Chapter 10: Black Bike

"I see you enjoyed that," Sherlock smirked as he held the door to St. Bart's lab open.

"Yeah," John chuckled, steering the black bike into the room. The exhilaration of their "escape" from the ignorant patrol officer still left adrenaline running through his veins. Beads of sweat lined his skin, his short locks left pasted against his forehead. But there was light in his eyes; what a chase! While Sherlock took to the rooftops, John followed down on the streets, the bicycle racing through cars and pedestrians; the copper never stood a chance.

"It's been a while since I rode a bike; almost thought I had forgotten how."

"Don't be silly," Sherlock replied bluntly. "Riding a bicycle is a form of implicit memory; once you perform the action enough, your brain never forgets the procedure. Outside of the obvious differences in physical movement, it's like making tea. Your memory may not be stellar, but—"

"Where do you want the pushbike?" John interrupted, not quite in the mood for a lecture on his memory from the man who never forgot anything.

Sherlock took one look around the room before making his decision. "Over there," he directed, pointing over to the far-side of the lab's table.

As Sherlock prepared his microscopes and booted up the analyzing computers, John walked the contraption over, leaning the toptube and the seat against the white edge. It was a good bike in very good condition, considering it had witnessed the collapse of the North building from afar. But it was still just a bike; black metal, black seat cushion, black handbrakes, there was nothing to distinguish it from any other bicycle in London. There was no evidence that the bicycle had really belonged to the mysterious nineteen year old girl currently lying in the mortuary. Hell, it could have been anybody's bike; they had kidnapped somebody's bicycle.

"Sherlock," John began to protest lightly, but he stopped. Sherlock's lean figure was sitting in the same chair he always sat in when doing lab work, his head cocked the same way as he did when in deep thought. It was a familiar sight, a sign of regularity, but it was not the same. Even under the artificial lights of the lab, Sherlock's skin looked abnormally pale; with his sleeves rolled up, what could be seen of his forearms were still covered in sickly purple and yellowing bruises, scratches running alongside them. While his blue eyes still focused with heavy determination and deep thought, he looked tired. Sharp shadows were cast along his face, hollowing out his cheeks and revealing the dark circles now plaguing his eyes. Under the tumultuous mass of dark curls, still wildly in disarray after running across London, the cloth bandage clung to his forehead; a grim reminder of his condition. No matter how much he protested, Sherlock was not okay; maybe mentally he was, but his body…

John sighed, a tinge of guilt bleeding into his thoughts. He had actually let Sherlock run across the rooftops of London after being in a coma for two days; what kind of doctor was he? He should have never let him go the Business Square that afternoon; he should have never let him leave the flat at all. Sherlock Holmes needed rest, and now it was time to remedy the situation.

"Sherlock," John started over.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock replied without even looking up, already madly typing something into the computers.

"Can't this wait until tomorrow?"

"No."

"It's already six…when do you think you'll be ready to go back to the flat?"

"Go on without me."

"No," John kept trying, "I can wait until you're ready."

"Then you're going to be here all night," Sherlock remarked.

"Sherlock," John finally admonished in a more instructive tone, making Sherlock look up at him with a bored expression. Obviously he was going to put up a fight. "You were in a coma for two days, and you just got out of the hospital this morning. You say you're fine, and I believe you, but you need rest."

"I need nothing of the sort," Sherlock countered, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, you do," John argued. "Your body was put under severe stress; it's still recovering from trauma. Please, just—"

"Just because you normal people can't seem to operate after 'traumatic events' doesn't mean I have to follow your silly expectations."

"Just take a break."

"No," Sherlock snapped with irritation.

"Look, I'm not just going to sit here and watch you over-exert yourself."

"Then don't just sit here and don't watch me. I don't need you or your incessant nagging."

The moment Sherlock realized what he said, his face fell. John stiffened, his back holding up into a military form. His mouth tightened into a thin line, his eyes coldly staring Sherlock down. The weary lines showed on his face, summing up the three days of concern he had had for his friend. Although he knew this was exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would say, he couldn't help but feel…irritated. He was his friend; he cared. But sometimes it was so hard to try and help the sociopathic genius who didn't need anybody.

"John," Sherlock said, awkwardly trying to relinquish the situation. "You know I didn't mean—"

"Of course you didn't," John muttered. He was tired, and this was the last thing he needed. "If you don't need me, I'll come back later."

"John," Sherlock called as his friend headed towards the door.

"No, it's alright," John said somewhat harshly. "I am a doctor in a hospital, after all; I'm sure somebody here will need me. In fact, they might even take my advice."

"John!"

John listened as the door slammed behind him, striding far enough down the hall to know Sherlock wouldn't be able to see him. Leaning against a wall, he sighed. He was tired, just too tired to deal with Sherlock at the moment. Three days of worrying incessantly drained him and his patience. Now that Sherlock was awake and, apparently, alright, he should have been able to relax a little bit. Nothing catastrophic was going to happen to his friend in St. Bart's lab; everything was going to be alright. But the doctor in John kept telling him something was wrong. Even though all the evidence pointed to everything being alright, there was something wrong.

