Mycroft simply extends his arm with the folder towards me. "John, if you would be so kind. Here's all the information I have at this moment, Sherlock. It will be quicker if you look through the papers. If you have any questions, I will be happy to clarify."
Sherlock pointedly shifts his gaze, fixing his eyes on me, and waves a hand in his brother's direction. "John."
The unspoken command is quite clear. Fetch, John. No pleasant words, just a plain order of a man expecting immediate obedience.
Well, you called the whole thing off, John, remember? And Sherlock's right, you were pretty content with being his assistant since the moment you met.
Then why I can't stop thinking about it, dammit?
"John?"
Softer now. Questioning.
"John, please."
A polite request. I practically feel the warmth of his gaze seeping into me. Focus, John, for now, it's the case that matters. Anything else can be sorted out later.
"Of course, Sherlock," I cross the short distance towards Mycroft's chair, take the folder from his hand – not failing to notice a knowing smile he gives me in the process – and make my way back to Sherlock's bed.
"Thank you, John," my friend takes the folder and pats the bed. "Sit down. You obviously had a chance to see those papers, so I could do with your expertise."
Accepting his invitation, I settle on the edge of the bed. "We still don't have an autopsy report, Sherlock, but Lestrade promised to send the papers. Without them my expertise for now is pointless."
Sherlock's eyes immediately focus on me. "As I recall, I sent you to Scotland Yard specifically to retrieve those papers."
"Yeah, well…" I shrug my shoulders. "There were some complications."
"Complications," Sherlock repeats calmly. "And what KIND of complications we are talking about?"
From the corner of my eye I see Mycroft rising from his seat and hooking his umbrella over the crook of his elbow.
"That would be the unfortunate predicament of Mr. Stephen Lowsley, Sherlock. Is my information accurate, John?" Sherlock's brother enquires politely, causing an immediate spark of curiosity in my friend's eyes. "Well, dear brother, I must take my leave. With John and Inspector Lestrade here, you will certainly have no trouble in acquiring all the necessary information. And it would be marvelous if you kept me informed… Don't make me resort to desperate measures; you know how I despise that."
Sherlock acknowledges his words with a brief nod and an impatient wave of his hand, but his eyes remain fixed on me, and the spark of curiosity is on the brink of transforming into a wildfire.
"Goodbye, John," Mycroft says, crossing the room and opening the door. "Feel free to visit the Diogenes club, if Sherlock encounters any problems during the investigation."
Mycroft's remark reminds me about that cryptic bit of Stephen's confession, but mentioning that now certainly isn't the best decision. For Sherlock it will be another added puzzle; but, considering the fact of Mycroft showing his interest in seemingly ordinary case, it would be wise to discuss the cabbie's words with him first.
"Goodbye, Mycroft," I reply, still holding Sherlock's gaze. "And thanks for the invitation, it might come in handy."
The older Holmes hums in satisfaction and leaves the room. The moment the door closes behind him, Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "Stephen Lowsley and Lestrade are here, in the hospital. I think you should bring me up to date, John."
"Well…" I pause for a bit, quickly shifting through the informatiom I have at this momment. Better not mention the bit about the Diogenes club – at least, not now. "Lestrade's team checked the CCTV records from the cameras near the Service Station. The van was driven there by two blokes, who took a cab after that. Stephen is the cabbie who drove them…"
"Where to?" Sherlock asks immediately, and I gather my wits to tell him a lie… Well, not exactly a lie – it's more like concealing the truth, actually; but in this situation it's almost the same.
"Don't know yet, Sherlock – he passed out before he had time to answer. Looks like he was poisoned, so somebody is probably trying to cover the tracks."
My friend steeples his hands in front of his lips. "That explains Lestrade's presence. And what about our witness' condition?"
"We brought him to the A&E, and I left Lestrade talking with Doctor Rogers. He said they are running a series of tests to determine the reason of his illness…"
"But you said that he was poisoned," Sherlock interrupts again. "What makes you think that?"
"He was sweating, disoriented… the skin pale and clammy. And he threw up in the interrogation room. The symptoms are clear."
"Interesting," Sherlock remarks, lowering his hands and lacing his fingers together. "So somebody is taking desperate measures to prevent him from giving a statement…"
"Yes, he said he felt being watched the whole day," I confirm. "But that's not all, Sherlock. When I stormed from the crime scene earlier, I took a cab. And guess who the driver was?"
My friend narrows his eyes. "Too many coincidences, John."
"My point exactly," I agree. "And besides, he told me then that I had saved his family after a car accident a year ago."
