Chapter Five
A Few days later
Sherlock had been perfectly tolerable for the past few days. It was really starting to freak me out. The nurses thought him a delight, the doctors found him charming and agreeable and both Lestrade and I receive many, many hugs. We were beginning to think the attack had permanently addled his brain, or the doctors had put him on some particularly strong medication – medicinal marijuana was Greg's guess – but the doctor's said it was probably the shock of the attack and he'd be back to normal when he got home.
It was five days before the doctor's decided he could go home, and I had gotten his things ready the day before. Lestrade was carrying the bags and left me with the task of manoeuvring Sherlock out of the hospital wheelchair – they had a policy that he had to leave in it – and into the taxi.
Just as he stood up, a cloud seemed to cross his features and I couldn't help my relief when I realised that he looked just like his usual self, in all his glory. Sharp steely blue eyes flicked around, drinking in the details of his surroundings, and the confusion was obvious on his face,
"Where are we going, John?" I stare at him in surprise; how could he have forgotten? He'd been nagging me about going home ever since he had been admitted.
"We're going home, Sherlock." The answer didn't seem to help him; if anything, his brow furrowed even further,
"But, I've been unconscious for days. Surely, that cannot be a sign of recovery—"
"What are you talking about? You haven't been unconscious for days; I've been talking to you and wheeling you around the hospital. You've been awake, haven't you?" His face was beginning to turn an impossible shade of white and I watched it grow paler with alarm.
Lestrade appeared at my side, having finished loading the bags, and took one look at Sherlock's face before asking,
"Sherlock, are you alright? What's going on?"
He looked up, looking small and terrified for a second, but his face curdled into his usual hard look and all traces of vulnerability and uncertainty dissolved immediately.
"It's nothing. I think I've just been tried; I didn't sleep before the case, and I must simply be more affected by the exhaustion then I realised. I've hardly slept in that bed; the nurses always make their rounds at an ungodly time in the morning. John, you should run a course on how to take vitals without throwing an injured person half out of their bed and making more noise than a stampeding elephant."
He went silent immediately, curling in on himself defensively, and I knew the conversation was closed. I exchanged a worried look with Lestrade, but Sherlock pulled away and stumbled into the cab. He shuffled across the backseat, limply resting his head against the cool glass as we climbed in beside him. He didn't say any more during the drive home, nor when we got him up into 221b at the other end of the journey.
Greg had finally left to head out to work, and I was left with a sullen Sherlock who said nothing for the rest of the day and sulked on the sofa. I tried bringing up topics of conversation from the past few days, but he honestly seemed to have no recollection and I finally had to sit down on the chair across from him an ask,
"Are you alright, Sherlock?" He looked up from my laptop, frowning,
"Bored. I'm trying to find a case; my mind had been stagnant for too long. I need a puzzle, but these are all frustratingly simple." He jumped up from his chair,
"Stop it, you'll rip your stiches—"
"Oh who cares? I would rather tear my abdomen in half then sit here for another minute. I'm going to Scotland Yard. You can either join me, or risk letting me do myself damage in your absence." I sighed, when he put it like that I couldn't really resist.
He had already hailed a cab just the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, texting Lestrade a warning, and he bundled me through the door within seconds. I had wanted a nice cup of tea and then a bit of rest, and I was almost dozing off when we arrived outside Scotland Yard a few minutes later.
I paid the taxi driver as Sherlock raced off into the building, but – when I caught up with him – he wasn't in Lestrade's office as expected. Instead, I found him stood by a water cooler, a ridiculously warm and kind hint in his voice to accompany the wide smile on his face as he talked to… Anderson? What the Hell? He actually looked interested in whatever Anderson had to say. No, not just interested, intrigued.. I almost slapped myself to be sure that I was seeing it right. He actually laughed at something that Anderson said; the other man was beginning to look increasingly disturbed, but was nonetheless enjoying having the genius hanging off his every word and didn't question it.
