A/N. Disclaimer: I do not condone John's driving ways ...But when you know Sherlock drove to Baskerville, it's so much more fun to think the unflappable genius let John chauffeur him for the first ten minutes, planning to lounge in his mind palace on the passenger's seat. Sherlock soon forced John to stop the engine, surrender the keys, and change seats, whilst John protested he "drives damn well fine!" and "there's absolutely no reason for your hands to be still shaking like that, didn't I tell you we had plenty of time at that train crossing?" I just love the patience a long suffering Sherlock can have, at times, with his best friend. In fairness, he does give stoic John plenty of grief...
Well, anyway. Weird tale. Partial lockdown scenario, I'm following London times and guidance here.
Still the same old advice: keep safe. Whatever it is like for you, keep strong. -csf
1st.
Ruddy Sunday drivers! Driving at a leisure pace and acting as if only their vehicle can take up the one-way road. A yellow traffic light is as good as a red to them, and they have the nerve to honk at me! Sherlock says I'm prone to road rage, but that's absolutely not true. I'm not the one driving this rental as if— Oi, you! Are you blind or what?!
Another ruddy Sunday driver, can you imagine?
I drove trucks on a convoy in the war, as we were being targeted by a bunch of drunk insurgents with mortar shells. Now that was driving awake!
I drove ambulances, and I know exactly just how narrow a gap needed to overtake the idiot blocking the road. I had lives to save, not going out for tea and a bun in a garden centre!
Wish they could just all get off the roads and let me drive!
How much longer must I bear this?
Oh, yeah. Brighton. Sherlock got asked to solve a case in Brighton.
It goes against our rules too.
He was there, sat at the kitchen table with me, as we agreed and I wrote them down.
Next he'll blame my handwriting as a way out of those rules.
1. Work cases from home as much as possible.
2. No direct contact with the clients. Or the criminals. Not even the victims. In fact, avoid everyone at 2 metres if possible.
3. Wear suitable personal protective equipment at all times. Report to doctor Watson if feeling unwell in any way, however insignificant it may seem. Report to doctor Watson – regardless.
4. Avoid long distance cases. Unless working from the flat. In which case, Sherlock points out, distance is not a factor.
There were a couple of other rules, but I don't recall them right now, and I can't make out the words I wrote down.
Can't let Sherlock know, he'll get too smug about it.
Sherlock doesn't need to know I once reattached a soldier to his severed hand, reconnecting tendons, nerves, vascular links and tissue. Took me long hours in a battlefield hospital. The soldier made it and can use his hand nearly fully functioning – but I must say his own perseverance in physical therapy was vital. I just put the puzzle pieces back together.
That was before I got my shoulder blasted to Hades, though.
I would get my own very personal acquaintance with physical therapy. It worked for me too.
The handwriting notwithstanding.
.
Dead woman found on the beach, the bloated body washed ashore by the tides. What could have been a more mundane case to present Sherlock with? I didn't quite think he would take it. The detective holding the phone on loudspeaker glanced at my hours print out pinned to the fridge by a silly magnet and made his call instantly.
'I'll meet you there, inspector. I'm afraid John will be impossibly busy saving lives of those whose deaths would not be of interest to you or me.'
I couldn't blame my friend. I had just been slammed with consecutive days of double shifts. Luckily not on the "hot" wards, but trying to make a dent on the pile of delayed cases that the virus caused.
I'm fairly confident I won't be passing on the virus to the officers and consulting detective on the scene as I go to join them. Everyone at the scene – everybody but the third corpse just recently found – will be relieved to know.
Sherlock must be very pleased. His boring beach murder is now a promising serial killer's idea of summer fun.
I press down on the accelerator. Must get there before Sherlock does his deduction thing.
.
Once upon the city centre, it's easy to find the way to the cooler maritime winds that drift from the shore. The vast expanse of water greets me with its glacial cool levelness, stretching by the horizon.
