Chapter Five
Sherlock Holmes did not return to 221B Baker Street before John Watson had to leave to meet up with his lovely wife that Wednesday evening, nor did John see him the following day, or even the day after that, and by the time he was ready to leave that Friday evening, if he hadn't know better and had been a much more cynical man, he might have drawn the conclusion that Holmes was deliberately avoiding him.
Mrs Hudson had assured him that Holmes had indeed been home, that she had heard him shuffling around, scratching a wretched tune out on that violin of his and muttering darkly in the wee small hours of the morning, but she had not seen him either.
He had risen early and left before she had got up to make her first cup of tea, which was almost unheard of, and had not returned until she had retired for the night.
She also confided that the meal that she had prepared on Wednesday was gone the following day, the plate washed and left to drain along with a knife and fork and his morning coffee mug, but she could not be sure that he had actually consumed the food.
If Holmes had fed it to the bin, he had made sure to remove the evidence before she had had a chance to check.
The two men had kept in touch by text, and Watson had come to the conclusion that Holmes was desperately trying to keep himself busy, to avoid feeling hemmed in at the flat in the sweltering heat.
John had reluctantly accepted that at least Sherlock was trying to do something positive to deal with the lull in criminal activity in the capitol and took some small comfort from the fact that he had undoubtedly decided not to inflict his volatile mood on Mrs Hudson, or the fixtures and fittings in the flat.
The unusually hot weather had continued over the weekend, and on Saturday morning Mary had suggested that they too take a trip to the seaside, and whilst Watson had never been a bucket and spade, sunbathing type of day tripper, he had not been able to refuse his lovely new wife, with her sweet, enticing smile and seductive wink, and so they had taken the train down to Brighton and found a nice B&B near the sea front and had stayed until late Sunday afternoon.
It had been a very pleasant and romantic couple of days, and there was a smug smile on Watson's lips, and a new spring to his steps as he stepped out of a cab outside 221B Baker Street and practically ran up the stairs to Holmes' flat that Monday morning.
He found the man himself sitting at the dining table, face obscured by that morning's edition of the Daily Telegraph, a plate with a half gnawed piece of toast before him and a teacup sitting lopsidedly on a saucer beside it.
'Hello, stranger,' Watson pulled out the chair beside his friend as Mrs Hudson emerged from the kitchen with a fresh cup of tea. Her expression was one of utter bliss and she gave him a big thumbs' up as she put the cup down in front of him, her face wreathed in smiles as she then used the same thumb to indicate towards Holmes.
'Your timing is impeccable, John,' Holmes spoke at last, closing the newspaper and after folding it neatly, set it down on the table between them.
The headline, Watson noted was about some new financial crisis in the City, and he vaguely recalled hearing something about it on the BBC News Channel while he had been getting dressed that morning.
More gloom and down in the world of high finance, to go along with fresh scandal in the NHS.
Watson flicked his gaze up from the newspaper headline just in time to see Holmes stuff the last corner of his slice of toast into his mouth, chewing it with satisfaction before reaching out for his tea.
Watson was surprised to see that Holmes looked good this morning.
For one thing, he didn't look quite so haggard. He was dressed in black trousers and a navy shirt, left open at the neck, and his unruly hair had been tamed somewhat by a comb.
He had more colour in his cheeks, and he looked well rested, those unusual blue grey eyes less red rimmed.
Indeed, as Holmes suddenly realized that he was being scrutinized, and turned those all seeing eyes on to his friend, Watson realized that there was a familiar twinkle there.
For his part, Holmes felt much better this morning.
He'd spent the weekend sleeping like a baby.
After an initial barrage of tests at the hospital, on Wednesday afternoon, ranging from the less invasive investigations, like blood pressure, pulse and temperature base line readings, measuring his height and weight, quizzing him about his diet and exercise regime, and his recent general health, then an eye test and hearing test, and tests designed to measure his hand eye co-ordination and spatial awareness, to having various bodily fluids extracted, he had returned on Friday afternoon for a full head CT scan and various X Rays before a further brief consultation with his new hospital consultant, Sir Roger Witty, FRCS, who had taken a more detailed medical history and conducted his own physical examination of his new patient.
