I got my first call for a case that very evening, while I was eating an early dinner – a peanut butter sandwich. Not really what the doctor had ordered, but it was easy and comforting, and it seemed too much trouble to fix a real dinner just for myself.
I almost let the call roll over to voicemail since the number was unlisted, but I decided to pick up, just in case it was Doctor Watson. Sure enough his voice answered my greeting.
"Trina? John Watson. Would you be able to take a case tonight? I don't know what your workload is like..."
"Actually, it's pretty light right now. I can easily manage something else. What would you like me to do?"
"Sherlock's got a case that looks interesting. A woman came to us, because her father went missing nearly 10 years ago, and more recently, she has been receiving one pearl a year. This year's pearl came with a request for her to meet the mysterious sender. He, or she, claims to have information about her father. We're supposed to go with her to meet this person tonight. Could you hurry over to 221B Baker Street so that I can go over some things with you before we leave?"
"Of course," I said. "I'll be on my way in a moment."
"Oh, and Trina," he said. "Sherlock knows you're going to help out, but I just wanted to remind you not to take anything he says personally."
"I won't," I promised. I threw the rest of my sandwich in the trash; I was too excited about my first case to finish eating. As I drove to Baker Street, I wished I had paid more attention to the gossip surrounding Sherlock Holmes. I knew his name, of course, and I even knew Doctor John Watson's name, though I hadn't imagined that that was the same Doctor Watson I was seeing for an antidepressant – I hadn't even thought about him having a practice, and I guess I'd never seen a picture of him. I had seen a picture of Sherlock, though. And that was almost all I knew about the famous detective. I'd had other things that interested me far more than following another celebrity.
A woman answered the door. "Oh, hello! You must be Trina. I'm Mrs Hudson, the landlady," she said.
"They've been expecting you. Right this way, dear." She led me up a flight of stairs to a flat and knocked on the door. "John!" she called out. "Trina's here."
He opened the door. "You got here quickly," he remarked.
"I was very interested in the case, Doctor Watson," I said, as I stepped into the strangest room I'd ever seen. There was a skull on the mantelpiece, what appeared to bullet holes in the wall, and a litter of papers, weapons, trash, dirty dishes, and goodness know what else all over.
"John, please," he said. "If we're going to work together, you must call me John. Sorry about the mess. We've been rather hard at it, so I've had no time to pick up, and Sherlock won't pick up."
He glared in the direction of the tall, slender man I'd seen in pictures. He was glued to a television news cast and didn't even glance in our direction. "Sherlock, Trina's here," John said.
"Why do we need her again?" he responded, still not looking at us.
"She's taking over the blog," John said with a sigh.
"We don't need the blog, John. I keep telling you that. I have my website, and that's enough. If your blog is too much for you, just drop it."
"We do need the blog," John insisted. "Nobody reads your website. I've read Trina's writing, and she'll do an excellent job."
"She'll just be in the way," snarled Sherlock, finally looking at us with a glare. "I need useful people around me. People like you, John," he added, almost as if he were placating him. But he quickly resumed his belligerent tone, as he directed his gaze at me. "You should have finished your peanut butter sandwich rather than racing over here to follow a case with me. I don't want you."
I took a step back. How on earth...? John put a hand behind my back, and sputtered furiously at Sherlock. "What did I tell you...?" Oh, no. Had they discussed me? What had John said? That I was a poor pathetic wreck who couldn't take Sherlock's vitriol? Though, really, I wasn't sure I could, despite John's warnings. Still, I wanted to stay. I'd been so excited about this job.
"I can be useful," I said with a squeak. "I can run errands for you, fetch meals..."
He interrupted me. "I don't eat while I'm on a case."
"But I do," John replied. "Trina, that would be wonderful, though your writing skills will be enough," and he glared at Sherlock as he said that last part, then turned back to me. "Come with me. I'll show you how to log into the blog someplace where we won't disturb Sherlock." He picked up a laptop and tucked it under one arm, while with the other he steered me by the elbow toward the door, relaxing his hold only long enough to open it, and then holding on to me again to steer up the stairs to a bedroom – apparently his bedroom. It was neat, with just a bed, a dresser, and a chair. He gestured for me to sit in the chair, and then he knelt down beside me and opened up the laptop. He paused and looked at me.
