I felt like I had been in that room before. Head bowed and with a mind filled with uncertainty, I sensed the bitter taste of déjà vu. None of it was truly familiar really, only the circumstance. One thing was different - I was there of my own accord. Small words were all that left my lips, but the Councillor seemed sure from the little she had to work with. It was groundwork, at least.
What she had to say had probably passed my ears before, but this time I had more control of my senses, some of it slipped in. Bursts of anger and frustration flared inside me, just suppressed enough to hold it in, unlike other times that I cared not to think of. Her advice sounded so easy, but the reality made it all the harder. I couldn't let it be patronising, I kept telling myself, no matter how much my head kept arguing that it was.
She's trying to help me. She's trying to help me.
I fixated on that phrase over and over again because I didn't know where to go without it. Sometimes I zoned out, but she was patient. Less and less questions were left up in the air as I began to speak out. Nothing had seemed so painful in my life. My foot brushed against the soft chair, begging to take me away again and again. My hands gripped each armrest as anchors against it. I was fighting many battles at once, and the stress rose. I resisted the constant urge to reach out for my father's cane. I kept myself seated firmly. Oh, how I had wished for none of it. Why couldn't life have been simpler?
I can still remember one piece of advice she gave to me clearly.
"If you find it hard to let others know how you feel, there are other ways of unburdening it. You can write how you feel, like a journal. No one else has to see it."
I didn't want my thoughts playing on my mind back then, much less write about them. What she said stuck with me though.
The session came to an end. Words of bravery and the start of something new came to me in a blur. Much of what she said after that fails to come to mind today, but that first agonising step helped, even if I didn't know it at first. I'd lent on the outside of the door for a time. A great weight felt lifted, only for it to be replaced with another. Most students had gone home for the day, or were busy studying.
"John!"
I had only come across Stamford a handful of times since the start of term, but now it couldn't have come at a worse time. I stood in front of the plaque screwed to the door. It was daft thinking back. He had been there longer than me and was most probably aware of what the room was for. I could see in his eyes he was dying to ask, his inquisitive nature coming out as usual.
"I was… just asking something. What are you up to?" I asked, reflecting the impending questions coming my way.
"I've just finished my last lecture."
He continued to stare at me as if waiting for a que to continue. He was never able to hold back.
"Fine… what did you want to ask?" I said reluctantly, gripping my father's cane.
"Your roommate," I was pleasantly surprised, and a little relieved that his question was nothing to do with my current state. "How are things going with Sherlock? Not driven you out yet, has he?"
"No… not yet, anyway." I didn't hide my frustration. We hadn't spoken much since the hotel incident. A couple of days had passed, and he kept himself to himself, totally engrossed in his murder mystery.
"Darn… there goes that bet. I've never lost." He tutted.
"This happen often then?" I asked, not surprised in the slightest if it was true.
"Well, you know him by now, surely?"
"I suppose… maybe a bit too much." I whispered.
"Or not enough!" he laughed. "Anyway, I'll dash off. I'm behind on my work as it is."
I watched Stamford bumble away. He never was made for athletics so it was amusing to watch, though I felt a bit guilty afterwards. He was a kind person, and I'd stood up for him in the past because of that. He was someone to talk to now besides my eccentric roommate - A roommate I was not looking forward to seeing again.
When I opened the door to our shared apartment, Sherlock wasn't in sight. I checked each room as quiet as I could, but sure enough the place was empty. He was usually back before me. I didn't mind as it gave me some time to catch up on my studying, and a bit of television. I'd barely sat down when my luck was shattered.
"A triumph! A sheer, bloody triumph!" I groaned at the sound of his voice. "Ah, Watson. Good to see you." He spoke as if I had been gone for ages.
"Make a breakthrough?" I asked meekly and with little interest.
"I am so close to putting this case to rest. A couple of pieces allude me, but when discovered, the whole image will reveal itself."
He placed a small bottle on the desk. It looked normal enough and I paid no heed to it. Sherlock checked his watch, ignoring the clock on the mantel piece. I noticed that its hands were silent.
"Not long now."
He paced back and forth. A common occurrence, and one I was growing used to. His usual thoughtful scowl was not there however. He wasn't thinking, he was passing the time.
"Waiting for something?" I asked, annoyed enough at last to speak.
"Not something. Someone." He answered, both hands going to his chin as if praying.
"If we are lucky, maybe the killer will just walk through the door?" I jested, though it was the last thing I wanted in truth. I'd been frightened enough at the idea of being in the same place as the culprit since the café incident.
"Who knows? Maybe we have passed the man and not known it." Sherlock said, oblivious or ignorant of my sarcastic tone.