Like Penrose Gill, the man had remained infuriatingly tight lipped, ignoring Holmes' invitation to put forward a diagnosis, uttering instead that he would rather wait for the test results and other meaningless reassurances and platitudes, at the end of which Holmes had been presented with a prescription for a mild sedative and a strong pain killer and orders to take both and rest as much as possible and to wait to hear from Sir Frederick Penrose Gill.
Normally he hated taking sleeping pills, they clouded his mental faculties and left him feeling hung over, so had initially ignored the order and had therefore suffered the consequences that Friday night.
However when excruciating pain and exhaustion had threatened to drive him completely out of his mind, he had finally acquiesced and had downed two pain killers and one sleeping tablet, as directed, and after sleeping for practically ten hours straight on Saturday night, he had woken on Sunday morning feeling surprisingly refreshed.
He had spent Sunday quietly, dozing on and off, listening to music, scrutinizing the newspapers for anything that might be of interest to him in a professional capacity and then had taken another dose of medications and retired early.
This morning he had woken feeling more like himself than he had in longer than he cared to recall, and to his surprise, he had found that he was actually hungry.
His body seemed prepared to carry out his brain's directives and he had showered, shaved and dressed without mishap.
It was a marked improvement over this time last week.
Mrs Hudson's full English had proved to be a miracle restorative, and the toast and marmalade he had finished off with had competed the meal to his satisfaction.
And miracle upon miracles, he didn't feel in the least bit nauseous.
However, the main reason for the positive direction of his mood this morning was that there was a possibility that he had a new case in the pipeline.
'You've got a new client,' Watson stated confidently.
He knew the look on Holmes face well.
The game was afoot, and like a bloodhound, Sherlock was straining at the leash, eagerly anticipating getting the scent.
"Perhaps."
Holmes reached into the pocket of his trousers, extracting his phone; he opened up the text received menu and handed the phone over to Watson. There was a text already loaded, the message already open on the screen.
John glanced at it quickly, then looked up at Holmes and frowned.
However, he knew better than to ask.
Watson returned his attention to the text; sure that Sherlock was just waiting to pounce, asking him to tell him what he made of it.
But what exactly could he make of it?
Ok, the sender was Inspector Greg LeStrade, and Watson made a quick mental note that it had been sent at 4.44pm last Friday evening.
The text message in its self was unusual, because LeStrade usually telephoned Holmes when he needed his help on a case.
However, the most unusual thing about the text was the animated emoticon rolling around laughing its head off in the main body of text.
ROTFLMAO.
That and nothing else.
Rolling on the floor laughing my arse off!
A joke then?
So why was Sherlock sitting there barely able to keep his body still in anticipation. The man was practically vibrating.
John Watson mentally shrugged his shoulders.
Who was he to burst Holmes' bubble? Let him have his fun.
Sherlock was looking better, and as far as Watson was concerned that was a major plus, because it was only as he looked at him properly now that he realized just how seedy Sherlock had been looking of late.
He was snapping at the bit, on the scent of a possible case and as usual, John was completely in the dark.
Welcome back to the Twilight Zone, he thought, and then had to fight to suppress a smile.
It was good to have things back to normal.
No doubt both he and Sherlock would find out soon enough what was going on.
All they had to do was wait.
Unless of course, there was more that Sherlock was not telling him.
'Is that it?' Watson handed back the mobile phone and watched Holmes close the text menu before returning it to his trouser pocket. 'Scotland Yard having a bit of a lull too?' he quipped.
'It's August in London, John, no worthy criminal in his right mind would plot some nasty scheme at this time of the year. Not enough going on to hide his tracks and our friends at the Yard have more time on their hands to snoop around.'
"So they've all buggered off to the seaside or to shoot grouse in Scotland, or something, and Lestrade thought he'd fill in the last few minutes of his day by pulling your leg.'
'He suspected that I too was at a loose end, and probably climbing the walls with boredom. He followed up that little laugh riot with this,' Holmes reached out for his computer. His email account was loaded and there was a message already open on the screen.
'Violets are blue, roses are red, I've got a kook who says someone is dead,' Watson read the first line, a smile curling at the edges of his lips.