I only just caught the end of their conversation,
"So you say that you always wanted to be a palaeontologist? They're fascinating things, dinosaurs." I was almost surprised that Sherlock actually knew what they were. "Why didn't you pursue it?" Anderson shrugged and just sighed,
"My mother always said that men who study dinosaurs get very little female attention." Sherlock chuckled and, for a relieved moment, I thought that Sherlock must have been back to normal. Anderson apparently had the same thought because he visibly flinched, expecting an onslaught of insults, but it never came. Sherlock simply patted him on the shoulder and smiled, sincerely,
"Absolute tosh and nonsense. I'm sure the ladies would have been all over you, Anderson, no matter what you chose as your career path. You're a charming man, and very intelligent, but I think we should count our blessings that you mother discouraged you from pursuing that career since you are an invaluable member of our team. We would be lost without you." Anderson actually sent me a panicked looked over Sherlock's shoulder, the praise beginning to severely panic him, but I just shrugged. I was as lost as he was. "I must dash, I have to see Gregory, but we'll carry on this extremely interesting conversation later."
He nodded at Anderson, smiled on last time, and turned on his heel with his hands clasped behind his back and a cheerful whisper on his lips. He was practically skipping. Anderson was somehow managing to looking both bewildered and warm and fuzzy, like a peach in the microwave, as I ran past him to catch up with Sherlock. The second I drew near, he put an arm around my shoulder, "He's a wonderful bloke, isn't he? Such a brilliant mind."
That settled it. I was going to have to check him for drugs later and, quite possibly, force him to meet with a psychiatrist. Even completely off his face, Sherlock should not think that Anderson had a brilliant mind. It was utter madness.
The arm disappeared suddenly and I turned to see where he had gone. There was a subtle flash to his eyes, as he focused on something down the other end of the corridor, and I followed his line of sight. Sally Donovan had separated from the crowd and I watched in utter shock as Sherlock swaggered towards her with a spring in his step that I had never seen.
She turned just as he reached her, giving him a dirty look,
"Good morning, Sally. You're looking particularly radiant, today." The dirty look cleared slightly, becoming one of slight surprise,
"It's Sergeant Donovan to you, freak." His bottom lip jutted out in a slight pout, catching her off guard, and he said, charmingly,
"Oh, but Sally, I was rather hoping you and I could put our pasts behind us." His head cocked to the side slightly, as if he was noticing something, "Is that new eye-shadow?" She reached up, subconsciously patting the slightly smoky skin above her eyes,
"Uh, yes, it is. How did you notice that?"
"How could I not notice when it brings out the beautiful chocolate in your eyes. I never realised how stunning your eyes actually are, Sally." She gaped at him,
"But, how did you know that it was a new shade? How much attention do you normally pay to my appearance?" He smiled, catching her off guard, and a watched a blush begin to creep across her cheeks,
"I always pay attention when it comes to beautiful ladies. I thought you would like being told how lovely you truly are. I don't think people tell you enough; I certainly don't. I have been cruel to you in the past, but that was merely due to your associations with Anderson. You can do so much better—" Well that was a change of tune. Hadn't he just been singing Anderson's praises a few seconds before?
"What you mean like you, or something?" He smiled, plucking her hand up and kissing the top of it in a way that only Sherlock could successfully pull off,
"If that's what you want, but wasn't what I was referring. You could have anyone. A woman with such a gorgeous face has her pick of men; if you deigned to have a drink with me this lunchtime then I would be blessed, but – alas – I do not deserve you. You are far too good for me."
Perhaps it was him saying that she was better than him, perhaps it was the smooth talking flattery, but Sally Donovan actually melted and blushed, as he continued, "Might I ask for you to accompany me for a short meal now, Sally? It would be on me, of course. I know the most charming little place, and you deserve only the best." She blinked in surprise, still trying to figure out if he was being genuine or trying to make her look like a fool,
"Okay, that would be wonderful, Sherlock."
His face abruptly split into a very wide, genuine smile, and he offered her his arms with a bow of his head,
"Let us not wait a moment then, my beautiful companion. John, would you be so kind as to let Lestrade know what has happened and where Sally and I are going." They were gone, Sherlock taking Sally's bag for her like a true gentleman, before I could answer. I watched them go and muttered to myself,
"Oh don't worry. I'll be telling everyone what just happened here."
#
It was over an hour before they finally came back, I was sat in Lestrade's office getting a brief of the details for a case from Anderson, so I could update Sherlock if he didn't come back. Finally, he stumbled into Lestrade's office with Sally on his arm; they were both giggling like children, and their eyes were wide and flashing with delight. Donovan's lipstick was smeared slightly across swollen lips, some was even smudged across Sherlock's cheek, and their clothes were rumpled.
