The Yellow Moon: Part One – The Suspicion
John had been living with Sherlock for three weeks now, and he had not for a moment been bored.
Half the time, Sherlock was busy solving cases all across the universe (and, occasionally, here on Earth). In between, he ran experiments, testing all sorts of hypotheses: the rate of blood congealment on the skin of silicone-based species; the effects of chamomile tea in response to certain venom-caused ailments (John had been an unwilling "test subject" in what he suspected was a poorly covered-up accident); the rate of plant growth in various planetary atmospheres; he had even resorted, on several occasions, to bringing back live specimens from distant galaxies and testing them in the kitchen. John could remember one unfortunate instance after which he'd spent nearly half an hour trying to scrub a layer of slug-like slime off the counter by the fridge.
In his TARDIS, he had rooms upon rooms stacked with files documenting the results of each and every test he'd ever performed. They weren't organized in any fashion, though from what John had seen, Sherlock knew exactly where each and every file lay. He frequently consulted them when he needed to review the information they contained.
John had witnessed, over the past few weeks, several unusual habits of Sherlock's. The man resorted to playing the violin at all hours when he needed to think, refusing to eat while solving a difficult case, completely bypassing any possibility of sleeping, and—most annoyingly—talking to John without realizing the man was away. The Time Lord often referred to conversations he claimed John had taken part in, but that John could not recall. He never noticed when John was away, and so resumed making comments even when there was no one to hear them.
This first became evident when John arrived home one afternoon to find one of his favorite shirts laid out across the table covered in a grid-like pattern of various stains, each of which were labeled things like "Slitheen saliva," "Carbon-based blood pH 2.5," and "Control: H2O." When John shouted at Sherlock, making it evident that it had been one of his best shirts, Sherlock hard retorted that John said he could use it that morning.
"I was out this morning!" he'd retorted, more furious than ever.
Sherlock didn't seem to care and hardly noticed the angry flush in John's face. "Hardly my fault you weren't listening." After that, John took to locking his bedroom door before he left.
Occasionally, Sherlock would leave without telling his flatmate a word about where he was going. John almost panicked the first time he came home and found the impossible door—the one that led to the TARDIS—missing from the wall. That time, at least, Sherlock had had the consideration to leave a note on the counter by the kettle (where he knew John would see it) stating that he'd left on a case and would be back shortly. Most of the time, however, Sherlock brought John along for cases, even waking him up in the middle of the night in certain circumstances. John couldn't yet fathom the reason for his accompaniment other than that it seemed to benefit the detective in his methods. Sherlock hadn't yet told him exactly how, but John could tell; every once in a while the Time Lord would give him a look, a sort of wondering glance, as though amazed at John's very existence. John often felt a strange warm glow in the pit of his stomach whenever this happened.
He'd been curious about the "Torchwood Institute" and the three members he met on their first case, but he'd gotten little else about them from Sherlock other than that they were "completely useless except in special circumstances." According to Sherlock, they were only good for doing grunt work, though he did, admittedly, seem to think something of its leader, Greg Lestrade. John had decided, even from the little he knew of the man, that he liked him; his gruff, straightforward sort of attitude was something he could relate to (and, compared to Sherlock's unpredictable mannerisms, was entirely welcome).
Meanwhile, John had spent the daylight hours searching for a part-time job—he and Sherlock still needed to eat, after all, and, much to John's disapproval, Sherlock rarely demanded payment for what he did. After the first week he found one that showed promise: a job in the clinic of St. Bartholomew's Hospital (nicknamed "St. Bart's" by its residents). He spent his time there diagnosing little things such as a child with a cold, a woman with laryngitis, a teenager with a broken finger. They weren't exactly engaging, but they weren't entirely dissatisfying, either. There was a nurse who worked there—beautiful, smart, funny, the works—whom he rather fancied. Sherlock didn't particularly care about the part of John's life that was spent away from the flat, and he showed even less interest in John's little crush, which quite irked John, but he kept most of such annoyances to himself.
