A few moments later Lestrade pointedly clears his throat, causing me and Stephen to snap out of daze and look at him.
"So you two know each other, I take it?" Lestrade asks, reaching into his pocket. "By the way, John, I think these are yours."
Pulling my keys out, he tosses them to me and crosses his arms on his chest, waiting for me to answer his question.
Catching the keys and pocketing them, I throw a glance at Stephen, who already managed to get himself under control and watches me with an absolutely vacant expression on his face, and then resume my eye contact with Lestrade.
"Yes, Inspector, we…"
To my surprise, at this moment Stephen decides to interrupt me. "We met a year ago, Detective Inspector. Doctor Watson saved my family after a car crash. My wife and son – they were just two of his many patients, so no wonder if he won't remember them at all. But I remember him, and that's enough, don't you think?"
Lestrade frowns a little, obviously not impressed by Stephen's abrupt declaration of gratitude to me. I can totally agree with the Detective Inspector on this, but not because of Stephen's confession; it's actually the way he stresses 'enough' that bothers me.
Looks like Lestrade's new witness is not at all enthusiastic about me mentioning our recent cab ride from Battersea to Baker Street. Which makes me wonder why, by the way.
Meanwhile Lestrade, who obviously had enough of this weird scene, decides to take matters in his own hands.
"Well, Mr. Lowsley," he breaks his eye contact with me and fixes Stephen with his patented 'police gaze': eyes narrowed and eyebrows drawn together. "I need to ask you a few questions, so please follow me."
With this, he gestures towards the outside of his office, and Stephen immediately turns around, heading in the direction pointed by the DI.
"Can I stay for the interrogation?" I ask as Lestrade starts moving, and the police inspector gives a quick nod, beckoning for me to follow.
Stephen is waiting for us near the doors to the department, and Lestrade, not slowing his pace, pushes the swinging doors open and continues along the corridor. Stephen and I are left with no other choice but to hurry up and catch up with him, so we briefly exchange glances and proceed to do just that.
But I just can't let the subject slip, so while we are still out of Lestrade's earshot I gather my wits and decide to confront my newfound "friend".
"Why didn't you tell him?" I ask bluntly, causing Stephen to jerk in surprise and stumble a little.
"I couldn't," he answers in a low voice, glancing nervously at Lestrade's back. He looks quite pale, and I notice sweat breaking on his forehead. "I had a reason for being near the Battersea Service Station – a reason I can't tell you or the inspector about yet. But I can tell you one thing: the stuff I heard from those two blokes two days ago is going to make quite a stir, believe me."
"What do you mean?" I ask, intrigued. "And are you alright, by the way? You don't look good."
Stephen just shakes his head.
"Not now, John," he says, glancing nervously at Lestrade, who already reached the interrogation room and stands near the door, waiting. "I need everything that I'm going to say to be recorded. It's my only chance. The stakes are too high, John, and I need protection."
Stephen's voice is hushed, and when I risk a glance at him, I catch the expression of genuine fear flitting across his face. He desperately tries to keep his cool, but his quivering lips and haunted eyes clearly telling another story.
I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but I'm perfectly capable of doing some deductions of my own. Especially in this situation, when at least two conclusions are obvious: my ride home in Stephen's cab could have been planned all along, and this case is probably going to gain some points on Sherlock's scale of interest quite soon.
I'm so caught up in my musings that Stephen's voice makes me jump a little. Turns out that he isn't talking to me, although he mentions my name, and I frown a little, trying to understand what exactly is he saying right now.
"I was wondering if I can ask for Doctor Watson's presence during the interrogation, Detective Inspector," Stephen asks hesitantly. "I've read his blog, and I've been on his colleague's site. The Science of Deduction. Mister Sherlock Holmes, if I'm not mistaken."
These three little phrases are like trigger warning for me, and I feel my defences immediately snapping up. "Yeah, so what?"
The tone of my voice is unnecessarily sharp, and Stephen takes a step back, trying to shrink away. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't want to upset you. I really need help, and I thought..."
"Mister Lowsley," Lestrade interrupts, opening the door of the interrogation room and gesturing for Stephen to go inside. "It would be better if we continue this conversation inside, don't you think?"
The cabbie nods silently, lowers his head and steps into the room, his whole figure drooping in defeat. He looks so miserable that I start to feel guilty despite of all my suspicions.
"Steve," I call quietly, and he whirls around to face me, a hopeful expression appearing on his face. "I'm overreacted. Sorry."
"It's okay, John, I understand," he says hurriedly. "I'm a cabbie, after all. And I read your blog. The Study in Pink... It's alright for you to be suspicious. But I mean no harm, and I need your help."
I open my mouth to answer, but right at this moment Lestrade, who is obviously fed up with all this dancing around, again takes matters in his own hands. Taking a step forward, he places his palm on my back and delivers a push that sends me stumbling inside the interrogation room, then follows suit, closing the door behind him.
"My apologies, John, but I had no choice. You were taking too long with your conversation and, frankly, it was getting nowhere," the DI says firmly. "Please take a seat, Mister Lowsley."
Stephen immediately shuffles towards the chair and drops down with an expression of obvious relief.