The day is turning hot and oppressive. The juxtaposition with the open plains of the sea never fails to give me warped feeling of home.
Like sand, heat and vastness were my true element.
I try not to overthink it.
Sherlock is somewhere, prancing around a third body, deducing brilliant snippets of information about the killer.
I park with a swift swerve – someone on the road is upset, can't see why, drivers can be so tetchy on hot days – and exit the car by the crime scene delineation tape.
Hoping I'm turning up to the right party here.
I finally find him, a warm half smile gracing its way through my face as I see the usual wool coat flurry of brilliance and arrogance intertwined. Feels so familiar, as my gaze falls on the slim figure I missed so much.
I bang shut the car door, behind me, anticipating how I'm to surprise Sherlock, to jump on him with a curt joke, and storms will brood over his brow before he fully recognises me, stopping mid rant with a shy acknowledgement smile – yes, of course it would have been easier to check liver temperature to ascertain the time of death, rather than deduce the wall paint had dried on his sleeve from the time the victim had collapsed back at newly built 3 bedroom construction in the suburbs. He will blink and ask, confused, John, is that you?
Always, Sherlock, you can't keep me away.
Biting down a smug glow that is too precious to carry, I start walking to the detective, currently the centre of attention and loving it.
My steps falter slightly as I see him offer a bright, rare Sherlock-smile to someone standing nearby, someone in attendance by his side.
Gosh, I've been replaced already?
Is that Anderson?
They are getting along like old chums.
I halt altogether, feeling a tang of insecurity spread over my intent.
Sherlock doesn't need me.
In fact, he needs an assistant. He said that from day one. So he went and got himself a substitute for his every day one.
It was easy, considering. Even Philip Anderson would do.
No, don't be petty. Anderson is a highly qualified forensic scientist. I'm sure he's helping our mate, the man who outshines and eclipses anyone else's intelligence and therefore needs no-one – oh, what a laugh! – and elects to be your friend and you should be grateful he's giving you any attention when he can sulk silently for days...
Quiet, now. John Watson, you don't hold the monopoly of crime scene partnerships.
I guess you and Sherlock should have discussed partnership monogamy openly from the onset.
Jeez, that sounds wrong. Am I jealous? Really? Me? I have lots of friends and I'm happy for Sherlock and Anderson, it releases a few nights off for me, anyway.
Gosh, I'm truly jealous. What an act I am.
Sherlock's friendship is something so precious I don't like the prospect of sharing. I'm fine for a Christmas party or a night out on the pub. But crime scenes? Sherlock, I though crime scenes were our thing.
Oh, Christ. Anderson nearly hugs him, patting his backs right in front of everyone. Even Lestrade is grinning at them.
Hell has officially frozen over.
Maybe I should just go home.
.
'John!'
In the end, it was like a train wreck. I just had to stick around and watch it unfold. So, in true Watson style, I prepared for battle with a couple of deep breaths and made my presence known.
I plaster my most beatific smile on a vacant expression and come closer.
'Yeah, it's me. Thought I would drive here. See how the case was going.' See if you needed my help, which is now obvious you don't.
Okay, good start, John. Next time, though, wait for the question to be asked of you.
In the meantime, hold your aces next to your chest.
'John.'
'That's my name.'
My smile is straining now.
Sherlock doesn't acknowledge that. He's scanning my face, my posture, looking for a clue on what he can feel is wrong in me.
Sherlock may be a world renowned genius who can identify types of ashes and tyre tread marks at a glance, but he can't see what is wrong with me.
'You drove here', he elects to say, completely out of subject. His deep grey eyes are brewing distant storms over the ocean waves, as he keeps deducing every crease in my clothes, or mysterious crumbs on my shirt.
I know there are no crumbs. I showered and changed before leaving the hospital and drove straight over. I didn't take a break, nor am I hungry now.
'Yes. Rental.'
Sherlock blinks and the spell is lost. He looks away.