When he wasn't at the clinic or working with Sherlock, John could usually be found inside the TARDIS. With Sherlock's permission (the Time Lord hadn't seemed surprised by the request and was quite welcome to it), he'd taken to exploring it during his free time and getting to know its many rooms. He'd first started with the medical bay, opening the drawers and cupboards and mentally labeling their contents so that he could find them in the future, if ever he needed to. Then he began to wander through the other four doors, all of which opened to long, seemingly endless corridors. At first, he didn't go terribly far, always worried that he'd get lost and have to phone Sherlock, but once he got to know more of the area he was able to meander further in.
The scenery in the hallways and the other rooms mimicked that of the control room. The walls were most commonly brass or bronze sheets covered in yet more large, circular designs ("Gallifreyan," John remembered). The artificial torch-like lights were placed at regular intervals, casting their cool blue glow upon it and casting it in a light that was a strange mix of pleasant, homely, and eerie. John couldn't quite place how it made him feel, but after a few days he decided he liked it. No matter where he went in the TARDIS, though, the soft breathing of some massive engine could always be heard, occasionally clanking or hissing below his feet. Its deep thrum filled John with the strange but not unwelcome sensation that he wasn't alone, wherever he went.
At one point, he discovered a room which must've been Sherlock's library. It was an amazingly enormous room, roughly the size of a cathedral or two, with brass arches ribbing the ceiling and glowing veins similar to those in the console room twisting up the walls and pillars. There were shelves upon shelves of books and ladders littering the place so that any of the books could be reached. The first time he found it, he was so fascinated by its contents that he didn't even think of leaving the room until he checked his phone and realized it was two in the morning. There were books everywhere, and the fascinating thing about them was that almost none of them seemed to be from Earth. All of Sherlock's "Earth-books" were apparently on the bookshelf in the sitting room. Here, though, there was everything—universal encyclopedias dated about twenty billion years from now; books so old their pages looked like they'd turn to dust in John's hand; there was even a shelf stacked full of what looked like Kindles—thin tablets with glowing screens, the words of each respective book scrolling upward at a touch. The place was so dusty that John was convinced Sherlock hadn't been inside of it for many years, but he didn't care. It was a beautiful place.
He rarely read any of the books word-for-word, but rather skimmed through them, searching for things of importance. He learned about civilizations, about planets, about solar and star systems, even about whole clusters of galaxies, and he was only brushing the tip of the iceberg. The locations, of course, meant nothing to him, as did the dates of certain events such as interplanetary wars; the names, too, tended to get mixed up or forgotten, though he occasionally recalled such names as "Magrathea" and, to his surprise, "Raxacoricofallapatorius." He wasn't sure how he remembered the second one, but it did seem to roll pleasantly off the tongue. Mostly, however, he just remembered vague facts—for instance, one planet was so cold that the native species survived on liquid nitrogen the way humans survived on water, and any carbon-based species would freeze to death instantly. Another planet consisted almost entirely of diamonds, complete with a sapphire waterfall, but could support no life due to the ex-tonic star it revolved around (whatever "ex-tonic" meant). Then there was a species of alien that communicated in voices so low that their conversations were often mistaken for "kids playing loud music next door." It was fascinating to read about, really.
One thing John had noticed in particular was that, ever since his meeting Sherlock, the frequency of his nightmares had begun to steadily decline. When he'd been living on his own, he'd been having them almost every night and got maybe one dreamless night per week. By the end of his third week with Sherlock, however, the amount of his night terrors was closer to only every other day. Already, it seemed, his therapist was making note of a definite change. She seemed very interested in Sherlock and the detective's effect on John. John, who, of course, couldn't reveal too much about Sherlock's lifestyle, said that he was a private detective. He found it difficult to lie to her in such a fashion, as she seemed to see right through him, but she appeared to be letting it slide for now. Overall, having things to keep his mind busy was doing him good.
It seemed that their first two cases—such eventful mysteries—were peculiar in that they occurred so close together, for once they were over, there followed a lull of inactivity, filled only with mysteries such as, "Mr. Holmes, please help me find my family heirloom" or, "I think my husband might be having an affair." It surprised John, in comparison, how little Sherlock ordinarily left the flat. The Time Lord often conducted cases over the phone or even occasionally, to John's surprise, through a webcam connection. He recurrently complained that there were no interesting cases about, nothing to challenge his mind, despite John's bafflement at almost all of the supposed "child's play." This exasperating display of impatience was mostly prevalent during the long breaks between large cases, such as the one they were experiencing now.
