Chapter Two: The Parking Lot Stranger
My flat was two miles away on Peony Lane in a tall, run-down apartment building. I could have afforded something slightly bigger and nicer further out of the city, but the proximity to the psychiatric facility my father was at was the main selling point.
I parked in the tiny lot behind the building and pulled my attaché off the back, wearing my helmet into the building. I noticed that if I wore my helmet, people avoided talking to or looking at me. Not that many people in London went out of their way to engage me. I appreciated that about London.
I got into the elevator alone, standing at the back leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, the lift shuddering toward floor six. I hopped out on my floor, moving through the dim hallway, making my way through a group of four teenage boys taking up the expanse of the hallway. They stepped politely out of my way and I tilted my helmeted head toward them, unlocking the door to 626 and letting myself in, locking it behind me.
I began the process of peeling off my layers of outside clothes, kicking my loafers off by the door, pulling off my helmet and putting it on an armchair by my couch, shucking my suit jacket and putting it in the same chair and yanking my tie loose, hanging it on the corner of my dresser, stepping out of my slacks and kicking them toward the dirty laundry basket. I smelled the collar of my dress shirt as I pulled it off. Smelled musty and a touch smoky. I frowned and pulled it over my head, shoving it into the laundry basket.
I realized my laundry basket was full and I needed desperately to do laundry. I thought for a moment that the wisest course of action would be to do it now. I looked around the rest of my bedroom and realized I had probably another half a basket sitting around on the floor and draped over things. I stepped out of the bedroom and into the only other room in the flat besides the bathroom positioned on the other side of my bedroom. The kitchen and living room were all one room, a lone window overlooking Peony Lane and facing another apartment building lighting the small space. My kitchen was in a similar state, dishes in the sink and next to the sink, a garbage bin that needed attending, boxes of books against the wall that never got completely unpacked, my desktop computer stuck on a tiny desk in the back corner. I hadn't even turned it on in a week, ever since finishing my dissertation. My dissertation defense was still another month away. At the thought of my dissertation defense I decided to abandon thoughts of tidying my flat and instead procured a beer from my refrigerator, slamming it open against the kitchen counter and collapsing onto the couch in my mismatched bra and panties, turning on the television that's still sitting on the floor and wasting my brain cells on reality television.
The rest of the weekend went quite like that, wasting my own time although I had told Dr. Watson I didn't do that anymore. There were any number of constructive things I could have been doing, be it reading, learning, creating, cleaning. I did none of those things. All through Saturday I procrastinated on my chores and doom scrolled through social media posts. I did some online searches of Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes, finding the blog which was still posted online. I read through its entirety with great interest, wondering to myself what the true character of this Mr. Holmes might be, as it was evident Dr. Watson's writings were obviously colored by his own thoughts and feelings- his perception of himself seemed skewed, presenting himself as quite more dull as he actually was, especially the earlier entries. From my interactions with him and my knowledge of his being a physician, I knew his intelligence to be greater than he portrayed it. Perhaps it was an artistic choice to portray Mr. Holmes as more intelligent than he really was. Holmes was also portrayed as occasionally blunt, crass, and casually cruel. I wondered if he was written that way, or if in fact he was even worse in reality.
The entries tapered off in the last five years and became increasingly vague, spotty, and cursory. The last entry had been written over a year ago.
Sunday morning, I woke at five in the morning and stumbled toward the shower, propping myself against the back wall of the shower and willing the hot water to wake me. I had stayed up far too late the previous night. I could feel insomnia creeping back into my life- my last bout had been about a year prior, most likely caused by the move from California to London. It was hell and I didn't wish to repeat the experience.
Out of the shower, I plaited my brunette hair in a french braid down tightly down the back of my head and pulled on a calf length navy blue dress with small white dots and a white chelsea collar, paired with white stockings and white mary jane shoes. I opened the jewelry box atop my dresser and pulled out a small golden crucifix, clasping it around my neck.
My father was fairly anti religion as I was growing up, but when my brother Mike died five years prior, my father suddenly found God and now that he had succumbed to the middle stages of Alzheimer's disease, religion was one of his major anchors to reality. Keeping his nose constantly in a Bible kept his terrors at bay. He had sinned quite a bit throughout his life and the dementia centered greatly around his guilt about those sins.
