A/N: Not going to lie, no idea where some plots originate. My mind is a strange place that mashes up ideas from everywhere – a bit like when my rendition of John tries to be clever – and streamlines a plot out of them.
So, Sherlock's POV, at least to start with. We'll see about that as we go on. -csf
1.
'Well, yeah, you know, not even you can get them all right, Sherlock. Don't let that trouble you, mate. Your record is nearly undefeated.' DI Lestrade pats me awkwardly in the back, in what he assumes is reassurance.
I – Sherlock Holmes, detective genius of Baker Street, London, purveyor of consulting services to royalty, celebrities, top notch scientists and any other modern idols you may favour, according to my blogger nonetheless – just look on, stupidly, at the two detective inspectors in the crowded Yard office. The wife did it? But, no, why does it feel wrong?
'Sherlock's not too good with emotional clues anyway, and John wasn't at the scene, unfortunately.' Lestrade tries to minimise the easy trashing of my career.
'Yeah, Watson would have given Sherlock a heads-up on the wife for sure...' DI Dimmock, of course. Still looking for that quick promotion, no matter who he needs to step on to get there.
'You're still our favourite consultant, mate.'
'Correction, he's our only consultant, and it's not even entirely legal...'
'Give it a break, Dimmock. Can't you see our boy is having a mental breakdown over this?'
'Whatever, Lestrade. Tell me what progress you made on the headless newlyweds case.'
'Not much, to be fair. Sherlock, want to tell us what you think on—'
Later. I turn to the dirty window pane and tune them out. It's raining down hard on a summer day and I try to keep it together, while I feel as rough around the edges as my reflection on the glass.
Just a glitch, I tell myself. I keep telling myself that, until (some undetermined time after) Lestrade places an unwelcome hand on my shoulder and assures me:
'Dimmock's gone. I phoned John to come pick you up, given that you haven't moved in like half-an-hour. I didn't realise you were taking this so badly.' He sighs and fidgets, betraying some inner tension. 'Look, everyone gets things wrong sometimes, Sherlock. Even you. I know you hate me for it, but I've seen you getting things wrong before.'
I turn around slowly. 'If that is what passes for a pep talk nowadays, no wonder you ex-wife thinks you were chronically depressed.'
His jaw sets like steel, as if I had just punched him.
'Fine. I won't mind your business. You can sulk all you want, the wife still did it.'
I keep cool and never look away. It wouldn't do to fail and have him see me out of sorts in the same day.
'Naturally. She confessed, including details she couldn't have known otherwise. Inspector, is there a point to your gloating over this?'
He sighs and offers instead: 'Want a look at the cold cases filing cabinet?' I see him covertly glancing at his wristwatch, wondering how long until John gets here.
.
'My superior brain glitches right now, John. I can't take cases, not like this.' He needs to know, he needs to understand. I must trust my brain to be on point. Lives are at stake. Including John's. He must understand it's more than an incorrect deduction, I was so sure...
John is methodically preparing tea. We're back at 221B and it's my second cup of tea within the hour, but I don't tell him that. The predictability of John's tea making routine sooths me somewhat. He is precise, attentive, thorough. I also take advantage of the fact that, busying himself with the kettle, he's not got those huge eyes set on me. I can sense some cracks on my façade that no amount of mental super glue seems to hold together.
'It happens, Sherlock,' he says, further punctuating his words with an honest shrug. 'If you're sure the wife did it.'
Incredulity. I let John down. Another failure of mine he won't blog about because he can't stand when I fall short of his high standards.
I brace my head in my hands, leaning forward in my chair. 'She confessed things she wouldn't have known otherwise,' I remind the kind doctor. 'I was so sure, John! It was the only option that fit!' I find myself gesticulating, but no amount of shouting or waving my arms about can change the facts. And he won't stand for me trying seven percent of something else.
'Tough luck, mate.'
'Not luck, I am malfunctioning, John.'
He finally comes over, unrushed, holding two mugs of fragrant tea. He gives me the overly sweetened one, as he knows I prefer.
'Being occasionally wrong is not a malfunction, Sherlock.'
'It is if you're me.'
He sips his tea, unhurried. As if savouring our early retirement, the boring stretching eternity of life without the Work.
'Maybe you've just been working yourself too hard, ever thought of that? You spend twenty hours a day plugged to your phone or my laptop, binging information and sorting it out. You probably need a digital detox.'
'You read about those last week in the dentist waiting room.'
'I did,' he agrees, and gives me no credit for the quick-fire deduction. Maybe I'm not glitching, maybe my high functioning levels are just inadequate for John's approval nowadays. Maybe, but who knows anymore if it was just a guess anyway.
He forces me to ponder this digital detox. Life without digital technology.
John asks me, curious: 'When was the last time you spent a weekend without your phone, mate?'
February 2008. I was highly intoxicated, so found no need for technology, etiquette or showering. Mycroft found me. A battle of wills ensued. He almost believed me when I assured him I had taken nothing for the past seven months. But The World's Worst Brother ran a tox screen on my hair. He wouldn't shut up about it all the way into my forced incarceration in rehab.
'No idea,' I answer instead. 'Might have been a leap year,' I add because I don't like to sound this stupid, nor even for a saving grace lie.