Some time passed, and it felt like a waste to me. I'd left the television off to avoid the usual bickering about his concentration, and there was no way I could study with his constant pacing. I cared not to admit it, but I was interested in seeing what came up. I hated the idea of being involved any longer, but the mystery continued to burn at me like an itch that refused to go away.
"Oh, dear God! That poor mutt is still dragging itself through life. They should be merciful and be done with it." The whimpering from next door returned, and I couldn't help but smile at my roommate's complaining. It was the only time he broke out of his perfect charade.
"They are taking it to the vet today," I assured him. "So no more 'whimpering' after that. It's just you I have to put up with then." I whispered the last part.
The sound of the dog was joined by the ring of the doorbell.
"At last. Lestrade does like to take his time."
Sherlock answered the door, giddy and impatient. Had he invited the detective, I wondered. He really must have had a breakthrough for it to be that serious.
"Come in. Cup of tea perhaps?" Sherlock invited him in.
"No need for the patronising, boy," Lestrade clearly wasn't amused. "I hope you have something to say on the matter of Drebber's death."
A victorious smile fell upon Sherlock's face. He paced over to the table where the curious bottle resided and tapped against it lightly with two fingers.
"First, I need just two pieces of information, and I will have all I need to set you down the right path."
Lestrade sighed.
"And here I was thinking that you might actually have something for me. Fine, what is it?" The detective asked.
"First, the identity of the woman in the photograph. When I spoke with you yesterday, you told me that her name was Lucy Stangerson. Did you managed to track her medical history?"
I was behind on what my strange roommate and his 'acquaintances' were up to the last few days, so I listened attentively.
"I've got them right here," I heard Gregson's faint voice. Sure enough, he entered the apartment with a folder in hand. "You wouldn't believe the trouble it took to get these. They aren't the actual files of course, but I recorded what we could get hold of."
Sherlock said no words of welcome and instead took the file in hand. His eyes danced over every line, and with each I could tell his mind was afire with solutions to the great puzzle.
"As I suspected. The poor woman is gone," He snapped the file shut.
"Gone? What do you mean gone?" I asked.
"Gone from this world, Watson. The woman is dead."
The word was chilling. Had she been another victim, I pondered. Sherlock seemed to understand my confusion.
"Her passing is not to do with our killer. At least, it doesn't appear to be his modus operandi. Mrs Stangerson was suffering from major depressive disorder, as recorded after her marriage. My suspicions arising from the photograph are confirmed. She was barely married a year when she passed away tragically during an operation. It seemed the woman had developed a blood clot from a previous wound."
Both detectives had read the file, Sherlock was simply going over the facts. Probably for my benefit.
"The doctor in charge of the op was Martin Greensley," Gregson spoke. "He was one of their best, yet he was sacked and charged for medical negligence. He denied it but was found guilty."
"How did she die?" I asked, lost at the situation.
"There was a fatal substance found on the tools used." Gregson told me. "They hadn't been properly sterilised, you see. The contaminant from the previous use resulted in blood poisoning."
I swallowed hard. The thought made me nervous. If I was to become a doctor myself, then avoiding such tragedies was of my upmost priority.
"That's horrible… but, what does it have to do with the case? How was it the doctor's fault that the equipment was contaminated?"
Sherlock grinned at my question.
"It has everything to do with the case. It seems that our unlucky doctor was caught tampering with the equipment before the operation. That is what they thought at least. I'm sure however, that he was framed."
He picked up the small bottle and poured out two pills onto the table.
"We didn't think much of these when conducting the search, yet I found them too curious to pass up."
The two detectives came closer.
"You took the bottle? Why? Stangerson died of a stab wound."
I hadn't noticed them in my conflicted state, but the bottle had indeed been resting on the bedside cabinet in Stangerson's hotel room.
"They could well be pain killers, but on closer inspection, neither show such signs. There is no brand, letters or anything to distinguish their purpose. Stangerson had no illness to speak of, so here we are. I said there were two things I needed to know. This is the final piece."
Both detectives stared at him, expecting an answer. I did the same, hoping that it was all coming to an end at last. The room was silent, except for an opening door outside and the whimpering of a pained mutt.
"I think I may have a solution."
The aspiring detective shuffled past the two men and left the room, closing the door behind him. They both looked stunned.
"What on Earth is he doing now?"
Gregson turned to me for an answer, but I was just as lost as them. I simply shrugged. I noticed that the two pills were no longer on the table. The next thing we knew, Sherlock had returned to us, with our neighbour's terrier struggling to walk beside him.
"In here, boy." He said with no emotion.
"I knew it. The boy is completely mad." Lestrade muttered.
Sherlock lent down, and with a soft pat on the animal's head, he held out his hand with a single pill resting in his palm. The mutt took it at once. Either it was underfed or too desperate in its pain to care what it was eating. Sherlock mattered his fingers through its fur and we waited. Nothing happened, beside the dog patting breathlessly.