"And you don't remember it, as I presume?" there's a thoughtful expression on my friend's face, and I swear I can almost hear the wheels in his head turning. "Of course not, otherwise you wouldn't bring this subject up. So, if he deliberately waited for you…"
"But he couldn't have known that there's going to be an argument between us," I object immediately.
"You're right, he couldn't," Sherlock nods, unlaces his hands and starts drumming the fingers of the right one on the folder. "Which means that he probably had a few alternative options. And that, in turn, means he's involved – one way or another."
To tell the truth, I had my doubts about this whole "saving my family" thing. It just hadn't felt right. But apart from this small detail, Stephen didn't raise in me any other suspicions, so… Yeah, I was pretty much confused.
"John," there's a slight edge in Sherlock's voice, as it breaks into my thoughts. "Your attention is slipping, and this is not acceptable. Go home, and get some sleep. In your current condition you are useless."
Mr. Subtlety in all his glory, my inner voice supplies sarcastically. But actually, Sherlock is right: there are just too many events for one day, I need a rest.
"With pleasure, Sherlock," I reply, getting on my feet. "After all, I think I've done my share of legwork today. You have materials from your brother, plus Lestrade promised to send you the autopsy report… Plenty of information for you to consider."
Sherlock, by this moment already engrossed in the perusing of the material in the folder, swiftly raises his head and at the same moment reaches towards the bedside table for his phone. "As I recall, you mentioned Lestrade's being here?" he enquires, his thumbs posed over the keys.
"Yes, he accompanied our witness to the hospital, and we ended here," I confirm. "Why?"
"Information," he replies succinctly, and, lowering his gaze, starts typing. "I need to systematise it for us while you'll be away."
"Well, at least it means you're not going to do anything stupid while he's here," I comment, and Sherlock immediately wrinkles his nose. "And don't even try to deny that you were planning to sneak into the witness' room as soon as I will leave."
"Not right away, yet you're correct," Sherlock confirms without batting an eyelid. "However, considering the state of my knee, Lestrade's presence is an added bonus."
This brings me back to the subject of the x-ray. "Speaking of your knee…"
Sherlock finishes typing and hits "Send", then places this phone back on the bedside table. "Don't worry, nothing's broken although you've managed to crack a bone. Tissue damage, torn ligaments, but they are positive they can discharge me tomorrow. I told them that you're perfectly qualified to provide all necessary care while I'm staying at home."
"Of course you did," I mutter, and Sherlock quirks an eyebrow; but my attempt at explanation is cut at the beginning by Lestrade appearing in the room.
My friend's gaze travels from me to the DI, and zeroes in on the folder he holds in his hand. This is my clue to leave: Sherlock has shifted into his "case mode", and now Lestrade is here, in case Sherlock needs someone to think at aloud. And our Inspector, in contrast to me, has a habit to question every one of Sherlock's statements – which, in turn, gives my friend an opportunity to, shall I say, bask in the spotlight. And besides, Sherlock secretly regards Lestrade as his assiduous apprentice; he'll deny it with vehemence, but if you bother to look close enough, you'll see a tiny glimmer of satisfaction hidden behind that piercing gaze. I saw it from the beginning, and eventually, Lestrade managed to notice it too, and since then their working relationship has become more effective and less formal.
Sherlock, meanwhile, beckons Lestrade closer and after that points at the chair I had just vacated. "Impeccable timing, Inspector. I'm trying to send John home, and with you here to keep me company for a while, he can depart with a clear conscience."
Lestrade, having spared me a quick once-over on his way to the chair, nods his agreement. "Sherlock's right, John. You look tired, and nothing is preventing you from having a bit of rest. For this night, anyway. Stephen's condition is stable, but he's still not out of the woods yet; they gave him a mild sedative to help him sleep, and he's kept under 24 hour observation. But there's a possibility we can talk to him tomorrow afternoon. So go, and have a good night's rest," he finishes and, waving me goodbye, settles into the chair.
Sherlock catches my gaze, raises an eyebrow and then favours me with the warm smile. "You've heard the Inspector, John. I'm perfectly okay, now shoo and don't even try to come back before midday."
I roll my eyes and Sherlock, still smiling, narrows his slightly. That's my friend in a nutshell: sugar-coated insults and a righteous indignation if you decide to take offence and bother to show it.
But I had enough time to learn my lessons, so I answer with a smile of my own and open the door. "Will do, Sherlock. Have fun and see you tomorrow!"
With that I leave the room, closing the door behind me. It takes me a few minutes to walk out of the hospital, and the moment I step out onto the pavement I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Mycroft's number.
He picks up on the second ring.
"I was expecting your call, John," he begins without preamble. "I have some information regarding Mr. Lowsley at my disposal that could interest you."
