Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Adventure of the Reigate Ritual

By, John H. Watson

(Really, John. You couldn't invent a title that doesn't sound like we're in a cult?)

(Whose blog has over two thousand views, again?)

(There's no accounting for poor taste.)

221b ASAP. Dying.

SH

PS: Need milk.

That was the text that sent me from Lyons, France to Baker Street, London in twenty-four hours. The punctuation and post-script should have been enough to warn me not to overreact, but I was focused more on the third word. Also, asking for milk while on his deathbed seemed like the dickish thing that Sherlock Bloody Holmes would do.

I texted: What happened?!

I waited, but no new message popped on the screen. I had four numbers on speed dial: Sherlock, Mary, Lestrade, and one other. I dialed the least used one. Mid-ring, the phone picked up.

"What did he do now?" came Mycroft's dry reply.

I repeated the text word for word. Then I said, "Do you really think he's—"

A beep.

"John," came a woman's voice; not with the inflection of a question, but as a matter-of-fact statement.

"Anthea?"

"Go to Lyon–Saint-Exupéry Airport. A jet will be waiting for you there."

"But where is—"

Beep.

The phone disconnected.

During the flight, I had time to gather my thoughts (and make plans to asphyxiate a certain consulting detective if this was an elaborate prank). If Sherlock was actually dying, he could've texted our code word, [REDACTED]. I would have instantly known there was trouble. The word 'dying' was vague. It could be anything from an acronym, a terminally ill suspect's password, or news that he's dying his hair. Anything's possible with Sherlock.

But then why would Mycroft send a jet if he thought his brother wasn't in danger? He could just be showing his dramatic side. Kidnapping me with a jet isn't that different than kidnapping me with a car. But if something was actually wrong…I patted my pocket, reassured by the familiar weight of my handgun. I reached the conclusion that if the problem was insignificant or nonexistent, then I'd have full justifications to choke Sherlock in his sleep. I have to be careful, though; Mary would want to finish him off when she came home.

Dread still weighed in my gut. When the taxi drove up to Baker Street, I expected to see the flashing lights of cop cars and ambulances from a mile away, but the streets were no more congested than usual. A good sign. Mycroft, even the git he is, would call for medical help if he knew his brother's life was on the line.

It was doubly reassuring that our door was clear of any notes. No break-ins, then. But that wasn't enough for me to let go of the pistol's grip. I climbed up the staircase, and could hear muffled voices. I steeled myself for anything. But when I opened the door…

The flat looked like someone had scattered fake snow over every bare surface, as if it were Christmas. Except instead of white fuzz, the snow consisted of…used tissues. The only spots with no white were the three chairs in the center of the room, two of which were occupied.

Sherlock leapt up when he saw me. "John, it's about—CHOO!" He snatched a random tissue from the floor and blew into it. "Time," he sniffed, his voice even deeper than usual. That's when I noticed his red nose and watery eyes.

"You're sick," I said.

"Unwell," he corrected. "Did you get the—"

"No, I did not get the bloody milk!"

I gripped the back of my armchair; the first thing closest to me that wasn't Sherlock's neck. Seriously considering that choking plan. "You trashed our flat," I said with deliberation, "called me here from France, and forced me to leave Mary with my alcoholic sister…because you have a runny nose." I pointed at the client's chair, where a distressed-looking woman was sitting. "And yet you feel well enough for a case. Hi, by the way." I waved curtly to the woman.

"Hello…" She waved nervously back.

"You should be grateful," Sherlock said. "If anyone can dry your sister out, it's Mary."

"Not the point, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sniffed. "What did you expect me to do when you were away? Lie in bed and have my brain cells commit suicide because of crap telly?"

"No, because that would be too reasonable, wouldn't it?"

"Reasonable is boring. Besides, this is your fault."

"Mine?"

"Yes, yours. If you hadn't left, you would have done that silly doctor-thing you're doing right now and force me to rest so my sickness would not have persisted as long as it has."

"As if you ever listen—"

"I listen, if it's worth my attention."

