Chapter II. The science of deduction
The following day, Sherlock and I met up at the Baker Street station at one in the afternoon. As we went up the stairs out of the Tubestation, I studied my companion more closely. There was something about her appearance that struck the attention of any casual observer. She wasn't attractive in the traditional sense, but wasn't ugly of plain either. She was around five foot six tall and quiet muscularly build for a woman her size. Apart from her piercing green eyes, her chin too, had the prominence and squareness of a woman with confidence. His hands had long, delicate fingers, which were blotted and stained with ink and chemicals.
When we stepped onto the sidewalk - surrounded by the towering buildings on each side of Baker Street - I finally got up the nerves to ask her what had been on my mind the whole night.
"Yesterday, you told me you knew I was in Somalia.."
-"As a doctor in the military, yes.", she said, looking from left to right to cross the street.
"How did you know that? How could you possibly know that?"
"By looking at you, my dear Watson."
-"Miss Holmes…"
"Please, call me Sherlock."
"All right, Sherlock. I would prefer if you wouldn't lie to me and tell me how you knew I was in Somalia."
-"As I said, I observed!"
"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! I…"
-"You don't understand, John. I literally looked at you and came to that conclusion. Observation with me is second nature, deduction is a third. It's simply the science of deduction."
I laughed out loud. "Deduction? Please! You're telling me that you could deduce that I was in Somalia? On what grounds? I didn't tell you anything."
Sherlock sighed, stopped walking and turned to me. "If I explain my train of thoughts to you, you'll feel really stupid. Trust me, I've done it before."
-"Try me.", I said, locking eyes with this small, but confident woman.
"Very well, my train of reasoning ran like this: Here is a gentleman who is very conscious of the way his bones and muscles carry his body. By lack of extreme muscular development in the legs and torso, I can exclude him as an actor or dancer, so likely a medical type who spent time studying the human body. This idea is strengthened by being in the company of Ronald Stamford, who devoted his life to medical chemistry. This gentleman is not an academic, however! By the way he stares into the room, it's clear he hasn't been around a fully equipped laboratory for a long time, so it's someone who actually heals the sick. But not as a regular practitioner. He just came back from a sunny environment where he spent a lot of time outside. His face and hands are dark, but it is clearly not the natural tint of his skin. A holiday is also excluded, for his wrists are of a far lighter tone and who would sunbath in a long sleeved outfit? So you worked as a doctor in a foreign country, probably somewhere in Africa where there is a lack of shade to hide from the sun."
I stood there completely dumbfounded. Sherlock looked at me with a small glint of malice in her eye. The look of secret joy a student gets when dissecting an organism to see how it works.
"A doctor in a foreign country who holds himself erect and has quite the physic.", she continued relentlessly. "The physic isn't intentionally, as there is no hint of pride in his stance. It's the effect of hard training and hard work. So an army doctor, then. An army doctor who has undergone unbelievable hardship, as his haggard face and dark eyelids says clearly. He still has nightmare, probably because has seen too much horrors. Not just death, but horrible infections and gruesome situations. Yet there are no traces of physical injury, so he wasn't directly involved in a lot of combat situations. Yet he still was discharged. Now where in Africa could an English army doctor have seen so much hardship that it would mentally traumatize him to a point where he would be discharged to return to England? Clearly in Somalia, where almost a third of the population now lives in refugee camps due to decades of war, famine and destruction."
Sherlock gave a triumphant smile at the look of my astonished face.
"This whole train of thought ran through my head in a few seconds. I then simply remarked that London was different from Somalia, and you were astonished."
-"That's… amazing!", I said, with a loss for words.
"It is nothing", she said though I thought from her expression that she was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "Do you feel stupid now?"
-"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling.
We arrived at 221B Baker Street. It was a three story building, made out of red brick and across the street you could see a glimpse of Regent's Park. Cast iron fencing hang around the windows, little flowerpots hang from the balconies and behind one of the second floor windows was a sign saying: 'For Rent'. Sherlock knocked on the door and a small, old man with a walking stick opened the door. He was getting bald, dressed neatly in a checkered shirt and had the fiercest frown I had seen in a long time. He reminded me of a old, balding and slightly annoyed lion.
