A/N: This one gives a different meaning to the expression "anatomically correct". -csf


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Sherlock snatched my stethoscope again, probably in some experimentation high – for science, John! – or again to crack open a locked safe, or even to follow the water pipes behind the wall plaster. He does odd things like that, my friend does. I got used to it. Usually there's a reason, a mad reason, that completely absorbs the genius mind and utterly derails all common sense Sherlock may yet possess.

My missing stethoscope is the reason I've taken to a burglar's favourite pastime, to break an entry, into my flatmate's wardrobe. I'm currently scouring through his oddest collection of belongings littering the bottom of the wardrobe, under the perfect rack of pristine, expensive suits and shirts, organised to perfection much like a high end tailor's. If the suit and shirts rack is immaculate perfection, the wardrobe floor is a pirate's loot of odd miscellaneous items that a restless genial mind once found connection with.

And just like that, I'm transported past the consulting genius' first lines of defence, and given insight into the beautiful mind and heart.

Second best only to waltzing right inside his Mind Palace, this might be a fresh break, a rare opportunity to explore Sherlock's unique view of the world.

So I sit myself cross-legged on the rug, an attentive ear out for an imminently returning flatmate.

There's no way Sherlock won't find out that I've been here. Sherlock can see the smallest traces left by this unexperienced burglar. And he'll huff, puff, and keep me out of his room forever more. So this is a golden opportunity that may never repeat itself.

Do I feel bad for breaching my best mate's privacy? Yeah, I do. Will that stop me? Nope. I've come this far, and I won't get another chance. Better get on with it, then.

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Three years ago I gave Sherlock a thick, warm Christmas jumper, it was a cold winter. He swallowed dry, muttered a perfunctory Thank you, John, and never even put it on. I find the jumper new and unused on the bottom of the wardrobe. I always thought he had thrown it away, or dissolved it with strong acid. What would you know, Sherlock's the sentimental type after all!

Are those hair curling irons Mrs Hudson's? Nah, Sherlock wouldn't! Would he? Nah, his hair is the real deal, I'm sure of it. The curlers must have been part of some strange scientific experiment.

A fireman's helmet, a high visibility vest, and two workmen's boots – different sizes; apparently having one shoe too tight and one too loose is a good way of altering your normal walk without requiring long practise.

Several Quality Street colourful wrappers litter the space too.

I'm starting to lose hope of finding my stethoscope, when I come across a bulky object bundled inside a plaid scarf (who foolishly thought Sherlock would forsake Old Blue for a new scarf?). The ominous volume is not indicative of a missing medical instrument, but that just makes me the more curious. I take it up, and unwrap it slowly. It's soft, but sturdy. It's murky brown and furry. Please, let it not be a giant dead rat.

I finish removing the scarf to find two black button eyes staring at me. I smile at a chocolate brown teddy bear. Clearly old and used, most likely young Sherlock's teddy. Did Sherlock keep the teddy he took to bed at night as a child? Did Sherlock play adventures with this grubby little fellow? Aww. It's ruddy adorable! I wish Sherlock would have kept pictures of his child self hugging his childhood teddy...

It's a very battered teddy, I notice. Any adventures companion of Sherlock Holmes tends to be a bit worse for wear. There's stitching along the belly, done in clumsy thick thread. Maybe some of the stuffing is missing. Something rattles inside.

Is it a teddy or an unsuspected treasure chest?

Gently I pull the thread slightly, checking inside. Board game pieces? Not just any game. Ohhh...

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The bedroom doors bursts open with a loud crash and I jump a foot high from the rug.

You're busted, John Hamish Watson!

Uh-oh.

I find I've got no ready excuse for my illicit prospection in my friend's belongings. I wasted precious thinking time getting distracted by Sherlock's loot.

'I'm clean!' he blurts, frustrated, at the sight of me.

I file away his particular kneejerk reaction for later analysis.

'I know that', I assure him.

'Then what were you seeking in my wardrobe, John? Narnia?' he asks with fierce intensity.

I giggle at that. Can't help myself. It was unexpectedly funny.