"—and actually do what I say when it comes to your health."

"I do!"

"Do you? Really? Name an instance."

"July 27, 2010: You told me it was unsafe to store hazardous chemicals next to food."

"You still keep mercury in the refrigerator."

"Only after I removed the food, which fulfilled your requirement. August 1, 2011: Said I risked heatstroke if I wore my coat when the temperature is above-average. I take issue with that since average temperatures vary depending on location."

"I think England agrees that twenty-nine degrees Celsius is too hot for you to wear a coat just because you want to look cool."

"And England needs to raise its fashion standards. January 7, 2012—"

"I said to list one instance, Sherlock, not write a bloody essay."

"I am providing evidence."

"You're being a dickhead."

That shut up Sherlock long enough for me to inhale through my nose, my hands clenching and unclenching the edge of the armchair as I tried to regain control. "You said you were dying."

"It was a close call. For a moment." Sherlock cleared his throat, his hands crossing behind his back. "But of course, no virus could stop me. About ninety-seven per cent of symptoms have already disappeared."

I counted several medical errors in that speech, but I didn't press them. Knowing Sherlock, he'd find an absurdly logical (yes, Sherlock, I know that's an oxymoron) counter to each one.

I sighed. "At least you remembered to take your medicine." I grabbed a bottle of Tylenol from the table and shook it. When I didn't hear a rattle, I twisted off the lid and flipped it over my palm. A single tissue fell out.

"I bought this a week ago," I exclaimed. "How long have you been sick?"

"Two days."

"Sherlock!"

"They weren't working fast enough."

The bottle clattered to the ground, and I seized my phone. "You complete idiot! Paracetamol hepatotoxicity is the most common cause of liver failure in the United Kingdom!"

Before I had even dialed the first nine, Sherlock had snatched my phone away and threw it into the client's lap. "Signs of overdose include vomiting, sweating, nausea, and right upper quadrant pain. The only sign of sickness I have is a throat that burns like hell and a runny nose." He sniffed to make his point. "Please. I'm not an amateur."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. For once it was blissfully silent; it took some conditioning, but Sherlock learned that when I was like this, he should leave me alone or risk getting punched in the face. Again.

I counted to twenty-five before I spoke. "You promised me. No. Cases. When you're sick."

"And then we came to the compromise that I would only take cases that wouldn't require me leaving the flat. And this—" he gestured at the client, "doesn't."

"When did we agree on that?"

"Oh. That must have been the other John."

"The other John?"

"An illusory model of you so I can deduce your opinions when you prefer boring trips over my company."

That made me pause. "So… along with continuing a conversation with me after I leave… you also pretend I'm here even when you know I'm not?"

Sherlock shrugged. "The mental exercise is better than talking to my skull."

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Sherlock already held conversations with me when I wasn't there; an imaginary friend wasn't much of a stretch.

"If I wasn't so confused," I said, "I think I'd be flattered."

"Um, Mr. Holmes?" the client interrupted. Both of us blinked at her, having forgotten she existed as anything more than a piece of furniture in the background. "My case, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, yes. That." Sherlock bounded over. He snatched my phone from her lap and tossed it back to me. "Hardly a six."

He yanked her to her feet and started shoving her out the door, but she pushed back, shouting, "But the band, Mr. Holmes, the band!"

"Hire a snake remover."

SLAM.

Sherlock dusted off his hands.

"A snake remover?" I asked.

He waved away the question like it was an irritating fly. "Her stepfather murdered her sister because he wanted to keep the sisters' inheritance by killing them with a highly venomous snake."

"But I thought you said in the case with the speckled blonde—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, still irritated at the name of one of the cases I had typed up.

"—that a snake couldn't kill someone without being seen."

"Which is true," he said. "The sister was blind."

"Oh."

I glanced at Sherlock, then back at the door where the woman had been forced out of. "Shouldn't we help her?" I insisted. "Even if the snake's gone, the stepfather can find another way to finish the job."