His voice is calm and confident, as always, but for some reason it sets off an alarm in my head. Well, to be honest, the whole incident with Stephen is… strange, but Mycroft's words for some reason send an unpleasant shiver running down my spine.
"What kind of information?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
"The one that certainly shouldn't be spoken about on the phone, John," Mycroft says firmly. "I'll be in the vicinity of Baker street tomorrow presumably at 10 a.m. Would it be convenient if I pay you a visit?"
"Of course. And I have some information too… Don't think you'll like it, though."
Mycroft hums thoughtfully. "And that information has something to do with your current case, I presume?"
"Definitely. I think it..," I begin, but Mycroft cuts in, not letting me finish.
"Not on the phone, John. Tomorrow morning. And I strongly advise you to get some rest."
"You're not the first to say that to me today. Goodnight, Mycroft. See you tomorrow."
"Good night, John," with this he hangs up, and I cross the pavement to flag down a taxi.
Turns out that Sherlock, Lestrade and Mycroft were right: the moment I slide onto the car seat I feel the fatigue starting to take over my body. Suddenly there's the overwhelming urge to curl up on this seat and sleep for ages, and it takes all my remaining power not to succumb to this craving.
"221B Baker Street," I say to the cabbie, and then, leaning back, add drowsily, "Please wake me up when we get there."
His answering 'Will do, sir" is the last thing I hear before sleep finally overpowers me.
I wake up with somebody's hand on my shoulder and careful, but insisted nudging.
"You asked me to wake you when we got to your address," the driver says politely. "We're here, sir."
I blink my eyes open and, seeing that, the cabbie pulls back, a friendly smile lifting the corners of his lips. But there's a familiar spark of curiosity in his eyes, and my mind, while still on its way to acceptable lucidity, makes an immediate connection.
Damn, not again.
Nodding quickly, I duck my head and start to climb out of the car, hoping against hope that he wouldn't…
"Sir...," he begins uncertainly and I falter half-way with my left foot on the ground and my left hand gripping the upper part of the car door. Then I take myself under control, finish my task and, with both feet on the solid ground, turn to face him.
"Yes, you are not mistaken," I answer patiently. "I am Doctor Watson, colleague of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Anything else you want to know?"
A slight blush creeps onto his cheeks; he lowers his gaze and reaches into his pocket. I feel my body tense automatically, but, after a moment of hesitation, he produces his card.
"No, Doctor Watson, not at all," he smiles warmly and holds his hand with the card out. "I just wanted to say that I'm honoured… Here's my card, if you require my assistance."
Mentally giving an eye roll, I reach out and take his card. Déjà vu.
"You and Mr Holmes, you're legends," the fellow continues. "I heard so much about you, but I couldn't imagine...," he falters. "Sorry, it's just… Pleased to meet you, sir."
Glancing at the card briefly, I pocket it. "Me too, William. Thank you."
"Just Bill, sir… Doctor Watson. Have a nice evening."
"Of course, Bill. And… likewise. Goodbye!"
"Goodbye, sir," he closes the passenger's door, returns to his seat, waves at me, closes his door and drives away.
Shaking my head, I cross the distance towards our front door, slide the key into the lock, open the door…
Only to find myself face to face with Mrs Hudson, looking extremely worried and holding in her hands a pillow and a bloodied cloth.
Damn.
Taking a deep breath, I start speaking before she manages to open her mouth.
"Good evening, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock is in the hospital, there's been an accident and he damaged his knee. Nothing serious, though: he's going to wear a brace on his knee for some time, but he'll be home tomorrow by the evening."
Our landlady's expression softens. "Thank God, I was starting to fear the worst. And how are you feeling, John? You don't look good, to be honest."
"You're the fourth person to say that to me today, Mrs Hudson," I flash her warm, but tired smile. "And you're right – I'm dead on my feet."
She answers me with a mischievous smile. "Then I have something that would be perfect for you, my dear. A nice cup of herbal tea – and you're going to sleep like a baby. And some apple pie," she winks at me.
"Sounds perfect, Mrs Hudson," taking my coat off, I hang it on the accustomed hook. Then I take the pillow and the cloth from her hands. "Let me just take care of these, and I'll be back with you shortly."
"Of course, my dear," she pats my arm, smiling, and then turns and heads towards the door of her flat. "But don't be long, or the tea is going to be cold. And we can't have that, can we?"
"Of course we can't," I agree with a smile, and, turning around, start to climb the stairs. "See you soon!"
"You'd better," she answers, and I hear the sound of the closing door.
A quiet evening and a full night's sleep. Just what the doctor ordered.