Chapter Eighteen
John spent yet another fruitless day searching for Sherlock. When he finally returned at almost midnight, he'd dragged himself up the stairs and fell into bed, at last sleeping from total exhaustion. After three nights of worry and broken sleep, it all caught up with him and he slept deeply.
When he woke up the next morning, it took him a moment to recognise the sound that had probably brought him back to life- running water. Upstairs, his bedroom was under the loft space- where the flats' water tanks were, so it was a regular sound to his ears. He glanced at his bedside table - 7.12am on the clock radio. What was nagging at him? His sleep fuddled brain started to wake up. The noise of the tank refilling wasn't the one he associated with Mrs Hudson. That was further away and to the left of his room. The movement of water through pipes was definitely related to 221b. had he left the toilet running?
No- this was a sound he associated with a shower. The shower that was next to Sherlock's bedroom. As that conclusion came to him, he was already out of bed and then half way down the stairs. In through the kitchen and down the hall, his ears confirmed it- someone was taking a shower.
"Sherlock? Is that you?" He banged on the door, loud enough to be heard over the running water.
There was a pause, then a baritone over the sound of running water, "Who else would be having a shower in here, John?"
The doctor sagged against the door in relief. Which lasted only a couple of seconds before being replaced by a highly volatile mix of concern and anger- enough to make him open the door without worrying about proprieties. Sherlock rarely conceded anything to John's personal boundaries, and right now, John was in no mood to accord Sherlock any privileges either.
"Where the hell have you been for the past four days?" It sounded angry as the question echoed off the tiles.
The shower was turned off. A hand emerged from behind the curtain. "Hand me the towel."
Considering the alternative was a naked Sherlock getting it himself, John hastily complied. "Are you getting your bandage wet?" He realised that his tone was a bit peevish.
The hand with the towel disappeared behind the curtain, and there were sounds of a body moving around. Then a left arm and hand wrapped in a wet bin liner appeared from behind the curtain. "No. I've done this before, John."
Mollified in part, John decided that retreat made sense. "I'll get dressed and be in the kitchen making us both some tea and breakfast. You and I need to talk." It was his captain's I-will-not-be-disobeyed tone. It rarely worked with Sherlock, but it was all John had in his arsenal at this hour of the morning. As he got dressed in his room, he heard the hairdryer down stairs.
A freshly shaved, clean and suited Sherlock joined him at the breakfast table, looking for all the world as if nothing was unusual, nothing out of order. He gave John a calm "Good morning, by the way" as he sat down and opened the newspaper, propping it up against a pile of books so he had free use of his right hand to take the first mouthful of toast.
"So, that's it, Sherlock? You just waltz back in here after four days and three nights away, and pretend that nothing has happened?" The incredulity was clear.
Sherlock looked up from the paper. In a perfectly calm and reasonable tone of voice he said "I didn't waltz. I walked. And nothing untoward has happened."
John lost it. "The last time I saw you, you were on the edge of a serious breakdown, Sherlock. I was there. So was Mycroft. And Doctor Cohen, too. And then you bolted in the middle of the night…I've been looking everywhere for you. Your brother alerted the hospitals and the morgues, for God's sake. Lestrade even had social services leafleted in case someone found you and you weren't able to communicate."
Sherlock took another bite of toast, and calmly said "All of which sounds rather excessive. I'm fine. I left because none of you seemed to think I was, and that generally ends badly in my experience. But, as you can see, I'm fine."
John was trying to keep his temper, he really was. And then he realised that Sherlock was right. He did look…fine. Not on edge, but calm. In fact, calmer than he'd been for quite a long time, if the truth be told.
"Are you on something? Is that why you are so...relaxed?"
The old Sherlock would have snapped at that. This one just looked at him curiously. "No. I'm not taking any form of drugs or medication. I'm fine- and I'm clean. This isn't anything… artificial." He went back to reading the article.
"Sherlock. What happened while you were away? Where did you go? NO ONE could find you and believe me, there were a lot of people trying to find you."
If John was expecting a sarky comment, he didn't get one. His friend was looking at him thoughtfully. "You want to know what I did while I was away from the flat? I needed time to build my Mind Palace- without interference, so I found a place where I wouldn't be interrupted, and did it. Oh, and I solved Lestrade's case, too." He turned the newspaper over to the inside page where the front page article continued.
"WHAT?!" John was astonished.
"Yes. I will e mail him with the details while I'm in the cab. I have an appointment in twenty minutes at the London Wrist and Hand Unit at Wellington Hospital. Or had you forgotten?" Once again John was pleasantly surprised. The old Sherlock would have made that last point as a snide aside, casting aspersions on John's memory. This Sherlock had just said it without rancour or malice.
"You've …rebuilt your Mind Palace. What does that mean? Is that the reason why you are acting so, I don't know, normal?"
That made Sherlock's eyebrows go up in surprise. "Normal? You say that as if it were a bad thing." This was quietly said.
John put his mug of tea down. "Who are you, and how did you take over the body of Sherlock Holmes? You look like him, but you sure aren't acting like him."
That raised a smirk. "Just think of me as Sherlock Two Point Oh. New improved software; better performance. Now, as much as I'd love to chat, I have a doctor's appointment to keep." He got up and headed for his coat and scarf on the peg.