"Hmm… I wonder."
Sherlock quickly took out the second pill and true enough, the dog took it without complaint. This time, the dog reacted strangely. At first it sounded like it was choking, then its breath became even more strained. It flopped down on the carpet as if falling asleep under its weight. I couldn't believe it. The dog's weak pants had ceased, and the poor thing didn't move again.
"Sherlock… what the hell?" I said in my disbelief.
"Our neighbours were just on their way to have the poor thing put down. I guess we have saved them a trip." Sherlock stated calmly.
Gregson was grinning.
"Now this is a development." He said with a sudden excitement.
Lestrade on the other hand, looked as disgusted as I did.
"You may want to explain this to your neighbours." He said.
"I did tell them that Watson was fond of dogs and wished to say goodbye."
I stared at him with open eyes.
"Well we certainly did that, didn't we!?" I shouted.
"Not only that. I have just found the last piece to the puzzle!" Sherlock proudly announced.
Clearly the dead animal at his feet didn't faze him at all. His brazen willingness to do such a thing startled me, but after the last couple of weeks I had known him it probably shouldn't have. I dared hope he wouldn't do such a thing to me for the sake of one of his cases. I could only hope.
Lestrade lent down and studied the mutt, confirming its death for himself.
"So this is how Drebber died? Why would he take such a pill without a struggle?" The puzzled detective asked, still focused on the deceased pet at his feet.
Sherlock's pacing had increased exponentially, but he didn't appear to be thinking, oh no. I believed her already had his answer.
"Gentlemen. What is the greatest revelation we have discovered here?" he asked us all, yet chose to turn his gaze towards me.
I had no answer.
"That you still insist on playing games? If you know what this means, pray tell." Gregson demanded sternly.
I saw Sherlock's witty smile reappear, with a quick glance to his side out of view of the two men. He reveled in knowing the answer whilst they wondered about in the dark.
"Think not on what has happened to this poor creature. What you should think on is the very opposite, the very absence of a startling event."
"Oh, dear God…" Gregson blurted under his breath.
Although his wording seemed patronising, I was starting to get what Sherlock was driving at.
"Two pills." I said suddenly, with little to evaluate on the statement.
"Yes, Precisely! It isn't the fatal pill we should be looking at, but the presence of a harmless placebo. The events that took place in that decrepit house are brought to light by the previous contents of this bottle," he waved it in front of the detectives. "One pill is harmless, the other, quite deadly. Why would our victim take one without a struggle? Simple. He had a choice."
Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and laid it down on the table, alongside the small bottle.
"So he took it deliberately? Is it some sort of twisted game on the murderer's part?" Gregson asked, disgusted.
"Gentlemen, there will be no more murders. This 'game' was indeed twisted, but it was with a vendetta. One that I feel has ended. At least, the culprit thinks it has," Sherlock pushed the bottle across the desk gently with one finger. "Choice… two paths to take. One safe, the other fatal… but which is which? What does it take to go down that dangerous path, I wonder? Who do you come out of it as, in the end? With a doctor's life ruined by a stranger, there can only be one answer for the death of Lucy Stangerson. Murder. And then, revenge."
Sherlock stared at me suddenly.
"You're rambling again, boy." Lestrade interrupted.
"Apologies." Sherlock answered calmly, turning his back to me.
Before we could continue, our attention was grabbed by two weak knocks on the door. It opened with a creek, revealing the wrinkled face of our landlady.
"Oh, sorry to interrupt boys, but there is a sweet little lad at the door. He says he wants to see Sherlock."
My roommate's eyes shot open and his grin grew wider.
"Please excuse me. Gregson, could I speak to you alone for just a moment?"
The two detectives looked at each other with mutual scowls.
"What is this about? You can say whatever it is to the both of us."
"Oh, I fear not. This is quite delicate I'm afraid. Once we are done we can get back to the matter at hand. It will make us one step closer to catching the culprit."
Gregson reluctantly agreed.
"Now just wait here!" Lestrade protested, but his colleague was already out the door. "Just what is going on here!?" he asked me, as if I was meant to hold the answer.
The whole thing was surreal. Young lad, I thought. Maybe it was one of Sherlock's 'spies'? If that was the case, maybe he knew where the murderer was. I stood up and lent against the table, only to stumble upon something strange indeed. Sherlock hadn't left his phone on the desk. It was mine.
"What was the devil doing with my phone?!" I shouted angrily.
I drew back the curtain, but no one was in sight in the street below. I looked down at my phone and noticed that my screensaver had been changed. My brow scrunched up in utter confusion. He'd done something, I knew it. The new image depicted an alley of some sort, and at the bottom were three words.
"Ham and eggs?" I read to myself.
The small bottle was in front of me.
"A choice…"