Lestrade ignored Sherlock for a second, focusing his attention on Donovan instead,
"Donovan, you're stinking drunk! Get out of my office and don't come back until you sober up!" She smirked slightly and then, to the shock of everyone in the room, leant up and kissed Sherlock on the sharp cheekbone, lingering a little too long for our comfort,
"Thanks for lunch… and everything else, Sherlock. Anytime you want to do it again, let me know."
When Sherlock turned back to us, an obvious puckered shape of lips imprinted in lipstick on his cheek, we were all staring at him. All except Anderson, who was fuming,
"What the Hell?" Sally ignored him, giving Sherlock one last flirty look and then disappearing. Anderson squared off to my flatmate, a thunderous look on his face, "For God's sake, don't you realise that Donovan and I have been together for almost a year?" Sherlock's entire face softened, becoming sickeningly sweet,
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you still had feelings like that for Sally. As much as I had hoped it wasn't so – for her sake – I had rather thought that Sally was just a bit on the side. I am so sorry Anderson. I hope I haven't hurt your feelings too much. I was just caught up in the moment with a beautiful, and might I add lovely, woman. She really is a very special person."
Lestrade looked at me over their shoulders; Anderson was still furious and getting closer and closer to the apologising detective every second. The DI mouthed at me, in obvious bemusement, 'What's going on?" I didn't have an answer. Even if I did, I wouldn't have had time to respond before Anderson grabbed the slightly upturned collars of Sherlock's coat and pulled him down to his face, hissing at Sherlock,
"What the hell is wrong with you? Of course you knew we were together! You're… you! You knew we were together and you took her from me anyway, even though I've been with her for a year, and I love her."
It was as if Sherlock's entire persona changed and a shadow passed over him. Suddenly, he wasn't kind and apologetic. He wasn't even normal Sherlock. He looked… evil, for lack of a better word, and he smirked with obvious satisfaction as he saw Anderson's pain,
"And yet she went with me so quickly… what does that say about your sexual prowess? I think even you know that she's far too good for you—"
"And you think you're a better match? You're a psychopath!"
"Indeed, perhaps I am." I frowned; hadn't Sherlock always been so adamant that he was sociopath rather than a psychopath. What had caused that change in tone? "Or, maybe it's just this part of me. I must say it's a lot of fun. Sally was just another part of the conquest, and it was quite delectable. Who knew shagging in a pub toilet could be so much fun?"
"You—you what?"
"Shagged. You know, I sat on the toilet seat and she got on top. I do like a woman on top, and then up against the wall." I felt a bit ill. I doubted I would ever look at Donovan in the same way again. "It was rather enjoyable, but do let her down lightly. I don't do seconds. Or don't let her down lightly, I really don't care."
Anderson took a swing at Sherlock but, sobering instantly, my friend caught his punch with such speed that I barely saw him move. His face didn't even change from that same taunting look. He pushed Anderson back with a nonchalant flick of his own wrist and raised an eyebrow,
"Don't be a fool Anderson, or at least, not more of one than usual. You do realise the entire Yard thinks you're a joke don't you? Sally told me she thought you were pitiful, and then proceeded to shout out my name quite a few times. She may even have told me, more than once, that I was the best she'd had… and it was the first time I'd done it. Pitiful effort on your part I think—"
Anderson took another swing and Sherlock ducked out of his way. The way that he chuckled, his voice light and teasing and his eyes wild, almost reminded me of Moriarty. "Ooh, temper temper! Come on, put your weight behind it and really try. You might even put a bruise on me if you use all your strength."
The other man lunged, but in one fluid motion – before Lestrade or I could stop it – Sherlock had flipped the man and pressed him into the Detective Inspector's desk. His gloved hand clamped around the man's scrawny neck, choking him,
"Pitiful, it really is. At least with those men a few days ago there's was at least some fight. They almost beat me, before I gutted them like fish, but you? You're like that tiny kitten I held under a bucket of water when I was little. A couple of scratches, a few hisses… and then the bubbles stopped. Bloop… bloop… nothing. So dull."
He relinquished his grasp and left Anderson gasping and coughing, stepping away to adjust the front of his shirt. Once he looked normal, he walked slowly and calmly past the two of us, as we stared at him aghast,
"Well, I have to take care of a delivery. John, if you would be so kind as to patch up Anderson; I think he may have pissed himself. Oh and Lestrade, it was the brother who killed the victim. He was far too sloppy, but I must admit that I admire him for taking out his competition for the parents' inheritance. I may not care about my parents' money but I could definitely learn a thing or two. Mycroft had better watch out… toodles!"