Byron it wasn't!
So it was a joke.
But if that was the case, why wasn't Sherlock going off on one?
Any other time he'd be wanting to go over there and pull someone's head off at the very least. Instead, he was sitting there quite placid, for him.
Why was he acting like something big was about to fall in his lap?
Watson read on.
'No bodies, no suspect, but apparently someone's been on a killing spree and it seems to have slipped our attention. Thought this would be right up your street, so sending someone round to see you, Monday at 10am. Miss Cassia Ingram. She's been driving everyone mad, from the lowliest desk sergeant to the damn Chief Constable, and when she got passed on to me, I couldn't resist telling her that you were the perfect man for her, and that if there turned out to be something in it, you would be the one to find out, and then I might be persuaded to investigate. Have fun. GL. P.S. you two deserve each other.'
'So who is Cassia Ingram then?' Watson raised his eyes to regard Holmes, still surprised by just how laid back he seemed to be.
'No idea,' Sherlock smiled benignly.
'You checked her out of course?'
'Of course.'
'And?'
'Off the radar. Apart from the usual information, date of birth, that kind of thing, absolutely nothing of note, except that she is the God daughter of Sir Walter Bootle.' Watson frowned, the name unfamiliar. 'Merchant banker, died in 2007, of natural causes. His son tried to kick up a stink at the time, inferring murder, but there was nothing in it.'
'Perhaps there was. Perhaps Miss Ingram also believes he was murdered, knows who might have done the deed, and thinks that this person is still in the business,' Watson surmised, passing the laptop back to Sherlock.
"So why wait six years?"
"Hmmm, that's a fair point."
Watson took a sip of his tea, scratched his left ear absently, and then suddenly, a look of utter surprise and glee transformed his features.
"Bloody hell Sherlock, you know what this is! LeStrade is sending you your own little Miss Marple!'
'Hardly. I don't think this Miss Ingram is quite in her dotage just yet, Watson, she's only thirty five."
'Oh. So?"
"No-one there is taking her seriously, after all, it is the silly season, and they obviously think that she is some kind of crank, Le Strade says as much in his email, and of course, there is an element of LeStrade finding it amusing to yank my chain, palming her off on to me, then sitting back to watch me perhaps make a fool of myself chasing wild geese. His way of bringing me down a peg or two after one too many successes of late that have made him and the Force look incompetent.'
"Conveniently forgetting all the cases you don't take credit for."
"Elementary, my dear Watson."
"And you're just going to go along with that?"
"Why not?" Sherlock shrugged philosophically, eyeing his now empty tea cup. "Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed and the elderly landlady appeared in the kitchen doorway as if by magic. "Ah! There you are. More tea, Mrs Hudson," he demanded.
"And I suppose you want fanning with a wet kipper while I'm at it," Mrs Hudson grumbled darkly, but then turned to move back into the kitchen to fulfil his request, and as he watched her, Watson could tell from the slight jiggling of her shoulders that she was only laughing softly to herself.
Sherlock Holmes was back to his usual self and all was once again right in Mrs Hudson's world.
She returned quickly with the teapot and silently poured out a fresh cup for Holmes, before pouring out another cup for Watson.
"Can I get you something to eat, John?"
"No thanks, Mrs H. I had something at home," Watson smiled warmly at her, acknowledging silently her apparent happiness and relief at Sherlock's improved appearance and demeanour, before returning his attention to Holmes. "You think there's something in it?"
"I don't know ..."
"Oh go on, you can manage a slice of toast, I don't doubt."
"Thank you Mrs Hudson," Holmes tone was now one of impatience as the elderly landlady remained hovering between himself and Watson. "You might consider making a fresh pot. I'm expecting a visitor in a short while."
"I'm you're landlady dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs Hudson reminded, but there was a bright twinkle in her eyes, as she whisked the empty plate away from Sherlock's place setting.
"As I was saying," Sherlock glared at Mrs Hudson, hoping that she would take the hint and return to the kitchen.
She had an unfortunate habit of eavesdropping and then thinking she had the right to add her own opinion on any subject they were talking about. Either that or she went off on some dotty old lady tangent that was way out of left field.