Sherlock struggles to keep hold of his righteous anger, as his mouth spams to bite back a smile. He keeps telling me my laughter is contagious. Perhaps he shouldn't hold his back, I like to see Sherlock smile. He's much too sad all the time.

'My stethoscope, Sherlock. I was looking for the stethoscope you pinched from me.'

'Oh', he admits with the best innocence look plastered on his features. I know this look, it's often used on Mrs Hudson, to save him from impending doom.

'Where did you stash it, you kleptomaniac?'

'Am not!' he defends, like a toddler. 'I just resent you monopolising our useful instruments.'

'Our instruments? I'm the doctor here!'

'And a selfish one at that!'

I tilt my head. 'Can I borrow your violin?'

'Of course not, John!' he snarls. 'It's mine, and it's precious.'

'Why not? I thought we were sharing our things.'

'Just drop it, John, I clearly cannot trust a common burglar like you!'

I see the humour in his eyes and decide to change my approach. 'Here', I pat the rug beside me. 'Here, take a seat. Talk me through these things I found.'

'Why would I do that?'

'I want to know more about you.'

'I'm not dead, kidnapped, or a con artist impersonating myself.'

'Give the detective act a rest already!'

'I am not one of your patients either.'

'Thank goodness for that! You would be impossible to put up with.'

Sherlock fixes me as an intriguing puzzle.

'Then why would you be so interested in exploring the relics of my youth?' he points at the mutilated teddy bear.

'Because I care. Because I want to know more about you. And you never tell me.'

'Why would you want to know more about me?' he asks in mock distrust. I know this one. He asks why do you stay and why do you insist on knowing me. As if that was indeed some novelty in his life.

My eyelids fractionally dim. It makes me sad that this man, who is a brilliant genius, can be so lonely. Even in the presence of someone I know he trusts so well. Habit will do that. A lifetime habit of isolating himself from the world.

'I'm just curious', I end up answering. Go on. Indulge me.

Much to my surprise, he does. Folding long limbs with feline flexibility, he crosses long legs on the rug beside me.

I show him his childhood teddy bear. He takes it solemnly in his hands. Touching. Twisting the fabric. Experimenting with weight and texture. Reacquainting himself with that all familiar object. I realise now that it has been kept lovingly at the bottom of his wardrobe for years, but it hasn't been brought out into daylight until it got rescued by unworthy hands. An over curious doctor searching for missing opportunity tramples on a memory. To its owner this teddy is something of a treasure, a memento of the past. I too know what that feels like.

'What do you want to know about it, John?'

'You operated on it, Sherlock. You cut it open and inserted anatomical models of internal organs from a board game of Operation. Gave it the heart it didn't possess, along with a liver, a couple of lungs, and bowels. You were a very unusual child, but then again I wouldn't have expected any differently from you.'

'Is there a question somewhere in that?'

'Did you ever wanted to be a doctor? Or were you performing autopsies on your teddy bear?

Sherlock's brow line crinkles. As if he was searching for the answer in the halls of his memories.

'I wanted to make it anatomically correct. Now, don't be like that, John. Obviously I didn't want to bring it back to life. Muahahaha!' he plays silly with the ease of a deep friendship. Then he adjusts to serious. 'No, I just wanted to... fix it, I suppose. It wasn't right, it wasn't complete. It needed a heart.'

Sherlock, the fixer. Yes, I can see that. All his life he wanted things to fall into place. As they should be. Fix the cases. Fix the science. Fix himself.

I swallow a small smile. It's Sherlock all over. The curious child that always wants to find out. What makes the world tick? What makes humans tick? What happens in death? Maybe he hasn't changed all that much. And I'm glad I had a chance for this little insight into his fantastic world. Better than Narnia.

'Well, I think it's brilliant, Sherlock. Absolutely bloody brilliant. What about dinner then? Shall we get up? And get ourselves some Greek takeaway?'

He smiles at last. And earnestly gets up from the floor. 'You should try the fridge', he directs me.

I'm quite sure there are no leftovers. That can mean only one thing. My missing stethscope will be very, very cold indeed, when I get it back.

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