"I'm really sorry about Sherlock," he said. "I did warn you."
"It's fine," I mumbled. His physical proximity was making me a bit disconcerted. He was a touchy person. My husband had been like that early in our relationship, but in more recent years, he had become more distant. I was starving for affection and responded far too easily to touch, even when nothing was meant by it. I realized that I could easily fall for this kind, good-looking doctor. I would have to be careful, to guard my heart.
He interrupted my thoughts. "A peanut butter sandwich? That's not really what I had in mind when I recommended healthy eating. And, really… peanut butter?" He made a face.
I smiled. "I like it," I said. "I developed a taste for it when I studied in America for a year."
He shook his head, looking bewildered by my fondness for peanut butter. "And you didn't finish it," he said, becoming more serious. "Are you hungry?" I realized then that he took it completely for granted that Sherlock was right about the peanut butter sandwich. What else did this detective know about me, just from a glance? And what had John told him?
"I'm too excited to be hungry," I said.
"I'll let it go this time," he said with a slight smile, "but I do want to know that you're eating better. You won't be able to keep up on partially eaten sandwiches."
I nodded, feeling cheerier than I had in quite a while. I'd been isolating myself from others for far too long. The slight attraction I had for John aside, I found our social interaction refreshing.
"Okay, let's get down to business," he said, and showed me how to log in.
Less than 15 minutes later, Sherlock knocked on the door, saying, "It's time to go." When we opened it, he looked at me and unapologetically asked, "May we use your car?" So we did – all three of us going to meet Sherlock's client. John insisted on sitting up front with me, probably, I thought, to protect me as much as he could from Sherlock.
###
The case started out straightforward enough, and I was beginning to think it was going to be boring, but then the mysterious benefactor took us to his brother's home, where we found the brother dead in a locked room. Sherlock leapt into action with John at his side. I took notes furiously and breathed in the excitement. I felt like I was really living for the first time since Samuel died. By the time the police arrived, we were surprised to find it was nearly midnight. Well, John and I were surprised; Sherlock probably had known all along but did not, of course, say anything, though John had promised to get me home as close to 11 as possible. He wanted me to stick to that bedtime! John looked at me apologetically, and then turned to Sherlock. "Well, with the police here, there's nothing more we can do right now, so let's go."
"They'll be out of here within the hour," Sherlock replied. "Let's stay."
"You may not be human, Sherlock," John said. "But Trina and I are. I'll have Trina drop me off at home. You can take a cab when you're ready." And he took hold of my arm, turned around and walked out the door. Outside, he let go of my arm and looked at me with a smile. "I scolded you about your dinner, but I actually forgot to eat at all. Are you hungry?"
"No," I lied. I just wanted to go home and process everything that had been happening.
"Really? You've had hardly anything this evening. You can't go on like that."
"No, really," I said, but my stomach took that opportunity to growl.
He raised one eyebrow. "Okay, let's go," he said, and directed me to a nearby Chinese restaurant that was open all night. When he offered to pay, I objected, but he replied, "I'll take your share out of your pay, alright?" with a grin.
"I know I'm keeping you up late, and I'm sorry," he said over dinner. "But you need to eat, and I was pretty famished myself. I can give you a pill to help you sleep if you like."
"No, I'll be fine," I said.
"Really?" he asked. Of course he didn't believe me after my previous lie.
"I really don't want the pill," I said, and he left it at that.
"Well, then, I'll call you at a reasonable time tomorrow. I know you have trouble sleeping in, but at least don't set an alarm," he said, and then we talked about the case. He was interested in hearing my opinion of Sherlock and the direction the case was taking. I told him that Sherlock was brilliant, and John almost seemed to take as much pride in that as if I had praised him instead of his flatmate, but I also mentioned that I really didn't like him.
"Few people do, at least until they get to know him better," he said. "And even then, many don't. But I think you'll find his brilliance, his dedication and, well, the fact that he is on the right side, that he uses his genius to track down criminals, more than make up for his astonishing lack of social skills."