So, on Sunday mornings I got up early and dutifully visited him at St. Emil's, the psychiatric facility that his advanced directives had forced me to institutionalize him in. I assumed he was set on this facility because it was the one Mike had died in. There were other facilities more equipped to handle my father's condition in more residential and seemingly humane ways, and now that I was his legal guardian I could have reassigned him but, honestly, his comfort was not worth the price increase. Not only could I not afford it financially, but I was already at my limit emotionally having to see my father weekly and on holidays. Having to visit a church inside of an asylum every week was hardly a relaxing experience. I wasn't entirely sure why I put myself through it, other than the fact that any time I had to miss our standing appointment my phone would be blown up by staff informing me that my father had become distraught and violent, requiring tranquilization.
The weather was extra gross that morning, even for London. It would make for a dicey drive to St. Emil's, I would have to go close to the speed limit. I pulled on my leather touring jacket and zipped it over my dress, wiping the water droplets off of my bike seat with my gloved hand, straddling the seat and tucking my skirt around my legs. My bike was not entirely practical in this city due to weather, but the size and maneuverability won out against a car. Besides, Saturday morning drives in the country were a favorite pastime of mine. That's what I should have done yesterday instead of browsing social media in my underwear all day.
Two hours of voluntary dissociation later I skidded my bike back into the parking lot. Everything had triggered me. Everything had pissed me off. The self-righteous preacher. The traffic on the road. My father, more lucid than usual, trying to engage me in conversations about the past I did not want to and was not ready to have.
I pulled into the empty parking lot and stepped off of my bike, planting one of my white shoes directly into a puddle.
I angrily hoisted my right leg over the seat, the stupid skirt of my stupid church dress catching the swell of the seat and knocking me off balance enough to stumble.
I clenched my fists, glaring at my bike, seconds away from kicking it over. Instead, I turned away, crouched down, and screamed into the inside of my helmet. After I had exhausted breath, I opened my eyes and noticed a gigantic crack in the asphalt of the parking lot. There was a loose piece about two inches by two. I grabbed it and yelled again, pitching it hard at the chain link fence that enclosed the parking lot.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Goddamnit!"
I stopped for a moment, my chest heaving, trying to decide if now would be the time that I finally lose it. Or I could go back inside, wash the stench of incense off of me, and resume civilized life.
After ten minutes of deliberation I stomped back across the parking lot toward the door into my apartment building.
As I turned the corner, a man stepped out of the shadows, smoldering cigarette perched between his lips, startling me slightly adjacent of my inner rage. He opened the door for me with a flat smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Pleasant church service?" He asked me.
"Thank you." I answered, entering his offered open door. To my surprise he pulled the cigarette from his lips and ground it into the pavement, following me into the building.
My hackles went up and then he followed me into the lift also. There were eight floors in this building, the chances of him belonging to one of those floors was good.
When the doors closed the stranger did not press a button right away.
He's being polite, I thought to myself. I pressed the button for the fourth floor. The stranger gave me a momentary quizzical look that he probably didn't know I could see, as I was at the back of the lift leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, the visor on my helmet a silver one way mirror.
He pressed six.
I got off at four, brushing past him quickly and waiting for the lift doors to close before I walked down the hallway and into the stairwell.
I climbed the two flights up and reached the top slightly out of breath. I opened the door quietly but heard the usual crowd of teenagers in the hallway. The sound of others in the building emboldened me and I started walking briskly toward my apartment. Surely by now I had incurred enough goodwill in my fellow apartment dwellers to step in if I were to be assaulted by the parking lot stranger.
Unfortunately, as I rounded the corner to the front door of my apartment, the stranger was standing right in front of my door, looking away from me down the hallway toward the group of teens. I strode toward him confidently but slowly enough to try and take in his appearance.
Six feet tall, at least. Slight build. Worn navy blue anorak. Jeans an inch too short and black chelsea boots. Dark hair, at least fifty percent gray, slicked back with a slightly receding hairline at the temples. Two days' worth of beard growth.
As I neared the man, he turned at the sound of my steps. He took in my appearance much like I had done to him, although I knew in my case my ridiculous mixture of 1940's church clothes and motorcycle racing accoutrement was quite up for judgment. I flexed my hands, still in my light leather gloves.
I was not unarmed. The legality of my forms of protection was questionable in this country but, as the female daughter of a former vice detective I didn't feel guilty breaking these sorts of laws. I saw firsthand at a young age what happened to women caught off guard.
"Del Patrick." The man finally spoke. His voice was deep and sounded familiar. Like recently familiar. Like a voice I had heard for the first time this very weekend.