"No way, Sherlock. I'm coming with you. The idea of you voluntarily going to a hospital is weird enough to warrant closer observation. And I want to know what they say about that wrist."
That made Sherlock turn around once he got his coat on. He slipped the sling back on but looked intently at his flatmate. "It isn't necessary for you to accompany me. I can manage."
John slipped his own coat on, "yeah, but that fact is almost cause for concern, in its own weird way." And he followed Sherlock down the stairs.
The cab journey was short- less than ten minutes north from the flat- which Sherlock spent on his phone. Wellington Hospital was a private institution, rather than NHS, based in St John's Wood. There were four buildings, but Sherlock didn't go to the parts that John was familiar with- the buildings that were on Wellington Road, just north of Lord's Cricket Ground. Instead he directed the taxi driver to Lodge Road and to something called the Platinum Medical Centre. Sherlock approached the reception desk at the entrance to with John in tow. "I have an appointment to see Mister Ian Winterspur at 9.10. Is the Unit still on the first floor?" The receptionist smiled and nodded. Again, John was surprised. It was as if Sherlock was using his "let's-act-normal" disguise to get something he wanted from the receptionist so he could solve a case. But this wasn't a case, this seemed…genuine. It was, in John's view, almost as alarming as the other extreme, when the consulting detective's default mode offended just about everyone he came into contact with.
The two of them sat in the Unit waiting room, which was very comfortably appointed and had three other patients waiting. The receptionist took Sherlock's name and said that Mister Winterspur was running on time, so it would be only a few minutes. She invited them to have a cup of coffee from the coffee maker in the reception area. John muttered something about "how the other half lives" but gratefully took a cup of coffee. If only NHS hospitals could produce coffee like this.
As Sherlock started working on his phone again, John picked up a LW&H Unit brochure from the coffee table, and looked under "Our Team". Mister Ian Winterspur's photo showed a kindly grey haired face. The bio underneath declared that he was a consultant surgeon practicing exclusively in private practice. Trained in both Britain and the USA, he had been working in private practice in London since 1993. John wondered if Sherlock had been one of his first patients then, back in 1994. There was another paragraph explaining that he had "a particular interest in musicians", written a text book called The Musician's Hand and that he was a trustee of the British Association of Performing Arts Medicine.
And the man himself was now standing in front of Sherlock with a big smile on his face. "Sherlock, it's been a long time. I'm glad you're still playing the violin- or at least you were until last week."
"Mister Winterspur, this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson, a former army trauma surgeon, who seems to have taken an interest in my recent injury. Would you mind if he accompanied me?"
"Of course not; Doctor Watson, it is a pleasure to meet you in person. I am a reader of your blog. Like to keep my eye on former patients, you know. That's how I know he's still playing the violin."
The examination went…better than John would have anticipated. Sherlock must have been in touch with Winterspur earlier in the week about how to get the original x-rays and surgeon's reports from the Royal Gloucester Hospital. "You were lucky, Sherlock, to get Will Masters- his work is first class. But how on earth were you unlucky enough to break it twice? That's rather careless of you."
Sherlock just replied "Accidents happen. And unfortunately, you know that general anaesthetic doesn't agree with me, so I had another fall. A nuisance, really."
John's brow furrowed. Where was the bored, irritated reaction? Where was the discomfort and nervous agitation that Sherlock usually displayed when anywhere within the vicinity of a hospital or a person in a white coat? The consulting detective was calmly discussing the fracture, the stryker plate and the likely course of therapy that would be needed to restore full functionality.
He watched as Sherlock sat still and the sutures were removed. X-rays were taken and digitally presented on screen immediately. A nurse was called in and the thermoplastic cast was fitted, using a microwave to heat it first and then when the black plastic was flexible enough, it was moulded exactly how Winterspur wanted the bones to be supported. Ten minutes later, the cast was cool and rigid, strapped into place, and in a sling. There were distinct advantages of it over plaster- lighter in weight, cooler and less bulky, it would mean he could wear normal shirts, just with the left sleeve unbuttoned at the cuff.
Winterspur's assessment was encouraging. "It's really not too complicated this time. You'll be able to play again in a few months, but you will have to take it easy. No full length concerti for a while."
Sherlock smiled. "I don't have the time for that anymore, alas. The Case Work takes priority. It always has."
"Are you still composing? I seem to recall that started when you couldn't manage to pick up your violin last time."
"Yes. I do occasionally, and the odd transcription or re-arrangement."
"Good, good. Just keep the mental processes going while the therapist gets to work. I'm setting you up a series of weekly sessions with Sarah Pyker. She's our best specialist here, and works with a lot of musicians, so she will understand your need to reach the higher fingering positions. I know that you have another occupation now, so I'm going to ask Doctor Watson here to ensure that light exercise means just that. If that blog or yours is to be believed, you two seem to get up to a lot of physically demanding activity, Sherlock, so no swinging off balconies or chasing after suspects for a while. Promise?"
"Yes." It was simply said. John wondered if it was a promise that would be kept. If so, then it would be a minor miracle. But given the change in the man quietly sitting there, talking reasonably to a medical professional, compared with the mentally distressed, panicked and uncooperative person earlier in the week who refused to even speak, well… miracles were clearly possible.