Up in the lab, I help dad try something out with a pipette and a petri dish. By the green colouring of the liquid, I can see that it's a solution used in the paint of metal. I found it on the victim's garden path, close to where the body was found in the pond. Two areas of gravel are found with traces of green paint, each are a meter apart. A meter apart and painted metal, a ladder, then. Superstitious man, walks round ladder, slips on the gravel and falls to his death in the pond. High levels of alcohol were found in his blood, but his wife said he didn't drink, however, the victim's brother had sent him some whisky which he then drinks. Conclusion, the brother sent someone to his house with a ladder, knowing his brother was superstitious. The ladder was placed in front of the pond so that when Jack walked around it, he would fall in. Case solved.
Someone knocks on the door and Mike enters and brings in a man who limps and leans heavily on a walking stick. He takes a look at all the equipment he passes, and I can see dad looking up briefly before he returns to the petri dish.
"Well, bit different from my day," he mutters, seeming to speak to no one. Mike chuckles.
"You've no idea!"
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," dad lies.
"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike challenges.
"I prefer to text."
"Sorry. It's in my coat." Mikes friend digs into his back pocket and pulls out a six-month old phone. Bit extravagant for someone who's looking for a flatshare.
"Er, here. Use mine." He says, holding the phone out for my dad to take. I stay over in the corner, noting down the results of the experiment.
"Oh. Thank you," dad glances briefly at Mike before striding over to the pair.
"It's an old friend of mine," Mike says, gesturing to the man, "John Watson." Dad takes the phone off of Mr Watson and turns around slightly, flipping open the keypad on his phone and tapping away.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Dad asks coolly, still typing up the conclusion of our case to Downing. Johns face is utter confusion as he frowns. Behind him, Mike smiles, aware of what dad's doing. I scan my eyes over the doctor and see where dad got that question from. His haircut is styled and he holds himself the same way as an army man would. Obviously he was an army doctor, as he stated a moment ago that he trained here, at Bart's. His face is tanned but from what I could see as he held his arm out, there was no tan above the wrists. So he's been abroad with the army. He relies on a walking stick because of a limp, but as he stands now, it's almost as if he's forgotten about it, which means it's psychosomatic. The original injury must have been traumatic. He's been invalided home from active service abroad, so the question is, Afghanistan or Iraq?
"Sorry?" Dr Watson asks, looking completely clueless, or just not wanting to talk about his ordeal.
"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Dad raises his eyes briefly to meet Watsons, but then looks down to the phone once more.
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know ...?" Molly walks in with dad's coffee, stopping him from explaining his question as he looks up.
"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you," He snaps the phone shut and hands it back to Dr Watson as Molly walks other with the coffee. She's removed the lipstick, probably because of what dad said earlier. At least he didn't say anything out of the ordinary. He seems to have noticed for himself as he inspects her closely and takes the mug.
"What happened to the lipstick?" Molly smiles awkwardly.
"It wasn't working for me."
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He criticises, frowning. Dad makes his way back towards me, taking a sip of his coffee, and grimacing.
"Okay," Molly mutters looking upset. Did she really mind that much? What a funny little brain she has. Molly turns and heads out of the room. I wonder if she's gone to put some more lipstick on, as she takes dads word for gospel.
"How do you feel about the violin?" dad asks absent minded as he taps away on his laptop, no doubt updating The Science of Deduction - the website we both share. John seems unaware that dad is talking to him as he watches Molly leave. He glances at Mike before he finally realises he's being spoken to.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, and I've got a daughter," he gestures back at me before looking round at Watson. I wave half-heartedly and he smiles. I take out my phone and start writing an additional thought to dad's last post on our website. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He throws a really awful, false smile over to John who looks at him blankly for a moment before turning to Mike again.
"Oh, you ... you told him about me?"
"Not a word," says Mike, smiling smugly. Dr Watson turns to face us again.
"Then who said anything about flatmates?" Dad picks his coat up from the side and puts it on.
"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asks, but dad ignores him, wrapping his dark blue scarf around his neck and picking up his phone from beside him. Considering he's supposed to have no signal, he checks it anyway. I must say, I have signal, and I'm only standing a few feet from him.
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it," he says, walking towards the door, and I follow close behind in a matching coat and scarf to his. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." dad slips his phone into the inside pocket of his coat and then we walk past John to the door. The doctor turns to look at us, looking as confused as ever.
"Is that it?" Dad turns away from the door and strides back over to Dr Watson.
"Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"
"Problem?" Dad asks looking a bit offended. Watson smiles in disbelief and looks at Mike for help. Mike just smiles and shrugs, leaving the doctor to fend for himself.
"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." Oh god, now he's going to show off, and I'm going to find out I'm completely right.
"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." John looks down at his leg and shuffles his weight awkwardly as dad stands there, smiling smugly. I got most of it right, apart from the brother part, which I couldn't see anyway. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He walks back towards the door, brushing past me. Suddenly, he leans back into the room. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winks at John before looking at Mike. "Afternoon." Dad sweeps from the room, leaving a stunned doctor.
"Sophia Holmes, the less dramatic one." I smile kindly, before swishing my coat around and running out the door at after dad before he leaves me behind at Bart's, again.