"Already texted Lestrade. Even the police should be able to convict the illegal owner of an exotic reptile."

"How venomous are we talking about, here?"

"Very." Sherlock's eyes lit up. "I have somebody in the Network who will collect a sample for me."

I stared at him. "And you just happen to know a homeless bloke who can harvest snake venom."

"Of course," Sherlock retorted, as if offended that I should doubt it.

My lips quirked up in spite of myself, as they often do when I'm with Sherlock. I drummed my fingers on the chair back. "So…just another day, then?"

"Yep." With the pop of the 'p', he plopped down on his chair. Sliding his fingers together, he smiled that lipless smile at me.

"How's Mary?"

l*l*l*l

Mary was enjoying the use of my bank account while I was away. She had taken a picture of her and Harry in a very fancy restaurant wearing very fancy clothes that I don't recall buying. They were having a toast, Mary with a glass of champagne and Harry, surprisingly, with a glass of water. (I can just hear Sherlock's pompous voice: "I told you so." Probably because he's saying it in my ear while I type this. Git). The text message that came with it said she'd be enjoying herself in France for another week. My poor wallet…

Seeing as how my house would be empty and Sherlock would not doubt work himself to death if I wasn't there babysitting him, I stayed at the flat. Shockingly, my room was just as I had left it, with a lone bed, an empty desk, and a mini-refrigerator that miraculously did not preserve any body parts. Sherlock hadn't let Mrs. Hudson clean the room, so the only real difference was the thick layer of dust coating the surfaces. A shame that Sherlock wasn't as undisturbed.

While I was surprised that he had kept my room as nice as he had, I was unsurprised that he was sicker than he let on. After I threatened him that if he didn't stick the thermometer in his mouth then I'd find another place to shove it, I learned he had a fever of thirty-eight Celsius (100.4 F for the Americans out there). An average fever lasts about three days. If Sherlock was telling the truth about when it started, his fever ran on for four days, and lingered because he had got up to God knows what while I was away. The only reason it didn't last longer was because I made him stay in bed (pouting, if I might add), with the understanding that I had already warned Molly not to let him into the morgue and Lestrade that he was not to send him anything more than cold cases—reports only.

I believed the only reason Sherlock didn't sneak out when I was asleep was because of my warning that I wouldn't be there when he returned. Under normal circumstances I would have called that a success. But nothing about Sherlock is normal.

The next two days were a living hell.

Note to self: never call Sherlock a nurse. If forcing pill bottles out of his hands or pouring chicken broth down his throat wasn't humiliating enough, I was also designated to be his makeshift genie. If he was bad before about fetching things himself, he was the devil now. Despite his insistence that he needed to start a real case, he somehow thought himself sick enough to summon me whenever he needed so much as the tissue box a mere foot away. If I had a pound for every time he shouted my name, I'd spend double on Mary than what she had splurged in France.

You could imagine my relief when Sherlock's fever finally broke. I still ordered him to rest so it wouldn't rebound. Another time when he didn't take my advice. After I had run to the market for tissues and milk (of course he'd find a way out of buying milk himself), I returned to catch him at the kitchen table dissecting a human torso.

"I said, could you get me a tissue?" he sniffled through a surgical mask.

"The other John must've forgotten." I set down the grocery bag. The stink of chemicals stung my eyes and nostrils. Pulling my shirt collar over my nose, I pointed to the dismembered body part. "Who's he?"

"Fred."

"And what are you looking for inside of Fred?"

"I'm not looking, John, I'm researching. The corrosive damage of sodium hypochlorite versus zinc and manganese to human innards, to be precise."

"I thought I told you not to bother Molly."

"Which I didn't."

I counted to ten before asking, "So where did you find Fred?"

"Homeless Network."

"You're telling me a bum found a dead—" I stopped, backing up and throwing my hands in the air. "Never mind, don't tell me! I don't want to know."

"Good. Ignorance is innocence. And stupidity."

"Not making me feel any better," I sighed, and got out my phone.

