A/N: Still carrying on. -csf
Four.
'John, take notes', my friend Sherlock directs me, without even a glance in my direction, as he circles a tight concentric tangent to the object of all his full attention.
I huff, amused, as I watch my friend's antics, still holding my bruised rib cage with a tight pressing arm around my mid section. Breathing is still a strained and laborious process as a couple of broken ribs easily get in the way of a natural process.
'John, a sample collection bag.'
I squint, a bit blank, and move not a muscle at all.
'John, tag it for me, will you?'
I watch his empty hand stretched out in my direction imperiously, and blurt out:
'Must we really mimic it? Sherlock, you went to a crime scene without me. As per my request, I may add. It's alright. You were doing crime scenes long before I came along. You don't need to play re-enactments for my benefit, Sherlock. The short version will do. Tell me what you saw and what you found', I insist.
From a crouching position on the living room rug, mid-air above nothing more than reconstructed memories, Sherlock turns eerily green eyes my way and opening them wide with an impossible to fake sincerity he assures me:
'I found nothing of importance because you were not there, John. You are an integral part of the process.'
I blink. That's both a big honour and a huge responsibility.
'Me? I'm just John', I remind him. 'You're the great detective, remember? I'm sure we haven't just swapped places, you know.'
'You are the proud possessor of a scattered and open imaginative thinking and the abuser of fugue lateral escapes of thought that benefit and compliment my own pristine highly perfected reasoning, John.'
'Wait! Just wait!' I hold up a hand at that. 'I know there's a compliment buried away somewhere in there.'
He smirks.
'I also don't want you to lose practise, John, as you find yourself temporarily confined to the flat. Your injury is most annoying and so is the slow pace of healing.'
I nod. 'Tell me about it.' It's been two weeks and too long. Sighing I add: 'The re-enactment is a bit too much, though. Why don't you just skip the detail and tell me the broad strokes?'
'But then how will you blog about it?'
I shrug. 'Maybe you should pen it yourself, Sherlock. You keep telling me you could do a better job.'
'Anyone with a great command of the mother tongue can do a better job; no, don't be like that. What you lack in precision you aptly make up in narrative flair, and apparently your readers enjoy that.'
'Our readers, Sherlock. They read my stories because the stories are about you.'
'No, they don't. They read because of the Work.'
'If that were so, they'd have stopped after the third spontaneous combustion or the second dry drowning. They like to know how we do it. They are comforted that we make wrongs right in a time and place where so many feel unheard and left out.'
Sherlock raises himself slowly from the imaginary inspection over the rug.
'We're just like them. Flawed humans.'
I nod. 'That gives them hope.'
Sherlock Holmes turns away abruptly, a slight discomfort expressed in the way he readjusts his coat collar to realign with the sharp cheek bones. I just smile, proudly; that's my mate, a recalcitrant taker of credits but a natural hero.
For instance, take what lengths he has gone to in order to make me feel I'm still needed, I'm still part of the cases he was reluctant to take without me. Forget lateral thinking, my mate was afraid I'd feel abandoned because I'm really in no state to join him yet. Forget the demands of a crime scene investigation. Even the cab ride would be excruciating, every curb a painful hellfire and each pothole torture.
And yes, now that I'm calmer, enough to admit, to myself at least, I should probably have spent the past fortnight in some medical facility, being looked after – and made feel absolutely useless and broken. I should know, I had a nice bed and hospital-grade-breakfast time upon my return to London. Thinking upon it still gives me the blues. Sherlock knew I wouldn't want that. That's a personal scene I wouldn't want to revisit.
I'm also a doctor, which made it easier to abscond the hospital and set up all necessary care at Baker Street. It's really quite simple if you know what you are doing, and Mycroft Holmes knows it too.
Sherlock's older brother used his meddling prowess to have my meds delivered in (I had to sign for them for some reason; as if he thought Sherlock might use them for scientific research; he wouldn't), and even some accessibility features installed in the shower and my bedroom upstairs. I bet they'll be gone just as mysteriously as they appeared at the first lights of dawn the first day I'm considered healed.
The beloved long sofa got a lot more comfortable a couple of days after the main flat alterations as Mycroft got wind of my nights spent here, Sherlock often in his armchair pretending to do some research just nearby. The soft glow light and my friend's presence keeping bad dreams away, usually attracted by the sensory memory of pain.
I once tried my own armchair and to my immense satisfaction confirmed it was still lumpy, with a couple of broken springs and a permanent indentation the size and shape of my backside. Comfortable in its perfection as a tailored piece of furniture. Clients might take a seat on it from time to time, but it's only truly fitting for me. Even Sherlock squirms uncomfortably if sat there for too long.
