CH 6 - Knowing the Worst
When Sherlock finally swept up the stairs of 221 Baker St. that first Friday Lestrade was long gone. John had also gone out. He immediately noticed that John had moved more of his belongings into the flat. Unlike his belongings John's things were neatly put away with books and journals in the left bookcase, kettle and other kitchen items stored in the kitchen cupboards. Sherlock smirked at the note taped to John's kettle. H2O ONLY was penned in careful block letters. A smallish flat screen telly rested on top of the bookcase and a laptop PC lay closed on the coffee table. Sherlock peered out the rear window in the kitchen. Six cardboard boxes were broken down and folded into a seventh and placed with the recycling next to Mrs. Hudson's bins.
He removed his coat and crossed to the sofa and picked up the laptop. The model was a few years old but it was running Windows 7 and the screen lock was on. His username, jhwatson, was utterly mundane which meant his password was likely to be weak. Barely 3 minutes later Sherlock had access but he didn't bother to snoop at files rather he opened a browser window and began a new search on genus Stachybotrys*. He hoped to begin cultivating some of its different species. About an hour later the computer's battery warning light came on but before logging off Sherlock removed his search from the browser history. He then glanced at the other entries in the history. Listed were his website, as John had said, several news sites, a weather site, a site for football scores, Veterans-Info-UK and, at the very bottom, the URL for a personal blog. Interesting. John didn't seem the type. Sherlock navigated to the page and scanned the few, terse entries. He was right, John wasn't the sharing on-line type at all. Clearly the blog was some sort of assigned exercise. Probably from his well-meaning yet apparently inept therapist. Minimal new data. Boring. He powered off the machine and placed it back on the coffee table. Sherlock then went over to the left bookcase and perused the titles. The books seemed to fall into two categories, paperback novels (a mix of best sellers and classics) and medical texts. Annoyingly there was no indexing scheme to the shelves other than book size. He sighed in despair. On top of the bookcase, next to the telly, was an unframed painting. It was a portrait of somebody historic, but there were no other pictures or mementos anywhere else. Odd. The bottom shelf of the bookcase contained several years worth of The Lancet and The Annals. At least these were arranged chronologically. Sherlock selected and thumbed through one of these journals. He replaced the volume and removed a pathology text instead. It was not one that he had read before. He was just about to settle into the black chair with the book when a thought hit him, John's gun. He smiled to himself, tossed the book onto the chair, strode to the stairs and took them two at a time.
The door to John's room was open. Sherlock entered without the slightest thought to John's privacy and immediately cast his gaze about the sparse room. Desk, dresser or night stand? Possibly the wardrobe but unlikely. If he was any good at all he'd only have to open one draw. Not the nightstand. John wasn't the fearful type. He wouldn't need to sleep with the gun close to have a sense of security. He was a professional soldier, the gun was simply a tool to him. The desk, then, was most likely, followed by the lower dresser draws. The draws on the left side of the desk should obviously be the best bet, John was left-handed, but at dinner the other night Sherlock noticed the trace of the power burn was on his right hand. After further consideration this made sense. John hadn't picked up shooting with his family as a boy, he had been taught to shoot in the army. Most likely he had been taught to shoot with his right hand because most military weapons tended to favor the right-handed. However, it was possible that his shoulder wound and the residual weakness in his left arm and hand had caused him to shoot with his right when he normally shot with his left. Unlikely. The shot had been too perfect and too spontaneous for it not to have been a practised maneuver. Sherlock crossed to the desk and opened the top right draw and there it was, a Browning L106A1 9mm. It was loaded and the safety was on, of course. He popped the cartridge, turned the weapon in his hands examining it and sniffed the barrel. The cartridge was missing one round but the gun itself had been thoroughly and expertly cleaned. It was pristine. There was no evidence that it had been recently fired. Sherlock smiled, Well done, John. The only way that this gun could possibly be tied to the cabbie was through rifling marks on the bullet but he knew for certain that the slug that forensics had dug out of the wall was thoroughly mangled. He replaced the gun in its place and went back down stairs. Instead of picking up the pathology text he turned to the mounds of boxes and began sorting his belongings and tidying up. Just a bit.
/-/-/-/-/-/
John was an idiot. Of that there was no doubt. He adhered to a rather dull and predictable daily schedule except when he didn't. He shopped and cooked food and cleaned up after himself. He was unfailingly polite, especially to Mrs. Hudson, and he was extremely careful with his money, what little he had going by his on-line banking statements.