Sherlock looked up for the first time since I came home. "What are you doing?"

"Calling a friend."

"What friend? All your other friends hate you."

"Wonder why," I muttered, calculating how much bleach it will take to disinfect anything that Fred might be carrying.

l*l*l*l

8 Comments:

It is hardly my fault if my doctor doesn't give me an official note on what I should or should not do while ill.

Sherlock Holmes

One: As if you would follow my doctor's note even if I wrote one. Two: You were already reading over my shoulder when I wrote this. You really have to comment, too?

John Watson

l*l*l*l

I see I'm not speaking again, as per usual.

Mrs Hudson

Next time, Mrs H, next time.

John Watson

l*l*l*l

Great story, mates! Can't wait to see what happens next, and hope you're feeling better, Sherlock!

Mike Stamford

Seeing as how this story was written months after the actual events, yes, I am 'feeling better.'

Sherlock Holmes

Just say 'thank you,' Sherlock.

John Watson.

Thank you. And quit saying 'mate' already.

Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two:

"What the hell am I supposed to do in Surrey? Count trees?"

That was the first thing that Sherlock said after I told him we were going to stay in the country with a friend of mine. Maybe if Sherlock got away from the big, bad city, he would be forced to relax...maybe…I can dream, can't I? If nothing else, I could at least have a nice view while investigating dismembered cadavers, which is the more likely outcome.

"Maybe, oh, I don't know, take care of your health," I said, folding a jumper into my suitcase.

Sherlock glared at the knitted garment as if it were the source of all his problems. "What good does health do me if insufferable lethargy is deteriorating my mind by the nanosecond?"

"Your brother manages just fine."

He shot me a dark look. "We agreed not to use Mycroft in arguments."

"Must've been the other John," I said, and tossed in a pair of socks.

"You haven't answered. Who is this friend of yours?"

"What, you haven't deduced it yet?"

"Making sure I haven't missed anything. You met him in the army."

"Him?"

"Obviously. Women are an extreme minority in the UK's military. One would hardly let two men, one of whom she has never met and the other whom she talks to only on occasion, stay at her house for an extended period of time, especially if she lives by herself. But that is only a general deduction of the fairer sex. There is one reason specific to you, John, for why a woman wouldn't let you stay at her house."

"Speak for yourself," I said indignantly. "Sarah let me stay at her place."

"When you were dating her, John. Now that you are married, how many female friends do you have other than Mrs. Hudson and Molly?"

I opened my mouth—then closed it when my mind turned up blank.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, taking my silence as a victory. "You had a weakness for women. Had," he clarified before I could protest. "Mary had cured you from that vulnerability, and if she hasn't—" he smiled wickedly—"she certainly will."

I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable—not that that derailed Sherlock. "You may be more sociable than myself, but your female acquaintances did not stay friends for long without the friendship either terminating or evolving into a romantic relationship—then terminating."

"For no obvious reason," I muttered. But Sherlock was in his own world, pacing back and forth in front of the doorway.

"Now that you're married your interest in other women has significantly decreased. That indicates your contact is a male, whom you befriended in the army as you had most of your old acquaintances. But nobody on an army's pension can afford to live in high-end Surrey, never mind a mansion. A blueblood family, then." His nose wrinkled. "The dullest of people; always relying on a name, never their own skill."

"Says the person who would've been titled a knight."

Sherlock glared at me. "Mycroft again. Doesn't count."

I smirked at his petulance. What I wouldn't give to go back into time just to see what the Holmes' childhoods were like. Then again, I don't think my self-esteem would ever recover. Even straight-out-of diapers they could probably correct the teachers and deduce whose parents were sleeping with whom, while I'd still be boggled by the multiplication table.

I snapped my suitcase closed. "Have you packed your things yet?"

Sherlock's triumphant expression crumbled into displeasure.

"Or I can pack for us both, and you can hope I don't muddle your sock index."

His scowl deepened. "I still don't see the point of this vacation," he spouted, with extra scorn on the last word.

