Chapter Two
The case John tells Molly was taken from "The Adventure of the Creeping Man" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but my plot.
Step one: Observe Sherlock in his natural environment.
Good Lord, he was starting to sound like Sherlock. He would be proud. Nevertheless, John needed to observe Sherlock first before actually doing anything. Thankfully, Scotland Yard had called them in on a case only a couple days after having read that website.
John tried hard not stare at Sherlock, knowing that his friend would know if something was up if he did so. Instead, John took to stealing peeks out of the corner of his eye, watching closely for any signs of what he had read on the internet. So far, Sherlock was the same aloof detective he had always known. Then again, Sherlock was pretty schooled in the art of hiding behind his mask of indifference. Perhaps there really was a profound soul underneath all that mind.
The taxi came to a stop, and Sherlock jumped out, heading straight for the crime scene nearby and conveniently "forgetting" to pay.
John rolled his eyes as he fetched his wallet. Or not.
After tossing some money up to the cabbie, John hurried after his friend, reaching him just as Sherlock reached the crime scene.
"Where?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade turned from where he had been talking to his officers. "Over here." He began leading Sherlock down the alley as John followed.
John took this opportunity to train his eyes on Sherlock, watching every move and gesture. So far, the detective was giving nothing away. Either John's hypothesis was wrong or Sherlock was just a very good actor.
Then came Anderson and Donovan.
They had entered the back of the alley, where officials were gathered around a body on the pavement. Two of those officials were the two people who most disliked Sherlock in probably all of London.
"Oh, God…" Donovan mumbled, turning away from them as they approached.
John's eyes narrowed in on Sherlock, who showed no reaction whatsoever. At least, to anyone else. John, however, knew him too well to miss the brief flinch of his shoulders. Whether it was due to Donovan's comment or the surge of her emotions, John couldn't tell yet. He stepped up next to Sherlock, watching the interaction between the three of them.
Anderson, meanwhile, had turned towards Sherlock and edged in front of him, almost as though to block the crime scene from him. "We don't need you. We've already solved this one."
"Oh, have you?" said Sherlock, locking his hands together behind his back and straightening up to use his height against Anderson.
"Yes," said Anderson, straightening up himself but not quite able to meet Sherlock's height. "It's obvious—" he sneered the word mockingly at the detective, "that this woman jumped to her death from the building there." He jabbed his thumb back towards the five story building behind him.
"Hmm, obvious," muttered Sherlock, his eyes darting to the body once and then back to Anderson. "Yes, a woman about to kill herself would definitely wear her most expensive dress and heels to do so."
"What does it matter how she's dressed?" asked Anderson, his voice rising in frustration. "Anything could have happened to make her jump!"
John looked closely at Sherlock, watching his jaw clench as he closed his eyes briefly. Fighting off Anderson's frustration maybe?
"A woman having undergone a trauma depressing and upsetting enough to cause her to kill herself would typically leave her crying," Sherlock rattled off quickly. "However, her mascara has not run. Unless she was wearing waterproof mascara—the brand she is wearing is not, in fact, waterproof—she has not been crying. Conclusion: someone caught her off guard and killed her." He then brushed past Anderson and went for the body, kneeling next to it.
"Maybe she just didn't cry," Anderson suggested pathetically.
"What suicidal person have you ever seen that didn't shed a tear?" Sherlock muttered.
"Then how do you explain the broken bones?" asked Anderson, getting his wind back. "They're consistent with—"
"A five story fall, yes," muttered Sherlock, pulling out his magnifier and looking closely at her nails, face and clothing.
"Well, then, there you go," said Anderson smugly, crossing his arms.
"Oh, use your imagination, Anderson," said Sherlock. "Just because she fell from the roof doesn't mean she did so before she died."
"So, now, they threw her off the roof," said Anderson, clenching his jaw in irritation.
John watched as Sherlock also clenched his jaw, almost at the same time.
"To cover up her murder," snarled Sherlock. "I won't bother explaining it to you."
Anderson humphed and strode away towards Donovan, probably to bad-mouth Sherlock. Sherlock winced a little and switched positions so that his back was straighter.
"You okay?" asked John, watching him closely.
"Fine, John," Sherlock brushed off.
"You frequently have lower back problems. Your feelings show up as these physical symptoms."