Sherlock had spent the last three days lolling about the flat, dressed in plain white pajamas and a bathrobe. The only variance in this outfit was the color of the bathrobe: blue one day, then purple, and blue again the next. John had emerged into the sitting room to find the long, lanky form of Sherlock sprawled across the sofa, lying atop the kitchen table, sitting with his legs crossed on the counter (amid stacks of dirty dishes), curled up atop the refrigerator with his arm hanging over the side, even once sitting inverted on his chair with his feet on the headrest and his head craned back over the cushion, the top of his head just brushing the floor. What he found when he came home today, however, was a first.
As he ascended the stairs he heard, above the occasional creaking step, an unbroken, high-pitched note that sounded like a noise a copy machine might make. Probably just another experiment of Sherlock's, he supposed, perhaps utilizing some form of futuristic technology. That had been the case many a time before. As he pushed open the door, however, he was met with a sight that turned his vacant expression into one of shock and disbelief.
Sherlock, who was sitting on the chair, had slid down the back of it so far that his head was almost level with the armrests, over which his arms were draped. His legs were crossed at the ankles, stretched out in front of him as far as they could go. He was staring straight ahead, but his left arm was sticking straight out to the side, rigidly aiming some sort of firearm at the wall across the room. A thin, glowing line of orange was linking the gun directly to the wall and he was moving his arm in swift, curving flourishes, burning what looked like a smiley face into the wall. John would've admired Sherlock's blind accuracy had that not been the wall of their shared flat.
"God—Sherlock, what are you doing?!" John said sharply, all but dropping his bags of groceries on the floor as he dashed further inside.
Sherlock released the trigger, and the orange laser vanished. He mumbled a single word that John didn't catch.
"What?"
"BORED!" Sherlock yelled, standing abruptly from the chair. He raised his arm and fired the gun again, a short blast that became the wall's left eye. "BORED!" he repeated, switching hands and firing once more from behind his back: the wall's right eye.
"Alright, alright," said John, stepping between the wall and the detective and gently but firmly removing the gun from Sherlock's grip. He set it down gingerly on the desk behind him. "You haven't forgotten, have you, that you have to share this flat?"
"John. I remember exactly how many leaves of lettuce you put on your sandwich for lunch yesterday. How could I forget that I have to live with you?"
The words would've hurt John if he hadn't known better. This wasn't Sherlock talking, of course; it was his boredom and impatience that gave his voice such a biting tone. He frowned, glancing back at the weapon. "Where did you even get that, anyway?"
Sherlock flopped back down on his chair with a huffy sigh and said, "It doesn't matter." John's frown deepened. He wasn't about to demand an answer from Sherlock, but he was certainly surprised at the man's refusal to give one; usually he always answered questions like these, even if it was with something vague or cryptic that he didn't quite understand. Before he could say anything on the matter, however, Sherlock's cell phone rang.
There was a scrambling mad rush as the detective fumbled in his pockets for the device while the annoying tune of the most standard ringtone jangled in the background. Despite his sudden outburst, Sherlock answered it as calmly and coolly as if he'd been meditating. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he introduced himself. John was astonished at how suddenly his demeanor had changed. His whiny, restless manner had abruptly been replaced by another person. John saw once again a shadow of the Sherlock Holmes he'd first met: level-headed, alert, and poised in anticipation, with what was possibly a glint of eagerness in his eyes.
After a short pause, he said, "Certainly. Just give me a moment—and don't hang up the phone."
In a moment, he had leapt to his feet and was dashing off down the hall for the TARDIS, phone in hand. John had seen this several times before and knew exactly what was happening: someone had requested to speak with him over a webcam connection, and he needed to use the screen in the TARDIS in order to reach them. He heard Sherlock call, "John! Come on!" from down the hall and followed after his flatmate, hoping this was a good sign.