"Your health aside?" I said. "You canceled my first vacation, so I figured you owe me another one." I frowned when a new thought occurred to me. "Though odds are you'll spoil this one, too."

"Preposterous," he sniffed. "If anything, I will make it the most exciting vacation yet."

"I would've felt better if your definition of 'exciting' wasn't synonymous with 'almost dying'."

"Yours isn't?"

Damn.

For lack of a better comeback, I jabbed my finger at the door. "Pack."

l*l*l*l

A note to anyone reading this: Never let Sherlock be a backseat driver. If you do…pray that you had a good night's sleep and an extra-large cup of coffee.

Sherlock insisted that we leave at least six hours early. I didn't know why he instructed this, since I didn't tell him my friend's address yet, but I knew better than to argue. Less than five minutes had passed before Sherlock ordered, "Turn right."

"Why? You don't even know where we're going."

"I don't have to. Turn right."

I sighed, but angled the steering wheel right. I glanced at the rearview mirror; the red car that was behind us went straight. We continued on for another twenty-five minutes before Sherlock said, "Right. Then another left."

"Mind telling me where we're going?"

"Somewhere."

"But why are we—"

A huff of impatience was all the warning I had before Sherlock lunged towards me and thrusted his foot on top of mine, slamming the gas pedal. The car lurched forward. Horns honked, and we sped through a yellow light the second before it turned red.

"Bloody hell!" I shouted as Sherlock settled back into his seat. "What was that for?"

"Precautions."

"Mycroft?" I asked, but received no answer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock staring out the window. I wanted to say more, but I could see his faraway gaze that meant I could talk until I was out of breath and get as many answers from him as I would from a statue.

Soon the humdrum of traffic and the skyscrapers of London faded from the rearview window, and we passed through strips of green fields and farms. I never saw Sherlock look behind us, but at every half hour he instructed me to take another seemingly random turn. Then we'd spend another hour getting back onto course with the help of his smartphone.

Throughout the drive I glanced at the rearview mirror, but no car stayed with us for more than a few miles. We stopped a few times to refuel, but Sherlock insisted we take no longer than three minutes to start driving again. He never stepped out of the car, not even so much as for a trip to the loo. I didn't dare look around the car seats or in the glove department in fear I'd find a bottle filled with yellow fluids.

When I asked Sherlock why he wouldn't get out of the car, he muttered, "Cameras, John. They're always watching."

The stars were starting to twinkle when we arrived at Reigate, Surrey…only after we passed through a Chinatown, a national park, and a string of Armenian delis. By the time that we arrived at my friend's house, my muscles ached, my eyes were sore, and my feet felt like they were made of lead.

I drove up the parking lot, passing many towering trees that gave a rustic grace to the estate. I put the car in park, and Sherlock reached for the door. Click! He pulled at the handle but to no avail; he looked at me, then leaned back with a sigh. "You have questions."

"Clearly," I mimicked in his voice. "You had me driving around for eight hours when the drive is supposed to take one. I think I deserve to know why."

"You know my brother's methods," he said. "We've just won ourselves about five hours free of his interference."

"I knew it was Mycroft." I smiled, taking what little victory I could in my drained state.

"Yes, he really should hire a better tracker than Lestrade."

That wiped my smile away. "Lestrade? We just sent Lestrade on a goose chase? The man who gives you cases?"

Sherlock looked positively gleeful. "Hopefully he'll have something fascinating when we return."

"Or he'll never let you into a crime scene again."

"Nonsense. He needs me."

With that, he unlocked the door and strode out the car. By the time I had gotten out and had climbed the front steps of the house, he was already rapping obnoxiously on the door. The sight was ridiculous; he was hopping foot-to-foot, his hair bouncing and his scarf swaying to-and-fro as he muttered to himself, "Come on, come on, come on…"

"I thought you weren't excited," I said.

Before he could reply, the door opened to show my friend, Colonel Hayter. Not that we had time for introductions.

