voice answered, "Yes. Are you with the patient now? Is he conscious?" This one sounded louder, clearer. Mary whispered, "The control room doctor?"
John nodded, as the caller explained "Yeah, he's immobile and being kept warm."
The control room medic's voice calmly announced, "The ambulance is about two minutes away."
Then the caller spoke again, but as if he'd taken the phone away from his mouth. "Why don't you leave now? No need for you to hang about. There'll be too many questions."
Sherlock's question was rather abrupt. "So, why are you staying?"
The reply was sad. "Because I was Alex Robbs' best friend. Because I'd been injured, I wasn't there for him. I'll see this through- you should go now."
Mary sat bolt upright. "Oh, that must mean…what was it that George Hayter said? The name of the guy who had the skull fracture, who keeled over in front of him on the pavement in Devonshire Square?" She paused for a moment, then answered her own question: "Simon Waterman."
Meanwhile, there was rustling on the recording, then from more of a distance Sherlock asked, "You okay with that?"
A bass voice replied, "Piss off. I'll see you at the re-match."
John heard a siren approaching. There were another couple of rustles, then footsteps retreating.
"That's Sherlock."
Mary looked at him. "You can tell the sound of his walking?" She sounded a little incredulous.
He nodded. And knew from the cadence of the walk that Sherlock was hurting. He flinched at the baritone grunt that followed the sound of someone jumping down off what he imagined was the ring.
"Oh. So, that's him leaving."
He barely listened as the man they now knew to be Simon Waterman be talked to by the Control Room medic and then the ambulance arriving.
At the end, Mary turned the phone off and turned to him. "Sherlock's next stop was Lestrade's garage, returning his motorbike. And you know what happened after that. Do you still want to let sleeping dogs lie?"
John kept hearing Waterman's comment, Do you need to see a doctor? He knew the answer to that question was not what Sherlock had said. The voice on the recording was the sound of a man who was not fine, but rather one in pain. It was also the voice of a man concerned enough about the danger to his opponent's spine that he had obviously stopped the fight and asked someone to call an ambulance. Some sociopath. John found himself wishing that George Hayter had not taken retirement. That someone with a medical background could have been there to make both fighters go in the ambulance.
"John?" He realised that Mary was looking at him for an answer to her question.
"No, Damn it. I'm going to Peckham tonight. I can't wait until tomorrow to find out from this Stuart Bradshaw just how much damage he inflicted on Sherlock. Do me a favour and text Lestrade- get the address and text it to me. Don't tell him I'm going tonight."
"I'm coming with you."
"No, you're not. This is something I need to do by myself. If he has any idea of where Sherlock is, then I'm going to try to find him."
Even though she wanted to come with him, he watched her make the decision to accept his judgment.
"Be careful, love."
John gave her what he hoped would be a reassuring smile, and started to put his coat on.