The TARDIS was as beautiful as usual, the bubbles trickling happily downwards in their pillars, the blue lights fringing the walls flickering calmly. Sherlock was already at the console, plugging his phone into a socket specifically designed for it on the side of the screen. Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently on the edge of the console as John joined him, standing back slightly, over his shoulder.
After a moment, the black screen flickered, and suddenly John was on space-Skype. Sherlock's face, as seen by the webcam embedded in the top of the monitor, had been crammed into a corner, his peculiar features reduced to a few hundred pixels. Taking center stage, however, was yet another strange alien. John had seen several aliens now since his first encounter with Sherlock, who was an alien himself, but this one he was entirely unfamiliar with. Judging by its appearance, it didn't seem to ring any bells in John's recent readings in the library, either.
She—for it was, most definitely, a she—looked like a human who had been fused with a gray timber wolf. She was covered in short gray fur of varying shades, longer around the back of the head and neck in a sleek mane. Her ears were broad and round and perched on the top of her head, swiveling towards them even as she appeared on the screen, her eyes light golden brown and glinting brightly. In place of a mouth was a short, slim muzzle, whiskers twitching as her lips pulled back into a small pointy-toothed smile. Despite her nonhuman appearance, it was clear to see that there was something distressed lurking behind that courteous smile.
Her eyes flicked over John, but if she was confused or concerned by his presence, she didn't say. "Mr. Holmes," she said, inclining her head deeply so that they got a good look at the crown of her head. When she lifted her face again, however, she looked troubled. "My name is Brant," she said. "I… I need your help." Sherlock gestured for her to go on. Her furry brow wrinkled for a moment as she apparently gathered her thoughts. Seeming to draw strength from something inside, her gaze hardened slightly in determination and she began, "My wife, Effie, has been behaving very strangely recently."
John glanced at Sherlock, who didn't look remotely interested, but the detective, surprisingly, didn't interrupt. Usually in cases like these, Sherlock would take this opportunity to say something like, "She's cheating on you," and hang up before they could say otherwise. (What really annoyed John about remarks like these was that the detective always had evidence to back him up—something or other that he'd observed straight off the bat.) He almost seemed to enjoy such things. Perhaps, however, his desperation for a new case this time around was keeping him silent.
Somewhere in his mind John registered that the alien was a lesbian. By this point, however, John wasn't surprised by this fact; the future, it seemed (for she was in the future—about three hundred thousand years' worth), was far more accepting of homosexuality, which was just fine with him.
He started paying attention again as she continued, "Before I get to that, though, I'd like to start at the very beginning." She took a deep breath. "Effie had a rough childhood. Her father abused her and her mother slept around a lot. At a very young age, she became addicted to drugs, smoking leaves from the Pentos tree, and she nearly died from an overdose at the age of eighteen—that was how I met her. My mother and father had been killed by a rogue sect of the Varen, you see, when I was very little, but I was inspired by my mother's legacy to become a nurse at the local hospital. I took care of her while she was in the hospital, and… well, we fell in love. She moved in with me as soon as she was out of the hospital. That didn't make her parents too happy—they disowned her—but she didn't seem to care, as long as she was away from them. I helped her overcome her addiction; it was a hard battle, but she's been clean ever since.
"We've been married for a year. We haven't kept anything from each other—she knows my history, my secrets, and I know hers. Well, I thought I did, anyway." She started to look worried again, her eyes flicking downward. "About two months ago, she was visited by a person I'd never met before who asked to speak with her privately—she never told me what he said. That same day, she asked me for some money—a lot of money. Ten thousand credits, in fact. When my parents died, they left me a fortune, so it wasn't a problem to give her what she asked for, but when I asked why she needed it, she wouldn't tell me. She told me it was better if I didn't know, and that if I loved her, I wouldn't ask. So, I didn't. I respected her privacy and assumed she would tell me when she was ready.
"Then she started disappearing. I'd come home from work and she'd be missing. It wasn't often—maybe once or twice a week—but she could've easily slipped away while I was at work and returned before I got home other days. I asked her where she was going, but again, she wouldn't tell me. It's been going on like that since she first asked for the money."
"What changed?" asked Sherlock. He sounded bored.