Perhaps he was picking up the magnetic vibes of the previous drivers that rented the car. Their trace evidence must have brushed on me. Sherlock hates it when I take the tube because of that. As if I'm tainted with other people's lives.
I suppose it's a bit like dogs sniffing scents. They must get confused and worried too, just before they get that major whiff of their owner and know he's just fine, buried under the other scents.
Anderson quips at that point: 'We've got all we need from the body, right? Can we bag it up?'
The detective nods, without a glance back. He's too focused on me. His expression looks a bit broken.
Guilty, perhaps? Stop it, John.
Don't gloat. His guilt won't last. He's got no idea.
Sherlock is nobody's. He belongs to the world. Wild and carefree.
Lestrade quietly directs: 'Yes, bag it, Anderson. Have them look for the salt content on her lungs like Sherlock said. Our wonder-boy only solves the cases, we have to build up the evidence for the prosecution.'
Sherlock is still contest staring at me. I'm mirroring his determination.
I can tell Lestrade is getting antsy over our silence. He doesn't quite know what to do with his hands.
'John', Sherlock finally breaks the silence. 'It's the seaside. Care for a stroll and an ice cream?'
I smirk dangerously. His grey eyes narrow.
'It's too damned hot for that coat, you'll get a sunstroke, mate.'
Some weight lifts off his expression, as if he recognised something quintessentially me in the advice. No, it's common sense.
He flips up the collar of his long coat and waits for me to start walking before he follows me.
.
'Lestrade thought it was a people smuggling case. Hence his insistence I take the case. I'm afraid he got it wrong. Scuba diving school owner was cutting costs by using a less than optimal oxygen percentage to his air tanks. That day the wife asked for a divorce and the house they shared. It's all in their social media feeds. He cut costs too far, the three hen do young British women of foreign descent suffered difficulties breathing underwater after a while. He tried saving them but ultimately panicked and cut off the air tanks and pulled the fins and lead belts off them. It's all there in the lividity patterns, as Anderson pointed out. Easy peasy. Lestrade will nick the instructor before the divorce lawyer even files the papers. Who knows, maybe his wife has got a soft spot for bad boys and it brings them back together?' Sherlock smirks my way.
I'm looking ahead, feeling a bit blank. Shocked.
Hurt. Confused. Overwhelmed.
Tired. So tired.
'Great job, Sherlock.'
'You're not pleased', he notes.
'Sorry, what?' I turn my head to face the detective. He looks so young and immature every time he tries to talk of feelings.
I'm not particularly fond of the subject either.
He expects me to guide him along. Surely it's too much this time, that I must make sense of what he's done and explain it to him.
I abruptly sit in a sun warmed wooden bench, the paint slowly peeling off.
In the back of my mind I make a mental note to wash my hands, you don't know who has sat here before you did.
I know who seats next. Sherlock; his puppy eyes still studying every micro freckle on my face, the myriad of wrinkles flowing through my skin.
'You are upset with me, John. I fail to see why.'
Yeah. I know.
I shake my head.
'You solved the case. Didn't even need me.'
Don't. Sound. Bitter. John.
He breaks eye contact and looks away to a passing jogger.
'Yes. I did. And you saved patients' lives.'
I shrug.
'Ordered medicines, oxygen, tests, tried to label their illnesses. They do the hard work themselves, Sherlock.'
'You can hardly expect me to believe that, doctor', he mocks openly. 'You don't believe that yourself.'
I faced him straight on, indignant. Maybe that was exactly what he was playing at. I need to moralise: 'I'm not all powerful, Sherlock, I'm just a doctor. It's what I studied to be. Hardly the god given gift you have. So use it. Invite Anderson when I'm busy, or all the time for all I care, but use it, don't waste it.'
I get up and leave.
Road rage. I'm hell bent on some raging right now.
'John, Lestrade will stick around for the pathologist. Will you give a ride back to London?' the question is gunned at my back.
Was that vulnerability and worry in his voice?
'Yes, of course', I bark back. It would be impolite to refuse.
.
TBC