"Thank... you, Detective Inspector," he says slowly, rubbing his forehead and closing his eyes for a minute. "Sorry... don't feel... so good."
The doctor in me immediately takes over, and I'm near the table in an instant, reaching out and touching Stephen's forehead. His skin feels cold and clammy, and he shivers slightly, looking at me in confusion.
"Can you tell me your symptoms, Steve?" I ask, dropping my hand onto his wrist and taking his pulse. Elevated, as I had expected.
"Symptoms?" the cabbie frowns and starts rubbing his forehead again. "What..."
He obviously has trouble understanding me, so I rephrase my question. "Does it hurt anywhere, Steve?"
"No..," he abruptly claps his hand over his mouth and doubles over.
Lestrade reacts immediately, shoving a waste basket in Stephen's direction, and our witness throws up violently, his whole body shuddering with painful spasms.
When the fit passes, Stephen reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic bottle of Gatorade. Flipping the lid open, he gulps the liquid and then drops the empty bottle into the basket.
"Dizzy," he says weakly. "Nauseous. But I need to tell..."
"What you need, Stephen," I interrupt sternly "is to go to the hospital. Detective Inspector, would you be so kind as to call an ambulance?"
"Sure," Lestrade takes his mobile out of his pocket and starts punching in the number, but Stephen abruptly jerks up, vigorously shaking his head.
"No, no, no, no," he protests urgently. "Need to tell... Two guys, ordinary... blokes... Jeans... Leather... coats... Long hair... students... said... can't be late... meeting... the club... weird... name... Diogen..."
He cries in pain and grabs onto the edge of the table, trying to stay upright.
"Lestrade!" I yell, taking hold of Stephen's shoulders and trying to support him. "Ambulance, NOW!"
The cabbie grits his teeth, fighting the pain for a few moments, and then his body slumps down.
"Felt... being watched... today..," he whispers, finally giving up his struggle to stay conscious, and a few seconds later he goes limp in my arms.
Cursing a blue streak, I carefully lower my unresponsive burden onto the floor and turn to face Lestrade. The DI is already on the phone, barking instructions for the ambulance and giving me a reassuring nod.
I move Stephen into a foetal position and then settle in to wait for the paramedics, all the while trying to push away the thought that the case now definitely will gain a bunch of points on Sherlock's scale...
Life sometimes has a wicked sense of humour. Like now, when upon our arrival to the hospital I discover that it's the same place where Sherlock is currently residing.
More than that, as soon as I step out of the ambulance the familiar black car catches my eye, making me groan quietly. Great, as if this whole 'somebody is after me, cabbie version' incident wasn't enough, I now have Mycroft Holmes to confront.
"Wait a minute, isn't that..," Lestrade begins, stopping beside me.
"Exactly," I confirm, turning slightly to look at the DI. His eyes are following Stephen's stretcher as it being wheeled through the hospital's doors. "Now I can keep an eye on both of them."
"Speaking of which - shall we?" Lestrade gestures towards the entrance. I simply nod, starting to move forward, and the DI falls into step right behind me.
The stretcher with Stephen is nowhere to be seen, and we make a brief stop in front of the reception to enquire of his whereabouts. Lestrade prevents all questions about our identities by flashing his badge at the nurse, and a few seconds later we are being led down the corridor to the emergency unit.
"With all this mess I forgot to give the case file to you, by the way," the DI says suddenly, making me stumble a little in surprise. "Sherlock will give you hell about that, I imagine."
It takes a couple of moments for me to come with an adequate reply – Lestrade's sudden mind detour towards the case matters briefly throws me for a loop, but soon I realise that the police inspector is just continues to do his job. Stephen Lowsley is a part of the case now, and Lestrade is obviously trying to put the pieces together. It's a trait of a true professional – the ability to distance himself from the minor details in order to see the whole picture more clearly. I have such a trait myself; but believe me, sometimes it can be a bit annoying for those who have the misfortune to be near.
But, as I already mentioned, I'm a professional, and therefore I'm able to formulate a reply quite easily.
"Don't worry, Inspector; with the current key witness in the same hospital Sherlock can easily forgive you this omission."
"I bet he would," Lestrade grins, slowing down as we approach our destination. "But I make sure he gets the papers today."
"Thank you for being so considerate, Inspector," I answer with gratitude, eyeing the man in green scrubs who's waiting for us near the door to the emergency ward. "With Sherlock's knee and Stephen's condition I pretty much doubt that they will be able to meet soon, so these papers can be quite handy for now."
"I'm sorry, are you the ones who were with Mister Lowsley? Detective Inspector Lestrade and Doctor Watson?" the A&E doctor enquires as soon as we stop in front of him.
"That's right," Lestrade confirms, glancing at the medic's badge. "What can you tell us about his condition, Doctor Rogers?"
"He's still unconscious, but stable. We're running a series of tests in order to determine the reason of his illness. It says in the papers that he become sick during the interrogation... Can you tell me about the details?"
Lestrade nods briefly, turning his head to look at me, and I mouth 'Sherlock' at him. He nods again and faces the doctor.