Sherlock had noticed that when John was at home he often ate vegetarian (probably to economize) and that he was a reasonably competent, if basic, cook. For the first six days after moving into 221B Baker St. every time John made food or tea for himself he asked if Sherlock wanted any. Sherlock rarely bothered to answer. After three days of asking John began placing cups of tea in front of Sherlock even though the detective had made no acknowledgement. On the fourth day John lay a plate of toast and an apple next to Sherlock's morning tea.
"Eat," he commanded before crossing to the chair by the fireplace to idly read the paper and sip his own tea. Sherlock actually did.
After the first six days John simply brewed two cups of tea. He still offered to share whatever he made out of politeness but he also periodically placed food in front of the detective and issued the single word command. More often than not Sherlock ate at least some of what his flatmate fed him. He especially liked John's vegetarian risotto and his chicken pot pie because John made both with peas instead of carrots. Sherlock didn't care for carrots, too chunky and orange for his liking.
/-/-/-/-/-/
John wasn't happy to find the petri dish of healthy Stachybotrys chartarum in the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom.
"Jesus, Sherlock, what is this?"
"It's mould, John," Sherlock had replied sarcastically.
"Yeah, good. I got that but what is it doing here?"
John listened patiently with a slightly furrowed brow as Sherlock launched into the goals and methods for his mould experiment.
"It's quite unlike any other study conducted to date, the ramifications for forensics alone are likely to be very far-reaching," the detective concluded.
John paused for a beat then returned the dish to its place in the cupboard.
"Just keep it out of the toothpaste," he said as he moved into the kitchen.
Sherlock's eye widened. Toothpaste. A potential growing media he had never considered. John was brilliant.
/-/-/-/-/-/
"Throw me that tea towel, will you?" John asked as he balanced his laundry basket on the kitchen chair and casually held a hand up. Sherlock, who was busy placing a new mould culture in the rear corner of the cupboard, complied without turning around. He merely tossed the towel backwards toward the centre of the sound. John easily snagged the rag out of mid-air and continued into the loo to the stacking washer/dryer. Sherlock wandered in a few minutes later.
"Do you always do this?" he asked abruptly as John sorted his clothes into lights and darks, throwing the latter in to the washer.
"Do what?" John asked as he pointed to the bath towel on the rack next to Sherlock. The detective handed the towel over. "Just sorting my clothes like my mum taught me." John smiled tossing the towel and a flannel from the sink into the washer and starting the cycle. He paused it when he noted his flatmate was still staring at him with a curious expression.
"Did you have something else that needed to go in?" he asked innocently. Sherlock scrunched his face up at the question. John couldn't decide if he was perplexed or horrified.
"What?" he asked starting to get exasperated. It was just the bloody laundry.
"Mr. Lu's cousin runs an excellent laundry. Seven locations across the city. There's even one over on Linhope St." Sherlock offered helpfully.
"Good for Mr. Lu's cousin," John said dryly as he placed the basket with the next load in front of the washer then he caught up. "Wait. So every week you take all your clothes over to a laundry?" he wondered aloud.
"Oh, no. Don't be ridiculous, John." John nodded some how relieved by this.
"They pick-up and deliver." Sherlock smiled and turned away leaving John staring, mouth half-open, as he started the cycle again.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Sherlock was playing his violin standing in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. John was at the desk updating his blog. Sherlock stopped mid-phrase and lowered his bow.
"Herman?"
"Shut up."
/-/-/-/-/-/
Sherlock enjoyed perusing John's medical texts and journals. John had clearly been a conscientious student. The books were neatly highlighted and annotated with margin notes written a small, precise script. Similarly, many of the journals had been articles earmarked with yellow sticky notes also written in a small meticulous hand. The handwriting so obviously matched John's precise, attentive nature. That was why seeing John's notebook fpr the first time was a bit of a turn up.
Sherlock had noticed that John always carried a pocket notebook and pen and dutifully made notes or sketches when they went to crime scenes. Sherlock couldn't see the point and ignored him. Besides, John usually missed everything of importance anyway unless Sherlock explained it to him. Clearly John needed to delete more of the useless knowledge he clung to if he needed a notebook to remember important facts like crime scene details for more than a few days. It wasn't likely that he'd ever meet the Prime Minister or even his MP never mind that red-headed actress from the telly.
John had left his notebook on top of his PC in the sitting room and, of course, Sherlock felt compelled to flip through it. The pages were filled with a tight, untidy scrawl very different from the neat textbook notes. Reduction of dexterity and fine motor skills probably as a result of nerve damage. Unfortunate. He tossed notebook back on the desk and opened John's computer.
Several days later Sherlock found his favorite pathology text on the kitchen table. When he retrieved it a folded sheet of loose leaf paper slid out. Sherlock open the sheet and noticed that it was filled with John's cramped, uneven handwriting. He began to read,
Chapter 1 – Introduction
Pathology has long played a central role in medicine for one most know what injures and kills if one is to heal ...