He loved her dearly, well, as well as he was capable of loving anyone, but sometimes she droned on so, complete drivel most of the time, and it quickly got on his nerves.
"Don't mind me, I'm sure," Mrs Hudson returned the sour look, her tone hurt. "After all, I only live here! If you keep that up, young man, I'll put the bloody rent up."
She lifted her chin and pinned Holmes with a piercing look, then taking the hint she moved away, carrying the tea pot back to the kitchen.
Soon they heard the clank of the tap and water running as she filled the kettle, ready to boil and brew a fresh pot of tea.
"As I was saying," Holmes continued with a deep, exasperated sigh. "I don't know yet. I haven't met Miss Ingram."
"And you don't smell a rat here, Sherlock? I mean, the email sets the tone. It has to be a joke. LeStrade's way of getting a rise out of you."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. There may or may not be something in it. She's been knocked back at every turn, yet she persists, keeps aiming higher up the food chain hoping to hook some bigger fish. I like that kind of determination."
"Obstinacy."
Watson was beginning to see now why LeStrade had not been able to resist adding the last bit to his text.
You two deserve each other.
Holmes could be one stubborn son of a gun when he knew he was right, although he didn't often recognize, or admire the trait in others.
"Perhaps. She may indeed turn out to be a crank. Some poor creature, obsessed, deranged, deluded, mentally ill, and if that turns out to be the case, I'll simply ply her with tea, pat her hand and then send her on her way in no doubt that I do not waste my time on such things."
Watson paused in the process of raising his tea cup to his lips and winced.
He could well imagine the sort of things Holmes might come out with, none of them complementary.
"Why bother seeing her at all? You could tell her you're busy on some other case and send her away without even asking any details. It would be kinder, I mean, if it turns out that she is mentally ill." Watson grew cautious now.
"LeStrade obviously thinks it's all a big joke, on you, but if she is mentally ill Sherlock, it would be cruel to see her and give her even the slightest hope that you might be able to help her, and when you don't, she could go straight to the papers and make a big noise about how you lead her down the garden path. You don't need that. You're just getting your reputation back to something like respectable, after all. Why buy into something that could blow up in your face?"
"You want the truth, John?"
"Go for it."
"Frankly, I have nothing better to do."
"You're bored."
"Out of my vastly superior mind. I'd even consider looking into the existence of the Loch Ness monster right now, if it meant my brain was no longer consuming it's self on trivia, pap and dross. If I don't do some serious thinking shortly I may just end up in a permanent vegetative state!"
"And it beats shooting at the walls."
"Yes, that too. It's getting pretty old, both with Mrs Hudson and the neighbours, not to mention the dreadful draft."
"No shit, Sherlock."
Sherlock sighed, lifting his refreshed tea cup to his lips, taking a sip and giving Watson something of a reproachful look.
His friend had a unique way of expressing himself, but Holmes did not always approve of his colourful use of expletives.
Undoubtedly the consequence of army life, a mostly male dominated enviromment.
"I need to do something, even if it is chasing wild geese up blind alleys."
He took another sip of his tea.
"Besides, I've been there too, John," he added, replacing his cup back in the saucer.
Watson frowned.
"Think, John. Think. How many times have I banged my head against a brick wall, trying to get the police to listen to me, to believe that I was on to something, that I wasn't some freak or a fruit loop wasting their time?"
"If you put it like that," Watson conceded softly.
"How many times did they ignore me, and more people died? Just because a person is paranoid, it doesn't necessarily follow that they are not really being followed. We do all still have something called instinct, John, although most people don't use it much these days."
"So?"
"So I'll hear her out. That's all. Perhaps she's crazy, perhaps she's as sane as you or I and something has just given her the jitters. I'll take the chance either way, because if I ignore her, and it turns out there is something to it, what do you think that would do to my state of mind, much less my reputation? I won't be a hypocrite, John. I won't be like the police, and hopefully at the end of it, I won't be a laughing stock either." Holmes explained matter of factly.
"I'll make you a deal, John. If she makes me yawn inside thirty seconds, you have my permission to toss her out of here, with the name of a good psychiatrist!"
"Deal."