"I think I can help you with that, Doctor Rogers," the DI says amiably. "But first of all we need to excuse Doctor Watson – his colleague is in this hospital too, and there's an urgent matter that needs to be settled immediately."
"No problem," Rogers shrugs his shoulders. "Could you please follow me, Detective Inspector? I think it would be more comfortable for us to talk somewhere private."
"Of course," Lestrade agrees, and the next moment I see them both turning around and walking away. But before they disappear around the corner, Lestrade, obviously remembering about his promise to me, gets his phone out of his pocket, dials the number and, after issuing a command, hangs up and gives me a little wave before turning the corner.
I'm left alone in the corridor with no other choice but to head for Sherlock's room. Sure thing, I have some news to tell him, but considering the absence of the case files and the presence of Mycroft's car near the hospital, I pretty much doubt that this news is going to satisfy Sherlock.
Ah well, as I was saying, there's no other choice, so I straighten my back, square my shoulders and start my journey to Sherlock's private room, hoping against hope that Mycroft is already left – and at the same time knowing that in this case there is no such thing as luck.
And sure enough, as soon as I step inside the semi-dark room, fooled by its peaceful quietness, there's a small movement in the far corner, and the painfully familiar voice of Mycroft Holmes breaks the silence.
"Good evening, John," there's another movement, a slight click, and a second later the corner of the room where Mycroft is sitting is flooded with the soft yellow light from a small lamp on the wall. "I believe we have a few things to discuss, don't you think?"
Right at that moment I finally realise that Sherlock's bed is empty. An instant feeling of dread settles at the pit of my stomach, but I manage to take myself under control almost instantly and meet Mycroft's cold blue gaze with confidence.
"Good evening, Mycroft," I answer, taking a few steps forward and sitting down in a chair a little to the left from Sherlock's brother, all the while managing not to break the eye contact and all the while having a view of the door out of the corner of my eye. "May I ask where Sherlock is?"
"X-ray," Mycroft answers curtly, and then tilts his head a little, continuing to survey me with half-closed eyes. "He should be back soon."
"Good," I allow myself to relax a little, leaning back in my chair. "You were saying something about a discussion?"
"Actually, I would rather wait for Sherlock's return, if you don't mind," the older Holmes replies, crossing his arms over his chest. "Contrary to your opinion, John, I'm not here to reprimand you; I'm here to ask for your and Sherlock's assistance."
"A matter of national importance?" I enquire, mimicking his pose.
"Precisely," he confirms, reaching for the briefcase and pulling out a yellow envelope with a "Top Secret" stamped on the upper right corner. "I think there's no need to remind you..."
"Absolutely," I nod, and Mycroft hands me the envelope, then leans back again and closes his eyes.
"Take your time, John," he says warmly, and I stifle a groan, realising that I just had been sweet-talked into accepting a case that Sherlock undoubtedly would refuse to take.
The corners of Mycroft's lips quirk up in a small smile. "You're getting better at it, John. And don't concern yourself with Sherlock's reaction. Let's just say that I have another piece of information that will undoubtedly pique his interest."
"From your mouth to God's ears, Mycroft," I mutter, opening the envelope and pulling out a thin manila folder.
Placing the folder on my lap, I open it and immediately feel my eyes widen.
"Interesting coincidence, isn't it?" Mycroft's voice pulls me back to the reality. "Seems like your little private case just become not so little, Doctor Watson. And Sherlock was absolutely right. She's definitely Italian."
I'm still trying to formulate a reply, when the door to the room opens and Sherlock is wheeled in. He immediately raises himself up on his elbows, surveys the room, narrows his eyes after seeing his brother, then his face visibly brightens when he notices me.
"Thank you for your help, I can manage the rest," my friend smiles briefly at the nurse, and she answers him with a warm smile, then turns and leaves the room.
Sherlock pushes himself up the rest of the way, and swings his legs over the edge of the gurney. "John?" he asks softly, quirking up an eyebrow.
"Of course, Sherlock," I hand the folder back to Mycroft, stand up and cross the room, stopping near Sherlock and slipping my right arm around his shoulders.
He nods gratefully and, in turn, slips his left arm around my waist and carefully slides down from the gurney, placing all his weight on his right leg and reaching out to grab my left arm with his right for support.
Mycroft pointedly clears his throat. "There's no point in being so stubborn, dear brother."
Sherlock shoots him a glare and squeezes my left arm slightly, thereby giving me the permission to start moving. It takes a couple of careful steps and a bit of manoeuvring to settle Sherlock on the bed, and he immediately pushes himself up, letting me rearrange the pillows so he can lean comfortably against the headboard.
"I thought my answer was evident, Mycroft," he snarls. "I already have a case, and can't spare the time for your... trivia," he air-quotes the last word for emphasis.
"Um..," I say uncomfortably, hating the role Mycroft managed to impose on me in this. "Actually, Sherlock, our case seems to be shifting onto Mycroft's board..."
Sherlock cuts me of with an impatient wave of his hand, then takes a couple of moments to scrutinise his sibling.
"Okay, I'm listening," he says finally, and I breathe the sign of relief.
The stalemate is broken, and the game is about to begin. And the best part in all this?
This time I sort of have an ace up my sleeve.