"MOVE!" Sherlock bellowed, shoving his way inside the house. "WHERE'S THE LOO?"

"Wha—? Um, u-up the stairs, to the—" Hayter didn't have the time to finish before Sherlock pushed past him.

"Sherlock!" I shouted, but he had already thundered up the staircase.

"That is Mister Sherlock Holmes?" exclaimed a baffled colonel.

I smiled thinly. "We've…had a long drive."

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

For those of you who had attended the wedding, Hayter was absent due to some family affairs. But you might remember his wife, Katherine, and their son, Archie. Archie was the one who had helped solve the case of the Mayfly. ("Give credit where credit is due," Sherlock is lecturing me. "He solved the case of the Invisible Man with the Invisible Knife.") Yes, what he said.

As Sherlock had deduced, Colonel Hayter was from a long-established, wealthy family. His estate showed it, with a wide dining hall, a grand fireplace, and a series of ornate crown moldings that put my house to shame. I whistled at the chandelier twinkling over the dining table that me and Hayter sat at. "I wouldn't be surprised if your American guests thought this was Downton Abbey. Or any of your guests, for that matter."

"That's what Katy hoped for," Hayter remarked. "She absolutely adores that show. Said it was so elegant, it had inspired her to refurbish this house." His belly shook when he chuckled. "My parents must be rolling in their graves. They were always adamant that the estate remains as is."

"Well, it still looks grand," I said. "So how is Katherine?"

Hayter's smile turned wry when he lifted his left hand. It didn't take a consulting detective to know what that pale mark on his fourth finger meant.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." I looked down, unsure how to proceed. God knows I'm not the best when it comes to handling grief. "Are you…holding up all right?"

"All right," Hayter said, his smile becoming strained. "We've been growing apart for years now. It was no surprise when she left. She tried to get her hands on my estate, but I wasn't about to let that happen. This house has been in my family for years, and that's how it's going to stay." A thump from his walking stick stressed his point.

"I'm sorry. If I had known earlier, we wouldn't have intruded."

"Nonsense. If anything, Archie and I could use the company. We've heard all about you two and your misadventures. It must be exhausting, all that excitement."

"I'm sure Sherlock would call it ideal. Still," I said, sitting back in my chair, "it's nice when you can take a moment to catch your breath."

Hayter clinked his glass with me. "That's what you're here for, my friend."

Our conversation was interrupted by footsteps thudding on the staircase. Sherlock and Archie appeared at the doorway. The former had an expression of equal parts uncomfortable and pleased at the latter, who had his arms wrapped around the detective's waist. Considering his history and social skills, I was amazed that Sherlock got along so well with a child, but somehow not all that surprised.

"John, you didn't tell me we'd be staying with company that isn't so boring," Sherlock said.

Colonel Hayter stood up and offered his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr—"

"This time I have a self-immolated monk for you, Archie," Sherlock said, his eyes bright and clear for the first time in days.

"Cool!" Archie looked as if Christmas had come early as they took their seats, both completely ignoring Hayter. The ruffled colonel cleared his throat and sat down. Underneath the table, I jabbed my foot into Sherlock's leg. To his credit, he muffled his pained grunt and looked up from the picture he had procured for Archie.

"Sherlock, this is Colonel Hayter," I said, giving him a look. "Our host."

Sherlock regarded Hayter as if he'd seen him for the first time that night (which wasn't far from the truth), and stretched out his hand. "Of course. Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure."

"Pleasure's all mine." Hayter took his hand. "I heard all about your cases in the newspaper. Archie's a huge fan, as well. Though I do wish he'd keep away from the darker bits. They're hardly suitable for a young boy's ears."

"And even less so for the haut monde's delicate brains," commented Sherlock.

Two servants came in bearing silver trays. They set them on the table and lifted the lids. Carrying the scent of the sea, steam wafted up from the trays of seafood and salads. Another servant came in bearing a bottle of wine, and poured each of us a glass (except for Archie, of course).