"Hello again, mister Hudson."
The old man looked at my companion with a suspicion glance.
-"It's you again. Miss…"
"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, mister Hudson. I'm back because of the apartment."
The man had a gravelly voice with a slight American accent, which suited his grim expression even better.
-"I told you, I'm not dropping my price. It's a beautiful location and it's not that much considering…"
"That won't be necessary, mister Hudson. You see, if you wouldn't mind, we would both like to see the apartment. To share it, as it were."
Mister Hudson took a good, hard look at me. "And who is this than?" he asked suspiciously.
"John Watson, sir." I said, extending my hand in a gesture of politeness. He didn't shake it.
"Is he your boyfriend?"
-"He's a good acquaintance." Sherlock said. "And a university professor with a very stable income."
"Really?" mister Hudson said squinting his eyes at me. "He looks quite young to be a professor. What does he teach?"
-"Medicine. I teach several classes about medical situations and health care in war zones."
Mister Hudson's stare became cold and his fist clenched. "What does a whippersnapper like yourself know about war?"
-"I was in one, sir. Several, in fact. I was a surgeon in Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." I said, averting my gaze to Sherlock, who didn't look back at me. Her green eyes staring right at mister Hudson.
"Oh…", mister Hudson said after a moment of silence and his tone changed remarkable to that of a man with great sorrow. "I'm so sorry, son. I didn't…" The man shrugged uncomfortably and opened his door. "Come in, you two. I'll show you the apartment."
Dumbstruck by this sudden change of events, I followed Sherlock up the stairs and into the apartment.
They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. There was a big fireplace in one of the walls, and small bathroom with a old fashioned, free standing bathtub. A small office that was furnished with three big leather armchairs next to great, floor to ceiling window. It was perfect for the two of us.
"Now, about the rent, mister Hudson." Sherlock inquired.
-"I'll do it.", mister Hudson mumbled.
"Excuse me?"
-"I said I'll do it. You can move in here, miss Holmes. The two of you can move in here this very instance if you'd like. I'll prepare the paperwork for you and you can collect the keys."
Sherlock nodded understanding. "That's very kind of you, sir. Thank you."
Mister Hudson looked straight past Sherlock and directly at me, with admiration and a tinge of sadness.
-"It's the least I can do." He lifted his shirt and I saw two great burn scars on his chest. The scars were clearly old, but still very visible. "I was your age when I got this. In Vietnam. My squadron was accidentally hit with napalm by an unannounced air strike." He said, looking me straight in the eye. "I was hit in the chest. The napalm burned like hell itself. I couldn't move. Later they told me some of my central nerves were burned and paralyzed. I lay in that jungle for two days, surrounded by dead friends and fellow soldiers, thinking I was going to die a horrible death of starvation and torture. Until one of your kind came along." He tapped to place on his arm where my red cross bandage would have been. "They saw me and realized I wasn't done for. They took me back to camp and restored me back to health and sent me straight home. It took weeks to learn to walk again, but I owe them my life. I owe you, mister Watson."
I swallowed a lump in my throat. "You're a very lucky man, mister Hudson." I said, still looking at the place on his shirt where his scars would be. "Napalm burns are extremely difficult to heal. Even if the victim survives the attack, especially the dermatological consequences of napalm burns are serious. Not to talk about the damage to blood and central nerve system. Even after the surgery there is a great risk of infections."
-"I know, son. They've told me that countless times. What's harder is to accept that being lucky makes the difference between happiness and total misery. So please, do an old man a favor, would you?"
He came close to me and whispered very softly.
"Please, try to find the peace we fought for. I could never find it myself." He raised his back, gave a short salute and left the room to go downstairs, his footsteps accompanied by soft mutterings.
A.N. Hello everyone. I decided to split this chapter from the original story into multiple parts to give it a more interesting flow.