With another sigh, John conceded to the fact that maybe he was being paranoid. What he needed was a distraction; something to take his mind off Sherlock Holmes and his bloody ego. With that, he bounced off the wall and began to make his way towards the emergency ward.

He was a doctor in a hospital after all.

"You didn't need to do that," Alice said quietly, her apparition suddenly appearing beside the door. Under the fluorescent lights, she was a ghostly pale color; only her dark hair contrasted against the white glare of the lab's walls. With one arm crossing her waist and the other bringing her hand to her lip, she watched him in deep thought. Almost apologetically, she continued. "He was only trying to help you."

"His worrying," Sherlock countered methodically, "is the last thing that will help us figure out your identity."

With a stolid expression, he stood up and slowly made his way over to the black bicycle. But Alice could see through his attempts at seeming neutral; his eyes shifted slightly towards her as he moved, and she could see it: regret. He regret what had he said to John, and now he had to pay for it in solitude. As Alice carefully walked towards him, loose strands of hair billowing out behind her, Sherlock could feel her eyes upon him; she was only a hallucination, but he felt her looking right through him with an eerie understanding of things. Her presence alone was already strange…

"What's the rush?" she asked lightly as Sherlock hoisted the bicycle onto the table's surface. Dark eyes reflecting a worried glance, she placed her hand soothingly on his forearm. "You know he's right; you're going to need rest soon. So why are you getting so defensive at John's suggestions?"

He didn't even look at her, choosing to ignore her existence for the moment. Brushing her hand off, he grabbed a pair of tweezers from the counter and began to pick away at the bicycle's tires. His elongated fingers operated with great finesse, scraping away fine layers of sediment until shapely chunks loosened from the rubber and fell onto some slides. Alice quietly observed his actions, knowing part of his taciturnity was to spite her. It was only when Sherlock slid the slides into the computer did she hazard a comment.

"Composition analysis?" she remarked, already knowing she was right.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, pressing a button and allowing the computer to whirl to life, racing through comparisons of bacteria and pollens and dirt samples. "Although, it's not really necessary."

"I was going to say; just looking at this bicycle should give you enough clues."

"Precisely," Sherlock murmured, casting her a loose look from under the shadows of the bandage.

"Do you want to do this, or shall I?" she challenged him with a charming smile, her dark eyes lit brilliantly.

"Allow me."

Sherlock launched off his stool and positioned himself before the bicycle. Scanning the black frame once over with his eyes, he formulated his thoughts. Alice watched his observations, pulling a hand towards her small mouth in contemplation. A moment of silence passed, nothing between them but the buzz of the florescent lights above them and the whirling of the lab's computer. But Alice knew: this was the calm before the storm, and Sherlock was about to hit the ground running.

"Race bike: thin, sleek, definitely not a vehicle meant for purely recreational use." He hooked his hand under the frame and lifted it up, weighing it momentarily before placing it back down. "Light frame: carbon fibers used for a strong support with less weight. The steer is narrow, except for the gear shift… Perfect for a girl your size, but not meant for anyone bigger; it's a personalized fit, much more than any recreational cyclist would consider. There are brake grips along the handles of the steer, but rather than connect them directly to the wheels, they are integrated into the frame itself to reduce drag. The chain is integrated into the frame as well, probably for the same purpose. Pedals are situated closer towards the bottom bracket of the bike than usual for efficient use. The crank by the bottom bracket has two chain rings: normal for any bike, but the gearing is shorter, meaning gear shifts are faster. This bicycle was designed purely for speed; definitely not for an amateur.

"John used this earlier, so taking finger prints off the handles of the steer is out of the question; but, there are still imprints of its previous owner elsewhere." Sherlock was beginning to talk faster and faster as he went, the deductions racing through his mind at frightening speeds. "Take the edge of the pedals: there are flakes of skin on the back edge that correspond to the scrapes on her shins, confirming that this was the mode of transportation Claireborne used to get to the Business Square. At this point, some imbecile would ask 'how do we know this was her pushbike and not some stolen property she used?' Simple: look at the seat and the steer's handles. The seat is strong, but it has molded slightly under the weight of a single user. The handles are faded slightly from the same pair of hands grasping them in exactly the same place for…three years.

"And, for good measure," Sherlock dropped the bicycle onto the floor and motioned towards Alice, who nodded with understanding. As a hallucination of Sherlock Holmes' mind, she would be the precise size of the real Alice Claireborne; a perfect replica of her body. With him holding the bike upright, she gracefully swung over the frame and took her place on the seat. It was a perfect fit.

"What else?" she asked as she slipped off the seat, allowing Sherlock access to the bicycle. However, rather than place it back onto the lab's white table, he flipped it over, positioning the wheels towards the ceiling.

"Tires narrow and lacking deep ridges: not a mountain bike. The rubber is on the thin side so they'll be faster, but need to be replaced more often. In fact, they are changed often: the bolts attaching them to the frame have left the carbon scratched quite a bit: this bicycle has been used often enough in the last three years for an excessive amount of tire changes. Judging by the silver band along the edges and the metallic supports, they were replaced recently, but there is still enough sediment packed into the grooves to be analyzed. Just by scraping off the first layers, I can already tell there her travel patterns." Rubbing a finger into the grooves, Sherlock scraped away some of the filth. "Sediment layers are made only with sediment: there is no dirt. So, we know this was only ridden in the city and kept off the greenery."