John smirked as Sherlock finally stood rolling his shoulders slightly as he began pacing the body.
Sherlock paused a moment, frowning, and then glanced at John. "What?"
John shook his head, still smiling slightly. "Nothing."
Sherlock looked him up and down—possibly confused by the delight he was feeling from John?—before going back to the body, probably writing it off as John being satisfied by Anderson being told off.
Step two: Observe Sherlock out of his natural environment.
Now that John was sure he was right about Sherlock, it was time to actually test his hypothesis. But how to do that. It's not like he could force a particular emotion to see if it rubbed off on his friend. Then, there was the whole "showing up with the physical symptoms of those around you" thing. He couldn't exactly injure himself or bring on an illness. But perhaps…
Sherlock answered the phone on the fourth ring. "What?"
"Hey, I'm sorry to pull you away from doing absolutely nothing," said John, "but I forgot my wallet."
"So?" said Sherlock, sounding bored at the interruption.
"So, I need you to bring it to me," said John.
"No," said Sherlock. "Pay them back tomorrow."
"Sherlock, this isn't about having money for lunch," said John. "I left my access card in it. I can't get into the medical supply closet without it."
Sherlock breathed out an annoyed sigh.
"Please?" John tried, knowing Sherlock would turn it down.
"Surely someone else will lend you theirs," Sherlock argued back. "You've worked there long enough, and you're a naturally trustworthy person."
Smiling in victory, John sighed for effect and then delivered the winning deal. "I will let you do any experiments you want for the next week."
One…two…three…
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," said Sherlock, immediately hanging up.
John smiled and set his phone down. He knew Sherlock would take the bait; he never could resist a good experiment. And with John's knack of putting those experiments to an end, Sherlock was dying for John's okay on it. Sherlock had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.
It was the usual busy Saturday: children with colds, teenagers with scrapes or broken bones, adults with concussions or in need of stitches. It was the perfect—or imperfect, in this case—environment for an empath. Now to see if these injuries and illnesses rubbed off on Sherlock.
John headed out into the main area of the clinic. Usually, he worked in his office by appointment, but on Saturdays, the place was so busy that they just worked in the waiting area to treat patients by injury; the most critical first. Which was another reason John had chosen a Saturday. It would mean Sherlock would have to meet John with the patients around instead of isolated in his office.
John was in the middle of stitching a deep cut on a young man's hand—which he had timed to work on at just the right time—when the consulting detective showed up. John glanced up as Sherlock strode through the doors and straight towards him. As he passed a woman cradling her crying child—simple head cold, most likely an ear infection—he winced slightly and brought a hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching it. Shaking it off, Sherlock brought his hand back down and continued on his way.
Sherlock stuck his hand in the pocket of his Belstaff and pulled out John's wallet, brandishing it at him as he reached him. "Here."
"Hang on, Sherlock," said John with a slight touch of irritation for effect, pulling the thread tighter before bringing the needle back to the patient's hand. "My hands are kind of full right now."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and proceeded to set the wallet down on the gurney.
"No, hang on!" John raised his voice slightly to get Sherlock to stop on his way back out the door. "Don't just leave it there! I'm almost done!"
Sherlock sighed and came back, picking the wallet back up and standing there impatiently.
"Is he okay?" asked the guy.
"He's fine," said John shortly. He glanced over at Sherlock to see him tense and trying to hide inside his coat.
The color seemed to be slightly draining from Sherlock's face as he glanced at various injured or sick people around him out of the corner of his eye. A woman coughed violently in the next gurney over—bronchitis—and Sherlock flinched, clearing his throat. A man with a minor case of food poisoning at the other end of the room suddenly vomited in the trash can the doctor had given him as he recovered in a hospital bed. Sherlock's throat worked violently as his face paled, and he unconsciously placed a hand on his stomach.
John looked back at his patient, tying off the last stitch and cutting the thread. He then put the scissors, suture needle and needle holder down on the instrument tray. He then picked up a roll of gauze and started wrapping it around his hand. "All right, I want you to keep the bandages and stitches dry. You can tape a plastic bag around it for your showers. If you notice any red streaks around the wound or you get a fever higher than 37.8, then it's probably infected. Call me if that happens."
