The Spirit of the Law

Chapter 1

Strings of the Heart

I have had many inquiries as to the events of early April. Though I hadn't intended on reliving them as they are quite personal, upon further evaluation and much needed guidance from those that have been most personally affected, I have determined that in telling this tale, I would be giving honor to a man. A man whom, though he plays an intricate part in our stories, has, until now, gone often overlooked, including, I am shamed to say, by myself. He is a wonderful man who has been a symbol of stability and steadfast in our lives. He, in his own right, has had a marvelous career and has had a profound effect on many during the course of his profession. I will recount these events as I remember them and hope that in doing so, I restore justice to this honorable man:

It really started for us about ten in the morning, 4th of April. It was a slow morning. Quite unassuming. Sherlock's last case had been a week prior. Maybe more. He goes through these spells you know where he'll have days, sometimes weeks of nothing to do. I suppose this is the universes way of forcing repose before another sometimes-larger wave hits. Like the flux in a grocery store, the registers will be empty until you are ready to check out and then people come out of the wood works. Sherlock too would be subjugated to these fazes and he often goes through what he calls seasons. There are seasons for cheating and seasons for murder. People of different types come to him to inquire of him his expertise, sometimes they just need him to tell them what they might already know.

So bringing it back to that morning Sherlock, as I said, had not worked a case in over a week. It was difficult to discern how he was feeling at the time. Sometimes, if he has gone too long without a case, he will become restless and have no qualms with expressing his boredom. As of now there was a quality of relaxation about the flat. At least this was how the morning had begun. As the day would wear on Sherlock likely would have delved into his studies. What would have fancied him this day was anyone's guess. He was changeable in this way. Bouncing from one subject matter to another. Today it might be chemistry, tomorrow anatomy. If the surprise I found in our fridge that morning was of any indication I might assume anatomy to be his preferred focus for the day. I suppose it would have depended upon how long he intended to keep that thing in there for unmolested.

As for the moment, Sherlock was strumming a melancholic tune on his violin, whilst gazing upon the bustling street below. I in my easy chair perusing a medical crime drama. Plainly titled: The Medical Detectives, written by Berton Roueche. Courtesy our land lady Mrs. Hudson, I sipped a cup of lavender tea. The aroma of which perfumed the room. The warm liquid upon hitting an empty stomach reawakened a sleeping beast. I desired something greater. Something with substance that would fill the ache. Distracted by the rebellion of a greedy stomach, I wasn't quite able to get into the book. Not having breakfast that morning, my stomach was a persistent reminder to the surprise that greeted me when hours prior I went in search of something to eat.

"Sherlock." I addressed. "I found something in our icebox this morning when I was looking for a good breakfast."

"Yes."

"You know, you think you're hungry and then you come across something like that. It can be quite unsettling. An appetite suppressant if you will."

"Yes." He eagerly agreed. "Mrs. Hudson brought it up. It's pot pie or something like that."

"No no. Not that." I corrected.

"Hm? Oh that."

"Yes that." Was he being facetious or did he genuinely not know? I couldn't tell.

"I'm testing the effects that cold has on encephalitis."

"Hm? Encephalitis you say?" Letting out an exasperated breath, I impressed my eyes quite put off by his casual indifference. "Sherlock, I'm not sure you quite understand the true function of an icebox."

"To keep things cold." He answered. "That's what I'm using it for." I must have come off as peeved for he reasoned, quite matter of fact. "It wouldn't quite make sense for me to go out and buy an icebox when we've got a perfectly good one in the kitchen. Now, would it?"

"Yes well." Not knowing quite how to argue his point I asked. "Does Lestrade know that you have it?"

"Lestrade's got nothing to do with it." He explained. "It's waste from the University."

"Bio waste. You act as if it were thrown out in yesterday's garbage. How do you even get a hold of something like this?"

"I know someone."

"You know? Of course you do."

"How queer." He noted.

"Yes. I was beginning to believe that you thought it quite normal to have a human brain in your fridge."

"Not that." I was stumped.

"What?"

"Watson we are about to have guest."

"Hm?"

"While you were babbling about something or other."

"Bio waste in our icebox."

"I noticed someone coming up the entry. We are about to be interrupted in three, two." I turned to the door in anticipation just as the knock sounded and Mrs. Hudson peeked her head around.

"Sherlock." She said in a wide grimace. "You've got visitors." Seeing who came in behind I set my tea down and sat up puzzled. Sherlock did not turn to greet her. In fact, he refused to even acknowledge she was there. I of course was well aware of the conflict between the two of them. She went to speak first. As if knowing her intentions, the violin strung a wild succession of out of tune notes. She pressed her lips tight and the nails on the chalkboard type whinnying stopped. She went to speak again and again was met with the same agitated instrument, forcing her mouth tight. The fiddle again stopped. I still don't understand the basis for all his quirks, only that they are there.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock spurned still with his back to her.

"Sherlock, I need your help?" She grimaced at her own words. She meant to say 'we'. Scotland Yard needs your help. The department needs your help', but Sherlock's behavior had put her off-step. Who was she kidding? She would say later. 'She' really did need his help'.

Sherlock reclaimed his doleful lament, leaving her standing just within the door, forlorn. The escort she had brought up with her remained in the hall. The abnormality didn't get past me. Donovan was not the type of person to come to Sherlock on her own accord. This was definitely an unusual occurrence.

"Where's Lestrade? Why didn't he come?"

"It's about him." She answered. "He's missing." A high-pitched squeal greeted us. The failed musician swung around in dramatic fashion, drawing his bow upon her like a sabre.

"You, sit." He ordered, whipping the bow to the client's chair. I knew it took great humility for her to bite down her pride and come to Sherlock. With his command of the situation, Sherlock was tipping a scale on a delicate balance. With this motion, Sherlock was telling her he was willing to help, but it would be by his rules. Would she understand that? She stiffened her back then went to sit.