We served ourselves, although Hayter did have to tell Archie "No immolations at the table" before he would put the picture away. Even then the boy argued, "But the lobsters were burned to death," to which Hayter had no reply and Sherlock chuckled. A servant reached over to help Archie with his lobster, but he waved her away. "I want to do it," he insisted, and went at cracking his dinner with his bare hands, much to Sherlock's pleasure. I could just see it now: the budding of another high-functioning sociopath.

My suspicions were confirmed when Archie took his eyes off his butchered lobster just long enough to ask me, "I almost forgot, Mr. Watson. How was your Sex Holiday?"

My fork clattered to my plate the same time that Hayter's did. "Where did you hear such a thing?" Hayter demanded.

My eyes swerved to Sherlock, who was failing miserably to hide his laughter. "You."

"Me," he said gleefully. He cleared his throat and tried for a solemn expression. "Mea culpa. I informed Archie of a more suitable name for a honeymoon. It wasn't until afterwards that I learned it is apparently not supposed to be told to children."

"I'm not a child!" Archie protested.

Hayter waved a fork at his son. "In this matter you are."

"The honeymoon went well, thank you," I said, trying to put out the flames before anymore immolations could occur.

Not much was said after that. Sherlock was never one for small talk, and Archie was busy peeking glances at his burned-alive monk from under the table. Conversation was left to me and Hayter as we caught up.

Near the end of the meal Archie looked up from his picture.

"Dad," he said, as he stabbed his knife into the lobster's brain (which I'm fairly sure was unnecessary), "did you know that Mr. Holmes deduced in thirty seconds—"

"Thirty-six," Sherlock corrected.

"—thirty-six seconds how a man got killed in a bathtub."

"So you read my blog," I said. "Do you like it?"

"Duh. It has Sherlock in it."

"Archie," Hayter warned in a tone I knew so well.

"Don't worry about it." I smiled, trying my best to ignore Sherlock's amused snort. "I'm just glad he enjoys it."

Hayter managed a smile. "Yes, I'm sure all of the United Kingdom and China have enjoyed the tales of Mr. Holmes' observations."

"My deductions, Mr. Hayter," Sherlock said coolly, "are not meant to be tales of enjoyment, as my blogger insists upon, but a series of scientific steps based on observation and logic."

"Right you are, Mr. Holmes, right you are!" Hayter patted his moustache with his napkin, then grinned at the consulting detective. "I don't suppose you care to give a demonstration?" Apprehension stirred in my stomach; years of witnessing over-confidence in those who thought to get the upper hand over Sherlock taught me to dread what was coming next. "How 'bout it, Mr. Holmes? Am I a suitable subject for you? What can you deduce?"

Sherlock's lips stretched thin. He leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. "Oh, not very much," he said offhandedly. God, here we go. "Except that you've boxed in college, traveled to New Zealand and Japan, been expecting physical harm for the past year, and were recently divorced are your wife discovered you were having an affair."

By the time I counted to three the color had drained from Hayter's face. I put my head in my hands. My words from before we had left the flat rang back to me in all their futility: You better keep your smart-ass deductions to yourself, Sherlock, or I'm never letting you out of the flat again.

"That was wicked cool, Mr. Holmes!" Archie grinned. "But what's an affair?"

"Never you mind," Hayter said weakly. His blanched face darkened to the same shade as his wine. He drained his glass, then pointed to the hall. "Time for bed."

"But—"

"Now."

Archie rolled his eyes but excused himself. It wasn't until his pattering footsteps disappeared did Hayter lean forward and rasp, "How in the devil did you know all that?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm far cleverer than the devil."

"Sherlock," I warned.

He rolled his eyes. "The Japanese label is still on your sandals in the bathroom. The bottle of wine is a rare and acclaimed brand of Sauvignon blanc that is only available in New Zealand.

From the inscription on your walking stick it is only a year old, but the length of the wooden stick is uneven with the metal head, so you must have customized it later. While not exactly fit, you have no need for extra stability, especially in your own house, which suggests that you keep it close to your side for another reason. The same reason you decided that a metal head would make a more formidable weapon than a wooden one. Clearly you had a dispute.