"Who?" I answered, crossing my arms again. The man smirked.
"I know it's you,Delilah, you were just in my flat on Friday."
I bristled at the use of my full name. And then the voice recognition clicked.
I pulled my helmet off, my face flush from being in the helmet while I climbed the stairs. I straightened the circular wire frames of my glasses and brushed a few loosened strands of hair out of my face.
"Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, probably more incredulously than necessary. He looked chagrined.
"Is it that hard to believe?" He sneered.
My eyebrows dropped low over my gaze as I tucked my helmet under my left arm.
"You look a lot older than you looked in the video I found of you. Plus, you're missing your fancy hat." I deadpanned and I saw a flash of annoyance behind his eyes. At that sign of anger, I remembered I was supposed to be trying to acquire a job at his service and intentionally provoking him was probably the wrong way to be going about that.
I neutralized my expression and pulled my flat keys out of my jacket pocket.
"Uh, can I invite you in, Mr. Holmes?" I reached around him and unlocked the door, shoving it open between us. Sherlock took a moment to recover from the fast pivot in my countenance and nodded, entering my apartment ahead of me, his strides long and decisive.
As I followed him into my home, I realized it was in no way ready for company. I grimaced and threw my helmet into the armchair my suit coat still laid across.
"I wasn't expecting company." I mumbled by way of apology, unzipping my jacket and hanging it on a hook I had installed specifically for the purpose.
Sherlock said nothing but studied my apartment and its mess embarrassingly closely.
"You saw the state of my flat." He admitted finally, a surprisingly fair response.
I took a brief pause. I wanted to ask if he truly lived there, given the amount of dust on everything there, but reminded myself to be nice to the person I wanted to work for.
"Tea?" I asked instead. Sherlock nodded and I went about filling my kettle and clicking my gas stove alight. I frowned at my small round kitchen table, quickly divesting it of piles of notes and printed out information.
"'Biochemical Signaling and the Role that Scent Plays in Alternative Diagnostic Methods.'" He quoted the title of the research paper laying at the top of the pile. "I saw that you are a PhD candidate in Biochemistry. Is your dissertation related to…?" He inquired about my project by leading my response.
"Not quite. My dissertation is more focused on identifying the biological processes that produce the signals that provide data through which we can attempt diagnoses. Mostly in regard to catastrophic events such as multiple organ failure, adrenal crisis-"
"Death." He simplified my thought. "You are trying to identify the early signals of death."
I disliked hearing it made that simple. It almost made my project seem metaphysical, in a way. Like I was trying to sniff out death in order to cheat it. Which I guess I probably was, but didn't want to view it through a less than academic, practical lens.
I didn't respond to his simplification of my dissertation and instead dropped my pile of papers and books onto my sofa, the papers on top sliding noisily across the other side of the cushions. I pretended not to notice and instead turned to Sherlock and gestured toward the chair next to the table.
"Please have a seat, Mr. Holmes."
He did as I offered without a word or facial movement, and I walked around the other side of the table and sat in the only other chair, perched toward the end of the seat with my ankles crossed politely. I looked at the big stain on my shoe and glared, and then I remembered that Sherlock had met me in the parking lot, a cigarette mostly smoked, and chances were better than half that he had witnessed at least part of my tantrum. Given his snarky comment about church, I had to conclude that yes, he had.
My eyes darted directly from my shoes to Sherlock's face and he caught the path of my eyeline and smirked. As if he had read the entire progression of my thought process, he said "I didn't really take you as a devout Catholic. Perhaps I should have guessed, given the Irish ancestry and origin as the daughter of a LAPD policeman."
I felt my face tingle in what I knew on my pale skin came across as a patch red blush. Not a dainty pink one, of course. A blotchy, obvious emotional response.
"I'm not." I answered probably too defensively. "I go because my father is ill, and he requests it."
"St. Emil's, is it?" He asked, a smirk playing across his stubble-lined lips.
I blushed further. "How did you-?"
"Assuming you came directly from a church service, which your emotional outburst made seem likely, and assuming you drove slowly enough to mind weather conditions but as fast as you possibly could, your arrival time relative to the early Sunday service times every church seems to adhere to made it impossible for you to have come from Bethlem, the next closest psychiatric facility. I assumed by your dress, your resume, and the area and building you live in, that you couldn't afford to place him anywhere nicer, and your comment about your father being ill but not directly saying what he is suffering from, coupled with the obvious sense of unpleasant obligation you feel about a chore you perform weekly would suggest it is a chronic condition and one people don't usually volunteer or prefer to talk about. Given his age, assuming yours, I'm leaning toward an age-related dementia, like-"
"Alzheimer's." I finished for him. He looked smug, his eyes obviously searching my face for a reaction.
