Chapter 2:
Potato Peeler
Sherlock was usually the stoical type. He viewed physical pain as a nuisance to be ignored, and normally successfully managed exactly that. I had also been surprised in the past by how polite he had been towards hospital staff when he had been admitted. Apparently, doctors, nurses, physios, cleaners and ward clerks were exempt from his usually scathing criticisms when they happened to be caring for him.
The Potato Peeler Incident was the exception to the rule. I had followed the liberal application of alcohol with a large dose of Cocodamol (something the textbooks would caution about, but I knew better). The resulting disinhibition, and the obvious niggling painfulness of the procedure, served to loosen Sherlock's tongue, and he cursed imaginatively and wailed vocally throughout.
I had silenced the initial incendiary reaction to the idea of digging the shotgun pellets out with a potato peeler by pointing out that it was a tool ideally shaped for the purpose; the end being designed to dig out eyes in the potato. This had necessitated Sherlock confessing exactly what he may had done to the kitchen implements that made him nervous of putting them to this use.
I bit back my indignation that I was daily at risk of poisoning in my own kitchen, knowing it to not be strictly true – Sherlock was always careful not to leave anything in too dangerous a state – he was a good and methodical scientist – but apparently he finally understood my own squeamishness regarding eating utensils being put to grim purposes, never mind how thoroughly they were cleaned afterwards.
It was a shame I didn't have any local anaesthetic in the flat. Lignocaine was far more difficult to nick these days, and I had used up my last stash to stitch up his knee after he had attempted to chase down a fleeing fraud suspect in the recent icy weather. Attempting to procure more would leave Sherlock in this undignified and painful position for at least an hour. Better to get it over with the old fashioned way.
I boiled the potato peeler on the hob for five minutes, then for three more with vinegar added. I did have dressing packs and sterile sachets galore (much easier to pinch than drugs), and I set up my little operating table carefully, next to Sherlock in his ridiculous pose.
The first inkling I had that this was not going to be straightforward was when I applied the Chlorhexadine antiseptic solution to the poor battered skin. Sherlock squawked like a schoolgirl and almost fell off the sofa.
"Come on, don't be such a baby!" I chided, knowing that kind words would be nowhere near as effective in calming him.
"Ow! OW! You try it!" he snarled, turning to glare at my furiously.
"Shall we just take you to hospital after all? Or shall I go to Barts A&E and try to nick some Lignocaine? Only, I'll have to leave you…"
"Oh, alright. Get on with it. Your bedside manner today's atrocious."
Grinning, I finished the job of cleaning as well as I was able, and my friend kept the commentary down to the occasional moan.
"Right. I've cleaned everything up. Now I need to do the painful part, I'm afraid."
"Oh, Go—oo-d" groaned Sherlock, drawing the syllable out, and burying his face in the sofa.
He let out a whimper as I dug out the first pellet and dropped it in a bowl, then a load moan at the second, and a cry at the third.
From then on, I had to listen to a litany of obscenities: "Oh, God, John, F***, it's too much, wait a minute, wait a minute, JOHN! Hold on…no you imbecile, don't listen to me, get on with it -don't just stop!" being some of the mildest. An impressive collection of hollow moans and guttural groans interspersed the speech. Anyone would have thought he was dying. The most striking of all was the high-pitched shriek when I mopped up the blood with a sachet of sterile water.
"Watch it! That's wet! Think of the mess you're making on the sofa!"
"No, I'm not. And since when have you ever cared about mess? You're just looking for extra things to grumble about - or squeal like a girl about, more like. Bad idea, when I'm the one with the potato peeler!"
I felt more sorry for him towards the end, as it obviously was very sore, and the repetitive nature of it must have been toe-curling. I definitely heard the odd little telling catch of breath, and saw him surreptitiously swiping at his eyes.
"You'll have some interesting scars. Quite the constellation you've got, really. D'you think I can see the sun shining from here?" The best way to buoy Sherlock was a little gentle abuse. It appealed to his competitive nature to find a witty retort.
"Oh, shut up." Hm. Not his best effort.
Finally, I placed the last pellet (there had been thirty-two of them, all told) in the basin.
"I'm just going rub this cream over your arse now. Sorry, I know that must have been painful, but I bet you feel much better." I helped him scoot into a more natural position and draped a clean dressing towel, then a cotton one, over him to restore his modesty a bit.
"I won't be able to sit down for a week" he moaned, breathlessly.
It was then that I heard it. The tell-tale creak of floorboards outside the door, and the stealthy step descending the stairs. I froze, as did Sherlock, and we looked at each other as the realisation that our landlady must have been eavesdropping on proceedings dawned on both of us. I could see Sherlock playing parts of the soundtrack to our activities back in his head; I was doing exactly the same, after all. As we looked into each other's eyes (Sherlock's still red-rimmed) in comic horror, I noticed Sherlock start to quiver, then he let out a helpless wail of laughter.
I joined him in his hysterics, both whooping and holding onto each other, tears of uncontrollable mirth rolling down our cheeks.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" wheezed Sherlock when he could next speak. "She'll be on the phone to Mrs Turner already, telling her she'd known about us all along!"
I dissolved into another helpless fit of giggles at the thought, then froze again as a new thought struck me.
"Sherlock! What the hell is she going to make of the potato peeler?"
-oOo-
It's lovely to write something light and silly for a change, although this story may well meander into darkness at some point!
Next, what happens when you combine a consulting detective with a mouse trap?
Please do read and review, and make this author very happy indeed!