Hence I had to start lying on the sofa with my head towards the door side of the sofa, and having to crank up my neck to see incoming guests was not a soldier's first chosen sofa orientation.
'Go on, Sherlock. Start from the beginning...' I urge softly, reclining back on the sofa's cushions, eyeing my friend attentively.
He nods, intense, captivating and wild.
I notice belatedly that whilst I was absent-mindedly contemplating the last couple of weeks in a time lapse blur, my friend was analysing my wellbeing in that mind reading act of his. He has found little cause for concern.
'If I must, John', he pretends not to enjoy his raptures audience but I can see the satisfied gleam in his eye. 'I arrived at the crime scene by cab. The driver was of eastern descendent, third generation by the father's side, judging by his hair's natural swirl patterns on the scalp. He probably is unaware of that fact, given he has clearly been brought up by overprotective parents that were self-made entrepreneurs renegading their past. Freshly shaven, clean sweater? A cabbie works by shifts, clearly, and this one was still out to impress, not yet disillusioned. Just started the taxi driving job, out to impress his boss, his pregnant girlfriend and her family, clearly. Nothing difficult to deduce. You would have seen it all for yourself, John, had you not stayed in for the night. The newbie cabbie managed a half decent job, nothing extraordinary in the way he drove, so I thought of you, John, and gave him a good review. Luckily it was a numeric review for I'm not so sure even your missed presence there would have inspired words out of me.'
'You did well', I assure my friend.
'Lestrade was already at the crime scene, standing at the edge of the blue and white tape.' Sherlock waves in the direction of the kitchen to refer to our friendly inspector. 'Looking a bit frazzled by the excessive gore and brutality in the overkill murder. He pushed me aside at once.' In our living room, Sherlock walks towards the narrow shelving unit by the left-hand kitchen door – the one with the books and the floppy discs full of former military secrets that Sherlock rescued out of a foreign potency – and leaning towards it with an absolute look of innocence, Sherlock pretends to listen and answer.
'John is at home, where he belongs, inspector.
'Resting, of course.
'He's been eating, sleeping and passing urine as per the usual expectations for a man of his built and size, inspector...'
'Sherlock!'
'The difficulty with John seems to be an abhorrence of painkillers. John claims they make him groggy. John has also forbidden me to mix them in with foods that disguise their flavour and he can almost always spot them in his tea.'
'Sherlock...'
'John sends his love. Or his generic fondness. Or whatever generic greeting blokes should tell each other when missing important crime scenes. I really wouldn't know. I wasn't listening.'
'Oh, Sherlock.'
'The inspector sends his wishes of a speedy recovery and all that, John, and wishes me to inform you that he knows how "impossibly brattish" I can be.'
I chuckle. He proceeds, full of energy, walking forth now:
'The dead body lies on the rug. Dirty tarmac at the scene, too contaminated by a plethora of previous evidence, mostly unrelated to the case. Anderson is that desk fan, full of hot air and little more. Donovan is the gossiping teapot in the cabinet. Across 221B, by the music stand is the only witness to the murderer fleeing the scene.'
I look on to the music stand.
'A witness? You didn't say that before.'
'A ginger stray cat, standing on a shallow pool of water.'
I clear my throat. Sure, in a room full of inanimate objects taking the place of real life people, a stray cat is sort of a reliable witness.
'So the murderer was spotted by a cat.'
'Can't you see, John?' he retorts, full of energy and wild gestures when suddenly he stops into a dead man stance, glaring into the distance. 'Oh, that's it, John! You solved it! Oh, you may be a useless invalid to society—'
'Oi!'
'—but you are still my conductor of light! John, you are brilliant! I've got it!' He grabs his coat with his wide smile 'I'm going to Lestrade, don't wait up!'
'Wait! You didn't tell me!'
I watch him dash away through the flat door by cranking up my neck as much as possible, a general mirth filling me.
I'll follow my best friend in no time. Meanwhile I'm still part of the Work.
Sherlock double backs in a mad dash and takes a kneel dive by my side.
'The cat ate the goldfish, John. From the fish bowl overturned on the window sill, of which only a splashed pool of water remained as evidence. The cat ate the goldfish but how did he get to the goldfish if not by the open window the murderer left? The murderer is the first floor neighbour, and I'll tell you how he crafted a slingshot with a retractable projectile as soon as I come back. We've got all night to experiment and prove how the murder was committed, John!'
He waits, baited breath and wide eyes. I nod my approval and that sets him off, in a second dash out of 221B.
I'll be right here waiting for him.
.
TBC