What would John look like if he knew? Probably look disgusted at me—
'Hey, Sherlock...' His eyes are kind as he leans forward to bridge the gap between our armchairs. Must remember to move his chair back a couple of inches – he'll never notice.
'What?' I bite back. Don't know why I do that. I don't wish to push John away.
John is the only good thing left in my life if my brain is no longer to be trusted.
'Right. You, me, a van and the road. We start in 15 minutes. Call Lestrade and your brother, don't want them sending out a search party after us. I'll tell Mrs Hudson myself.'
'Fifteen minutes?'
'That's plenty of packing time. No tech, Sherlock, I mean it. We power off our phones unless it's life or death. Deal?'
'Your proposal is strangely akin to your kidnap last week.'
'Ha, dentist and a kidnap, it was a busy week, and I take my inspiration from wherever I find it...' he grins. That Watson winning grin that always seems to win my favour.
'I'll... try.' I know, I'm surprising myself too.
'Good. Fourteen minutes. Go pack. Choose casual, comfortable, it's only us, the radio and the open road, mate.'
'Radio broadcasting is available technology since 1895, John.'
'Fine, dry karaoke-ing. Thirteen minutes.'
'You're speeding up. Your time keeping skills are appalling.'
'Twelve minutes, Sherlock.'
'What you are proposing is essentially running away from everyday life into the nomadic life of an underprivileged camper, John.'
John gets up and turns his back on me, patiently taking the mugs to the sink.
'I'm leaving' – terrifying words – 'in ten minutes, mate. Whether you're there or not is up to you.'
Great public announcement of your impending abandonment, John. But you've just gone into my bedroom to pack for me.
Why should I bother moving a muscle? I think I'll let you take the lead on this one...
Wait, my socks drawer... John mustn't find—
'John! Get your hands out of my socks!'
I chase after him, as he's coming out with a smirk on his face, rerouting to the bathroom to grab toiletries. I go check the socks drawer. He mustn't, he wouldn't—
John quickly mounts the stairs to his own room. There's cunning in the soldier's sprite steps yet.
'Don't bother texting your brother, I'm already on it!' he shouts from upstairs. The visit to his room is even faster than my room's. I finally feel this road trip sinking in. What do I need? What do I need?
John. Phone [delete] Microscope. Laptop [delete] Phone [delete] Measuring cylinders. Skull. Where's my phone? [delete] Beetle collection – no, not the beetle collection, can't take everything. [Argh!]
John materialises by my side not even a minute later. He raises an eyebrow to the assorted collection of objects cradled in my arms. I second guess them myself.
'Time's up, Sherlock. Ready?'
'Of course! Been waiting ages for you!'
He chuckles, amused, and I think I might yet survive this hare brained idea.
.
'Where are you taking me?' I demand to know, as John gets situated behind the van's steering wheel.
John's driving finds parallels only in medical evacuation war zones. He'll find his way through London's rush hour traffic by mounting sidewalks and crossing red lights, or lose his sanity entirely.
The now London-based doctor unfolds a surveillance map from the glove compartment and hands it to me. I guess that means we're not using the satnav for this trip.
'Do you need a compass? A constellations map? Echolocation equipment?' he offers in light banter, as I turn the map upside-down and then back again.
My lips upturn into a smile. I'm a genius, I've got this figured out. Confidently, I tell him: 'Turn left in 150 yards.'
He turns on the engine and protests, half-heartedly: 'Your voice is too human, Sherlock. Can you sound more like a non-sentient android while reading the map?'
'Nonsense, I'm hardly ever human, John.'
.
Is this wise, brother dear?
Will you not risk a repeat of
2007's Casablanca incident? -M
John is very keen on this
digital detox, I'm afraid.
Wouldn't want to disappoint
him just before he finds out
about Liechtenstein. –SH
Indeed. Now be a good soldier
and go live like an off-grid indigent.
I'll warn Mummy not to worry. -M
Wait. You are in favour of this
endeavour?
You forgot to sign your text. -M
Yes, your doctor has my blessing.
I also hope he forgets to return you. -M
Go watch some more competitive
eating contests, Mycroft –SH
John glances my way. He drives the van as if there were no other vehicles on the road.
'Turn off your phone, Sherlock. I said you could text our thanks to your brother for arranging this van short notice, I didn't say you could arrange a dictator's coup while at it.'
I glance at John. He looks tense. He always looks tense while driving, so I have little to deduce there. I silence my phone and pocket it.
'No, turn it off,' he demands. Ready for a fight. I should probably not disappoint John's expectations, but I end up following instructions, surrendering to my pathos.
With a final protest vibration, the device gives up and powers off.
John looks a bit surprised and conflicted by my acquiescence, I notice. With redoubled knuckles force on the wheel, he tells me: 'Seaside, I think.'
'It will be brimming with tourists, seagulls and the stereotypical disappointment, John.'
'Nah, I know a quiet place, if it's still there...' He glances at me, in a measuring way. 'You okay with a sleeping bag?'
'Obviously, John. You are in charge this weekend and I will submit to your misguided good intentions.'
'Never thought I'd hear you say you'd do whatever I want. Would you mind repeating that while I film you?'
'No tech weekend, John.'
'Dammit!'
I smile widely. Misery likes company.
.
TBC