Sherlock finally paused, compiling the information he had just gained and storing it in his memory, before proceeding to connect the ideas. Alice reached out and ran a finger along the sleek black frame. "This is a nice bike," she murmured under her breath, admiring its structure.

"This is more than just a nice bike," Sherlock snapped. "This is a highly specialized race bike. No child would be given a bicycle like this; it's expensive, and it's molded in such a way that you couldn't just go into a shop and pick it off the rack. I doubt any other person could use this; it's been personalized to cyclist's body in such a way. And this belongs to a nineteen year old school girl? No; it fits a nineteen year old girl's body, but it's not meant for an academic."

"You're right," she concurred. "An academic wouldn't have picked a race bike like this; it needs too much attention. Frequent tire changes, unnecessary carbon scratches. No, she would have used a town bike: more durable, easier to maintain."

"Precisely," Sherlock said quietly, placing his hands together and resting them against his chin. "She wasn't just a school girl, and she wasn't at the Business Square by chance; I'm positive about that now. All that's left is—"

"The phone, the ring, and anything else she had on her," Alice completed, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"She would have stashed it somewhere on this bicycle." Sherlock kneeled before the upside-down bicycle, running his fingers along the frame.

"It has to be in the pushbike," Alice stated quietly, although she already aware he knew that. "She wouldn't have had time to put it anywhere else."

"There are no seams in the carbon," he muttered, still tracing the black material as he searched. "The most common place to hide things would be in the main support of the frame; a compartment of some sorts. But this design doesn't allow for that; at least, not conveniently. And the seat would be inaccessible from where she was—"

Sherlock cut himself off, his face contorting slightly stared directly at the back wheel. He ran his fingers along the wheel, causing it to slowly spin around the central bolt. Following a trail, he studied the crank and the bottom bracket. Alice watched as a thought dart across his eyes, a focused determination now taking over. Without a word, he reached towards the steer's handle, twisted the gear shift with loud clicks, and began to rotate the pedals, forcing the wheels to spin quickly.

"What do you hear?" Sherlock asked Alice.

"Barely anything," she replied, tilting her head as she listened to the lab. Under the occasional beeps of the analysis computer, there was the whoosh of rushing air as the chain looped itself around the crank with nothing but the faint clicking of metal. "It's a quiet bike, probably because the chain is shorter."

"What don't you hear, then?" he tried again, now somewhat annoyed that his own projection was missing his point. He pedaled the bicycle faster, waiting for her to understand. For a moment, she stared at him, searching his pale eyes as they watched her expectantly. Blinking twice, she took a deep breath.

"Gears," she sighed, glancing down towards the steer's handles. "The gears aren't shifting."

"That's because there aren't any gears," Sherlock remarked, abruptly stopping the pedals and flipping the pushbike back to its proper stance. "She had them removed a long time ago, probably when she first got it; but, she kept the gear shift, which, compared to the rest of the bike, is extremely bulky."

With that being said, he twisted the gear shift forcefully and tore the carbon encasing off the steer's handle. He gave a dark smirk towards Alice as he emptied its contents into the palm of his left hand: a small red Motorola flip phone, a ring, and a set of gold keys attached on a silver ring.

Alice gave a chuckle. "Very good, Sherlock."

Before he could give a smart response, the computer behind them gave an electronic shriek: the results. Sherlock leapt to the computer, his eyes quickly scanning through the data before slamming the desk in frustration.

"What?" Alice asked, circling around the lab table to glance at the screen herself.

"Concrete!" Sherlock hollered into the air. "Concrete! All this data tells me is what concrete is composed of. This could come from anywhere in London!"

"Calm down," she argued, glaring at him with mild irritation before turning back towards the screen. "This isn't all useless."

"Well it is right now!" he was still practically shouting. "Unless I have something to reference it to, there's nothing—"

There was a knock at the door, followed by a muffled "Sherlock?" At the lack of reply, the door creaked open; John stuck his foot in through the crack and shouldered his way into the lab.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "I heard you shouting about something."

"Oh," Sherlock replied quietly, unsure of what to say. "I'm fine."

John looked around the lab awkwardly, still feeling guilty about their previous altercation. But from the apologetic look on Sherlock's long face, the doctor knew there was really no need to say anything on the past matter; what was done was done, and there was no point in dwelling. Still, he felt like he should try and make amends.

"I was by the front desk when Bomb Squad dropped off the samples," John announced, an armful of plastic baggies and small containers balanced against his chest. "I thought I would save time and just bring them down myself. Where do you want them?"

"Take them back to the flat," Sherlock said suddenly, shoving the contents hidden within the bicycle's black handle into his pocket. "I'll analyze them there."

John glanced at him, his surprise resulting in a confused expression. "I thought you said you weren't coming back tonight."

"Changed my mind," the detective huffed as he strode towards the door, hoping John wouldn't take the following lie too seriously: "I'm hungry."