"That's good." I commented, my eyes studying his face in turn as he seemed struck, surprisingly unhappy at my compliment. "I should have seen how obvious that answer would be." I murmured, tearing my eyes away from his face as my kettle whistled. I jumped up to prepare us both cups of tea.
"How do you take your tea, Mr. Holmes?"
"One sugar, splash of milk." He answered perfunctorily. I put in a cube of sugar and looked in my refrigerator, removing a glass bottle of milk and sniffing it gingerly, trying not to gag directly after. I heard Sherlock sigh deeply. "Two sugars, then." He amended his order and I put another cube in his mug and poured a small portion of honey into my own.
I brought our tea into the dining area, setting Sherlock's in front of him.
"I wasn't prepared for company." I reiterated. Sherlock sniffed.
"Clearly."
I sipped my tea gratefully. I was sure it was a less than optimal, underwhelming experience for Sherlock but to me sipping my honeyed Irish Breakfast tea was the first real pleasure I had had all morning and my breath escaped in a small, contented sigh. I felt Sherlock's gaze fall upon me and knew without looking it would be one of disapproval.
After giving him a moment for comment, I finally asked him," To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
His gaze was refocused out of middle space back onto me.
"I plan to do some verbal processing tonight."
I took a moment to connect this random statement of fact to the other facts at my disposal.
"Dr. Watson told me to take the weekend to decide if I wanted the job. He hasn't even offered it to me yet."
"I want you for the job." He told me, as if the mere statement of his preference would be enough to convince me to accept the position. I had to admit, having his preference bestowed upon me was a bit of a momentary ego boost, until he finished with, "You were the least idiotic candidate during this entire monthlong search."
"Well, I do endeavor to be the least idiotic in as many situations as possible." I muttered. His eyes narrowed and turned to me but he didn't say anything.
"How long will it take you to move all of…this?"
This question gave me a longer pause than the other.
"Dr. Watson didn't say anything about moving anywhere."
Sherlock sighed impatiently and shifted, turning his body more fully toward me in his chair.
"There is an additional space above 221B-2, John used to occupy the room up there and the rest of the floor was inhabited by Mrs. Hudson, my former landlady. She left the property to me when she died and the floor has been entirely vacant for almost a year. You will live there, above me so that I may fetch you as necessary. It's very important I have you on hand when my mind is ready for…release."
I ignored the unintentional innuendo and contemplated this new bit of information. There was little to no risk- bodily, at least- to living in the same building as Sherlock. If anything, I would be safer living in his proximity than I was living in my current dodgy building and area.
"Okay, well." I threw my hands up, looking around at my apartment. Most of it was still half packed up even after almost a year. "I can move in this week."
"Start moving in tonight." He ordered. "I need you on hand. I have plans and I know I will be ready for our first session afterward."
I wanted to glare a hole in the side of his skull and instead directed the anger as breath out of my nose. "Alright, I'll start bringing my things over today."
Before I finished my sentence, Sherlock was on his phone and standing up out of his chair.
"John will be over in an hour with a kei truck to help you begin moving." He said, headed toward the door without even glancing in my direction as he left. I had logistical curiosities about the timing and the swift procurement of a kei truck but Sherlock had left before I had even decided I wouldn't pursue that line of questioning.
I heard my phone vibrate in the pocket of my jacket hanging on the wall, and then vibrated again before I could retrieve it from the pocket.
First was a texted contact card for Sherlock Holmes.
The second was a longer text from an unknown number.
"I am so sorry. I had no idea he was going to ambush you at your flat. I was going to call you tomorrow and discuss the possibility of a move to Baker Street. This is John Watson btw."
I added both contacts to my phone and sighed. This was all becoming more…involved than I had bargained for.
"No worries. I will work on boxing my things. Shouldn't take too long."
"Thank you for understanding. Also, I have to bring my daughter as I could not secure a sitter at such short notice."
I grimaced and held the phone away from me slightly.
"This isn't a great neighborhood." I texted.
It took a moment and my phone lit up again.