Sherlock sighed impatiently, but John ignored him in favor of instructing his patient on how to care for his wound. As soon as the patient was gone, Sherlock held out the wallet to him once again, practically shoving it into his hand.
John did a double-take, frowning at him. "You okay? You look a bit peaky."
"You know I hate crowds," said Sherlock, shoving the wallet towards him again.
"Dr. Watson," a nurse called from across the emergency room.
"Coming," John called back, accepting the wallet. He took another look at Sherlock, seeing bags under his eyes and starting to feel guilty about putting him in this situation.
"You often feel fatigued. Because others take so much from you, you often feel drained of energy and extremely tired."
"Go home and sleep," John told him, physically turning him around and walking him towards the door. "Do not do any experiments when you get there."
"John—" began Sherlock, about to remind him of their deal.
"I will not include this as one of your experiment days," John told him. "Go. Sleep."
Sherlock nodded, apparently too tired to argue. He walked gratefully through the doors, but not before one last rub of his head as he passed a patient with a bandage around his head.
Step three: See if Sherlock is limited to only negative emotions.
John followed Sherlock into the morgue, where Dr. Molly Hooper was standing over the victim they were investigating.
Molly glanced up and smiled nervously at Sherlock. "Sherlock, hi! John!"
A smile quickly appeared on Sherlock's face before he schooled himself, the smile slipping back away. "Molly. Mr. Hawcourt ready?"
"Ready and waiting," smiled Molly widely, fumbling a little as she put her chart away and moved around to give Sherlock room.
John watched as Sherlock stepped up to the table, leaning over to examine the body. He noticed that Sherlock's hands were shaking in Molly's nervousness, and he took a steadying breath, his hands stilling, before continuing.
"Forty-two, bad case of food poisoning," said Molly. "He had eaten at the restaurant on Oxford Street that received a bad shipment of meat contaminated with Listeria. Accidental death."
"Hmm," muttered Sherlock, eyes pouring over the body. "Quite right. Accidental food poisoning."
"Shall I call Greg?" asked Molly.
Sherlock frowned and looked up at her questioningly.
"Lestrade," John supplied.
Sherlock's eyes tracked over to him before looking back down at the body. "If you wish." His eyes narrowed as he spotted something on the man's chest. "May I have a moment? He has the most fascinating example of split-level thickness graft I have seen in years."
"Of course," said Molly, heading over to the chart on the table to finish it.
John stepped over towards her, having several conversations prepared for her to get a rise out of Sherlock. "So…any plans this weekend?"
"Oh, nothing special," said Molly. "You?"
"Well, if we don't manage to get called in on a case, I'm planning to go visit my sister," John told her.
"Oh, how is she?" asked Molly.
John shrugged. "She's better. Still drinking, but at least she's limiting it to once a week now. It's…something."
"Yeah, that's something," said Molly, laying a hand on John's shoulder.
Sherlock shifted in his position by the examination table, subtly clearing his throat.
"Any interesting cases lately?" asked Molly, changing the subject.
John laughed. "Oh, yeah. This guy came to the flat, saying that his boss, Professor Presbury, was acting odd—crawling around his home, his dog suddenly attacking him, temper outbursts. And when we went to meet him—" he chuckled, "that's not something I'm likely to forget soon. Turns out, Presbury had been taking an experimental rejuvenation drug taken from monkeys."
Molly burst into laughter at that, and John laughed with her, his eyes trailing off to the side towards Sherlock. The detective was on the other side of the table now, his profile in full view. Sherlock had an amused smile on his face, trying to stifle a laugh and almost failing. John quickly looked back at Molly before either of them became suspicious.
"A monkey?" giggled Molly. "That's ridiculous!"
"Yeah…" laughed John.
Sherlock suddenly straightened up from his examination, all business now. "If you two will excuse me, I need to think." He then beat a hasty retreat out the morgue doors.
"What's with him?" asked Molly.
"Don't mind him," said John. "He's just been a bit…moody lately."
Molly scoffed at him. "Moody? Sherlock?" She headed over to the body, going back to work.
John smiled and headed out after Sherlock, muttering under his breath. "Moody indeed."
It looks like Operation Empath was a success. Now, he just had to tell Sherlock.
"Oh, this will be easy," grumbled John.