Chapter Two.

Focused at last, Sherlock had pulled on his second best dressing gown and settling in his favourite chair had opened up his computer on his lap, loaded Google and started trawling through various websites.

However, after twenty minutes of labour, he let out a ragged breath and cast aside the computer in frustration and disgust.

He hadn't got very far. Indeed, far from allaying his fears, all he had succeeded in doing was putting the wind up himself.

Fortunately, he was not a man prone to hypochondria, and had enough wit left to realize that self diagnosis was a dangerous thing.

He was a consulting detective, not a doctor, and whilst he had a good knowledge of anatomy, biology and biochemistry, he was keenly aware that he had neither the knowledge nor the expertise required to sort through the plausible, or the frankly ludicrous.

There was also a fundamental flaw in his search parameters.

He had begun with a simple search, but when that had proved frustrating and fruitless, he had strung together various symptoms that in and of themselves might not even be linked, and as a result had been bombarded with links to various sites for everything under the sun, including ads for pain relief medication, Parkinson's Disease, MS, MND and Vertigo and he had soon come to the conclusion that he was on a wild goose chase, and that his labours on the laptop had just been further procrastination.

He still knew what he had to do.

The only difference from twenty minutes ago was that now he had no other options.

A quick glance at his watch told him that if he made a phone call now, there would be someone to answer. 9am on the dot. Business hours had begun.

He took his phone from his dressing gown pocket, put in the call and when it was done, he had to admit that he felt a modicum of relief.

He had accomplished something. Taken the first steps, approached the problem in a positive manner instead of acting like an ostrich with his head buried in the sand.

He retired to his bedroom and after removing his dressing gown and night attire, dressed, slowly and methodically, donning clean underwear, a snowy white shirt, left open at the throat, a dark, light weight summer suit, because London had been in the throes of a heat wave for the last two weeks and the thermometer had hit 30 degrees only the day before, and his usual highly polished shoes, fumbling with the laces with unusually un-co-ordinated fingers.

He then pulled a comb roughly through his unruly mop of hair and removed the offending wad of toilet paper from his chin, applying a smear of antiseptic cream to the spot and noting that the nick had indeed stopped oozing blood now.

After allowing himself time to down a mug of strong, tepid coffee with two heaped teaspoonfuls of sugar, he ignored his heavy coat and scarf, hanging beside the door, no need for either of those in the sweltering heat predicted by the woman on the television weather forecast, and made his way carefully down the stairs, only to come face to face with Mrs Hudson and her basket of cleaning materials.

"Going out, dear? Good. Some fresh air will soon put the roses back in those cheeks and I'll have time to give your place a good going over without tripping over your big feet!"

-0-

As Sherlock emerged from 221B, Baker Street was all hustle and bustle, and the various aromas from the cafe next door caused a wave of nausea to unexpectedly roll over him and he briefly rocked back on his heels until he managed to pull himself together.

He was relieved to find a black cab pulling up at the curb, practically at his feet, glad that he would not have to walk to the end of the street to hail one, as his legs still felt a little unsteady beneath him, until he realized that the passenger alighting from the back was Dr John Watson.

"Morning," Watson greeted him jovially, then ducked his head back inside the cab window to pay the driver, and ask him to wait, or at least Sherlock hoped that was what he was doing.

"Going somewhere?" Watson asked as Holmes moved up beside him and made to slip into the back of the cab.

'Obviously," Holmes muttered in a haughty tone, then, noticed the pained look on Watson's face.

Sherlock quickly realized that Watson thought that he was off to look into some case and was eager to get in on the action.

"You know what I mean, Sherlock," Watson sighed deeply in that world weary way of his. 'Do you want me to come with you?' The eagerness returned to his face and Holmes realized that his friend loved the thrill of the chase now almost as much as he himself did.

'No,' Holmes responded, a little too sharply as he ducked into the cab and settled back in the seat. He wished that he had his coat, so that he could pull up the collar and hide his chin, because Watson's keen eyes had honed in on the nick, as he had known that he would, and wished he could at least take back the tone in which he had just spoken to his friend.

'I think I can manage a dental appointment on my own,' he clarified quickly so that he would not have to see the hurt and the curiosity in John's eyes any longer.

'Oh ... Ok. Only I thought ..."

"Yes, I know what you thought.'

"Did you have an argument with your razor?" Watson arched an eyebrow, fighting to hold back a grin, because it was so unusual for Holmes not to be absolutely perfect and precise in everything he did.

This small imperfection made him more human somehow.

Holmes' only reply was a nasty glare.

'Are you going somewhere, Guv'na, only other people might want to use my cab," the cabbie grumbled sarcastically from the front seat, eyeing his passenger sternly through the rear view mirror. "Time's money, Guv, and my times precious, even if yours ain't.'

'Yes. Thank you,' Holmes snarled, leaning forward to whisper the address of his destination to the cabbie as Watson still held on to the open cab door, eternally grateful for the noise of traffic on the street so that Watson could not overhear.

"I see that you have started the meter so I'm already paying for your time," he concluded in a louder, snide voice, sitting back in the seat once more.

"I'll see you later then, shall I?" Watson asked hopefully.

"Undoubtedly," Holmes replied. "I do still live here," he added acidly, and then turned his head away, indicating that as far as he was concerned there was nothing more to say.

Feeling rather foolish, John Watson shut the cab door, stood back from the curb and watched the vehicle pull away into a stream of traffic moving down Baker Street, wondering what it was that could have put his friend Holmes in such a good mood this early on a Wednesday morning, then with a small shrug of his shoulders he walked to the front door, inserted his key and entered 221B Baker Street, shouting out a cheery greeting to Mrs Hudson as he began to climb the stairs.