"Two nights ago, I was woken up late at night by Effie getting up out of bed. She didn't realize she'd woken me, so I waited and listened as she got dressed and left. Then I followed her. She didn't realize I was tailing her. I followed her out the door and down the road to a little shack, which she entered. When she didn't come out, I decided to go inside. She was gone, but inside the shack was a doorway, a teleport—they're very common on our planet, I use one myself to get to work. It required a key code of some sort, though, so I couldn't get through.
"I couldn't figure out what to do. Then I heard of you just today and I decided to go to you for help. Please, I don't know what to do—I'm worried about our marriage. I love her…" She trailed off, apparently unable to continue. Her eyes were glistening. John could only imagine the kind of emotional trouble she'd been through in the past two months, and to have such a heavy blow like that land so recently… She took a ragged breath. "Can you help me, Mr. Holmes?"
John looked at Sherlock. What he saw wasn't very promising. In the prospect of a good case, Sherlock's expression was intrigued and thoughtful, but instead he looked cool and unimpressed. Regardless, he asked, "Did you notice anything in particular about Effie right after she returned home?"
Brant thought for a moment. "Yes," she said after some time. "Yes, she smelled strongly of sulfur whenever she'd been away."
One of Sherlock's eyebrows quirked in an I-thought-so sort of way. "No, I'm afraid I can't help you," he said without warning, shrugging nonchalantly. "I'm terribly busy at the moment."
She looked as disbelieving as John felt. "Is there nothing you can do for me?" she asked in a hushed voice, her brow furrowing again, though this time in suppressed anger.
"Well, she's not cheating on you," replied Sherlock bluntly. "Not with another person, anyway. Goodbye, Brant." Without waiting another moment, he reached up and pressed a button on the side of the screen, which went black, but not before Brant gave a heartbreaking look of shock and despair.
He turned to go but was stopped by a glance at John's face.
"What?" said the detective defensively.
"I don't believe you," said John, shaking his head slightly. "Ten minutes ago you were complaining you were bored, and now when a case finally shows up you turn it down? That poor woman—" He broke off when his voice started to rise, keeping himself from losing control with a deep breath. "You're going to call her back and you're going to apologize and you're going to solve that case—"
"Apologize? I've already solved it," interrupted Sherlock indignantly. "It was obvious. Wherever she was going, she was going there to smoke Pentos leaves. Some of the money went towards the teleport while the rest of it was saved to buy the drugs. She smelled like sulfur every time she came back because she needed some way to disguise the smell of the drug."
"Then tell her that! For God's sake, Sherlock, at least give her something!"
"I don't have any proof, though. In order to do that, I'd need a look at the teleport and get a confirmation of where it leads."
"So go—"
"I don't want to. The case is too boring to bother with leaving."
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You have a machine that will move you through time and space," he asked in a low, dangerous voice. "How can you possibly be too lazy to leave when all you have to do is push a few buttons?" Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment. Before the Time Lord could come up with a response, John said sternly, "You're going to call her back. You're going to apologize to her and tell her you'll take the case. Then you're going to see it through. Understood?"
Sherlock continued to stare at John with that vaguely surprised expression, only now there was something of amazement in the way his lips parted slightly. Then, after what felt like minutes, his gaze hardened slightly and he agreed, somewhat stiffly, "Fine."
He turned back to the screen, pressing a few buttons, and John could only stare at the back of his head in astonishment. He hadn't expected that to work.
A moment later and Brant's end of the feed reappeared. She, apparently, wasn't expecting them to call back, because John could see her just on the edge of the screen sitting in one of the chairs a little ways away. Her back was turned so he couldn't see her face, but there was a definite droop to her shoulders, and her head seemed to be hanging between them. Sherlock cleared his throat rather loudly and she gave a start, whirling toward the screen. John wasn't surprised to see her alarmed expression turn to one of cool indifference, though her eyes were red from crying.
"I'm sorry for how I treated you earlier," said Sherlock jerkily, as though the words were taking some difficulty to get out. "I'll take your case."
"Good," she said, still attempting to look cold, though John could see a hint of relief washing over her.