John had been copying the text like a school boy writing lines. Sherlock carefully placed the paper back inside the book and returned the book to the table. He supposed he could finish that article on flesh necrosis instead.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Sherlock thought nothing of it the first few times he heard John moving about the flat in the middle of the night. He, himself, was frequently up at what other people called odd hours. Why would that be something to note. In fact, he hadn't even noticed John's first two nightmares but gradually he saw the pattern. He would hear John suddenly thrash about in his sleep or sit bolt upright. Sometimes he cried out. It was obvious and to be expected he supposed. War was traumatic to normal people. Over the next several weeks he created a nightmare scale from 1 to 5. John did not get up after a One or a Two. After a One he usually fell back to sleep within 15-30 minutes and did not turn on his bed side light. After a Two he did switch on the light but still was usually able to go back to sleep within 45 minutes or so. After a Three or above John would get up and silently make himself tea. He then would either get Sherlock talking or read in his chair (a Three). Or, he would stare blankly at some inane television programming until dawn (a Four). Five was included in the scale for completeness to allow for a nightmare reaction beyond a Four but Sherlock hadn't observed one yet.
Sherlock was sitting on the floor behind his black chair under the window. He was working out the readability of different fonts and page tints under nocturnal ambient light conditions when he heard the strangled, incoherent cry followed by the sound of John bolting upright in bed. A Four. Damn. Not only was his work only half done, he would undoubtedly have to endure whatever crap telly John chose to anesthetize his brain with tonight. John steps were uneven as he descended the stairs, as was his gait as he made his way to the kitchen where he put the kettle on without turning on the light. He then stood rigidly at the counter with his hands clenched into tight fists. His breathing was measured. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Abruptly, he inhaled sharply and let out what could only be described as a shuddering breath. He dropped his head, repeatedly scrubbing his right hand through his short hair, and blew out another shaky breath and another and another. His left arm was curled in tight around his body. Sherlock, who was completely at a loss, remained silent and motionless. He never seen John act this way before. Was this a Five?
Gradually John re-established his pattern of measured breathing. The kettle was boiling now and he reached up with his right hand to remove a mug from the cupboard. He stopped half way reaching up with his left hand instead forcing himself to extend his reach above his head to the second shelf. He pulled down one mug then reached up past the point of pain again for a second mug.
"Make some noise, would you. I-I know you're there," John said in quiet, almost tremulous voice as he kneaded his shoulder with his right hand. Sherlock hesitated then stuttered,
"Sorry ... I ...," and stopped. John finished making tea into the awkward silence. The only sound was his measured breathing. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. After the tea was steeped John picked up both mugs, intending to bring them to the sitting room, but his left hand began to shake sloshing hot tea onto his hand. He cursed and quickly put the cups back down then swung his head over toward Sherlock and back again in embarrassment.
"John!" Sherlock had started toward the kitchen in alarm but stopped as John stiffened. More silence as John ran cold water over his left hand. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.
"You'll have to get your own tea. It seems I can't ... quite ... manage it," he finally bit out. He then dried his hand on the tea towel and turned to face Sherlock for the first time. He stood at attention, square-shouldered and head up, with eyes straight ahead focused on the sitting room wall past Sherlock's right ear.
"Flatmates should know the worst, yeah?" Sherlock, unsure of what to do or say, gave only a small shrug. John responded with a single tight nod before continuing.
"Well, I'm crippled ex-soldier with no job, little money, few relations and fewer prospects." His gaze and posture were unwavering as he awaited Sherlock's reply. Sherlock crossed to the counter and retrieved the mugs of cooling tea. He held one out to John.
"I know."
/-/-/-/-/-/
A/N – Sorry I've taken awhile to update. I'll blame the holidays. Yeah, it was definitely the holidays. Happy New Year!
According to Wikipedia: "Stachybotrys is a genus of molds, or asexually reproducing, filamentous fungi." And Wikipedia knows everything :-)
Stachybotrys chartarum is a species of supposedly toxic mold.
Also, for those unfamiliar, The Lancet is the famous British medical journal and The Annals is the chief publication of the Royal College of Surgeons.
The peas bit and the "Herman" bit are lifted from The Sign of Three. I've never laughed so hard in my life!
I wonder what the NSA makes of my browser history with the searches on toxic molds, 9mm hand guns, medical journals, violins, veterans benefits in the UK, kevlar vests, semtex and C4, etc.?
Please read and review. I promise to answer unless they impound my computer :-)
I don't even own the electrons this story was written with.
Not beta'd or brit-picked.