"I can tell that you're a true friend," I said.
"I am." We both lapsed into silence for a while. After dinner, I dropped him off in front of his flat and then drove home.
###
At 3, I woke to hear someone stumbling around downstairs. My heart stopped for just a second, but I thought that if someone had broken in, I would have heard that first, and after a decade of marriage, I felt reasonably comfortable that the footsteps belonged to my husband.
I picked up the nearest weapon I could find – a high-heel shoe that I rarely wore. In a pinch, I might be able to use it to do some damage with a well-aimed blow. I crept to the top of the stairs and worked up my nerve to call out. "Jake?"
"H'lo," he slurred and came into view. "I'm back. She didn't work out."
I was sickened by his bold declaration, but I said nothing. I merely turned around and returned to our bedroom, depositing the shoe in the closet on my way back to bed. He lay down next to me a minute later, reeking of alcohol. I listened to his breathing grow slow and even, and then into a snore. Oh, no. Not that. I poked him, but he kept snoring. At 5 I gave up, went into the kitchen, and powered up my laptop. I took out my notes and began drafting the first part of the posting that I would eventually put up on the blog, summarizing the case so far. I ate some breakfast and then went for a run. I had just arrived home again at 7:30 and was about to take a shower when my phone rang.
"I took a chance that you were up now," John said. "Can you come join us at the scene of the crime?"
"Let me take a quick shower, and I'll be right there," I said. My heart began racing as I anticipated another exciting day, watching Sherlock at work and, well, being in John's presence. Not good, I told myself. Not good at all. Your husband just came back to you, and you're eager to see another man? But I put on a little makeup for a change before going out.
###
"How did you sleep?" John asked me the moment I arrived. I knew that, despite my makeup, it was evident I'd been awake for much of the night.
"Not well," I confessed.
"I could have told you that," said Sherlock to John. "She's wearing makeup today, too. You weren't yesterday," he said, looking at me with an accusing expression.
I swore mentally.
John ignored him. "Look, I could put you on a different antidepressant. The insomnia could be a side effect."
"It wasn't that," Sherlock and I said simultaneously. I gaped at him in amazement.
"Her husband came back last night, and then she couldn't sleep," Sherlock said triumphantly. I looked for a chair so that I could sit down, but there was none handy.
"If you'd observe…," Sherlock began by way of explanation.
"ENOUGH!" snapped John, and then he turned to me. "Did he really come home last night?"
I was surprised that he was actually questioning Sherlock's take on the situation. "Of course, Sherlock's right," I murmured, and Sherlock shot a look of triumph in our direction, though he didn't try anymore to explain how he knew this.
"And this is a good thing, right?" John asked.
"I don't know," I replied. I was grateful when Sherlock insisted we get down to business. If Sherlock could deduce so much about me from who knows what subtle clues, what else did he know about me? Or had I been clueless to the fact that many of my secrets – my misery, my horrid marriage – were plainly written on my face? I welcomed the distraction of work as John filled me in on the latest developments. Sherlock had borrowed a bloodhound from someone and was keen to track down the killer. The mysterious benefactor was in prison, having been wrongly accused of the crime, and Sherlock was eager to expose the right man, not, I suspected, so much to free an innocent man as to prove that he was right and the police were wrong.
###
Sherlock had the case wrapped up by twilight that evening. I was stunned and exhausted, and incredibly happy. This was what I should have been doing all along – a reporter, so to speak, embedded with a pair of investigators. I was eager to get back to finish the blog entry and post it, so once I had everything I needed, I left John and Sherlock and returned home to write. My husband was there.
"Where have you been?" he asked me.
"Researching a writing project." My response was sharp, and I hated myself for it. I was not doing our marriage any favors.
"You don't normally go out all day to do something like that," he mused.
"I've got a new client," I said. "A detective." For some reason, I didn't want to give Jake his name. "I'm following his cases and blogging about them. It gives him a little PR."
"That's interesting," he said, but his tone was bland, and he wandered to another part of the house. Normally I'd have been hurt, but I was too interested in my work to care.