"I don't have a choice. She is very well behaved and will stay anywhere I park her. You can watch her while I move your things to the truck."
Okay, so I didn't have a choice. It's not that I disliked children, they just made me deeply uncomfortable and had a habit of seeking me out for interaction, sort of how cats tend to with dog people.
"See you when you get here." I texted and quickly changed from my church clothes into a pair of jean shorts and an old heather UCLA tee shirt with old worn tennis shoes. My braid was about halfway fallen out so I pulled it all the way out and shook out my long, naturally wavy but currently severely crimped hair, pulling it into a low ponytail at the nape of my neck. I threw all of my dirty clothes into bags and started refilling the half empty boxes strewn around my apartment, taping them securely and piling them in the kitchen.
About forty minutes later I heard a knock on my door and ran to answer it. Dr. Watson stood there awkwardly, dressed down from the last time I had seen him, his hair more askew and wearing a tee shirt and corduroy jacket with jeans. In front of his right leg stood a little blonde girl with giant blue eyes, clutching a hardcover book in her hands.
"Good morning, Dr. Watson." I said after a moment and stood back to let him and his child inside. She entered first, fearlessly, and stood behind me as her father entered with a bit more hesitancy, casting a glance around the apartment to gauge the amount of work it would take to move me. Luckily there wasn't much besides books, boxes, and too many dirty dishes in the kitchen.
"Call me John." He flashed me a quick smile.
"Hi."
I looked down, startled, at the towhead right behind me.
"Hi there." I said, making myself smile in a way that was hopefully more friendly than creepy. Judging by the big smile I got in return I succeeded. My smile became more natural in return.
"Daddy and I were supposed to go the park and then Uncle Sherlock texted him and now we have to help you move." She said in a perfectly annunciated British accent.
"Ah, ha ha ha, we don't need to make Miss Patrick feel bad." John chuckled, reddening slightly. His blushing was far more complimentary to his complexion than my own was.
I turned my attention back to the little girl. "Well, I am very sorry about that."
"That's okay." She said. "You sound like Miss Maura."
I opened my mouth and shut it again, looking up at John for a clue.
"She makes educational videos online. American, I'm assuming is the connection there."
"Oh, yes." I nodded, looking back down at the girl. "I'm from California. Do you know where that is?" I asked her.
"Yes, that is in the United States of America." She said proudly, her little chin lifted slightly.
"Rosie, why don't you go sit at the table and read your book while Daddy and Miss Patrick work on some boxes?" He suggested, obviously eager to get things in motion.
She smiled and did the cute little trotting run children do everywhere and jumped onto a kitchen chair.
"She's so smart." I told John. "Adorable."
He looked less out of place then, obvious pride widening his smile. "Thank you. She's the spitting image of her mother, charm and intellect included." He looked a tad sad behind the eyes at that.
I thought to myself that she probably got some of those things from her father as well, but that seemed like too familiar of an observation so I redirected the conversation instead.
I let John know which boxes were good to go, I had packed everything I would need for at least the next week at what would apparently be my new residence. I continued to pack, keeping an eye out for Rosie, but she was quite content to read her book, which seemed very impressive for a child not quite school aged yet.
After John had hauled down all of the boxes I needed right away and a few extra, he stood in my kitchen catching his breath.
"That's all I need for now." I told him. "I'll hire someone else for the rest and get it taken care of sometime this week. John nodded.
"That seems like a wise choice."
We both looked over at Rosie who at some point in the last ten minutes had retrieved a Beatles record out of the milk carton by my bookshelf. She had pulled the inner sleeve out and was reading over the lyrics quietly.
"I'm sorry, do you want me to take that from her?" John asked me quietly. I smiled as I watched her little finger move along the lines of text and shook my head.
"I think I discovered The Beatles the same way, at about that age. Make sure to play them for her at some point." I looked back at John and he was looking at me. My gaze shift seemed to startle him and he looked at his watch. "It's getting near lunchtime, I supposed we should get moving. Did you want to ride over with us in the truck?"
"Ah, no, I'll head over on my bike. I have to throw a few things in my backpack, so I'll meet you guys there. " I smiled and John gathered his daughter and ushered her out of my soon to be former home.
After loading my backpack with a few other important items I changed into jeans and my knee high motorcycle boots, zipping my jacket and slinging my canvas knapsack over my shoulders, putting on my helmet as I took the lift downstairs. A minute later I was on my bike pulling out of the parking lot, on my way to Baker's Street.