You worry that an assailant will come after you, but not too worried since you haven't hired any body guards and are self-assured by your experience in the military and as a boxer. Notice the telltale flattening and thickening of your ears; points to multiple blows of the head. You're also a confident man since you willingly confronted me even though you're aware of my reputation.

Twice you unknowingly showed me the initials 'J.A." tattooed onto your arm; once when you shook my hand and once when you reached for the wine. The redness around the tattoo suggest you just had it re-inked, but years ago you wanted it erased. You should hire a new tattoo artist. The faded outline from the old ink is still visible from when the artist did not follow the original closely enough while re-inking. So you obviously had a previous lover, J.A., that you tried to forget, but whom you've recently come into contact with again and decided to rekindle your old flame. When your wife found out, she broke off the marriage, and you reconfirmed your commitment to your lover by redoing your tattoo."

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "Did I miss anything?"

Silence. Then our minds finally caught up to the genius', and Hayter dabbed at his sweaty face with a napkin. "Not a thing, Mr. Holmes," he said in a shaky voice. "If you don't mind, I'd like to keep that last bit a secret from Archie."

"Oh, he already knows."

"What?!"

My chair screeched when I bolted up. "I think it's time we turned in for the night, Sherlock feeling under the weather and all."

He blinked. "I feel fine."

"No, you don't."

Sherlock finally caught my expression. "Oh. Oh, yes, quite unwell." He hunched over, coughing into his fist.

Hayter still looked dazed but nodded anyway. "Right, quite right. Good night."

l*l*l*l

Later that night my phone beeped with another text message and photo. This one said 'You have fantastic taste. Missing you," with a picture of Mary wearing lingerie that eased the ache in my wallet.

Comments:

Either Sherlock needs to delete "Sex Holiday" from his memory, or I'll do it for him…

Mary Morstan

Deleted.

Sherlock Holmes

I'll make sure of it.

John Watson

Oh, I'm not finished with you, mister… I'm still in France and you're still in London.

Mary Morstan

It's Sherlock's fault! He said he was dying!

John Watson

We already covered this, John. It was your fault that you left and didn't write me a doctor's note.

Sherlock Holmes

AS IF YOU WOULD FOLLOW IT!

John Watson

If I wrote one, would you follow it?

Mary Morstan

Perhaps.

Sherlock Holmes.

Ahem.

Mary Morstan.

…Yes.

Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four:

"Did you bring your gun?" Sherlock said when I entered the dining room the next morning.

"Why would I bring a gun to my friend's house?"

"So you have it, then?"

"Not for you to shoot a smiley face on the wall, no."

Sherlock shot me a withering look from over the top of the newspaper he was reading. "Really, John. An artist never repeats his work. It would've been a frowny face."

"My answer's still no."

Sherlock huffed and noisily flipped a page. Taking the seat next to him, I added, "Do you do even know who Picasso is?"

"Is he the one who cut off his ear?"

"No, the one who paints soup cans."

"Ah. Don't care, then."

Before we could continue this very enlightening conversation, two sets of footsteps pattered down the staircase. One was heavy with the thump of a walking stick, and the other light and springy, accompanied by a warbling voice. I only caught a few words, something about the sun and the oak, but it sounded like a child's nonsense rhymes. While I knew the only child here was Archie, I was still surprised to recognize the sweet voice as the boy's, who just last night was decapitating a crustacean.

Archie skipped down the last step, landing with a thud, followed by his father's slower one. He stopped singing when he burst through the doorway and jumped into the other seat besides Sherlock.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," he chirped. "Have there been any good murders?"

"Unfortunately not," hummed Sherlock. "Just a mundane robbery."

"Good God, not again." Hayter sank into his chair, looking as world-weary as Atlas. If one had scanned from his neck down, he would have been the picture of presentable, with his suit pressed and ironed, not a label out of place. But his face told another story. Bags hung from his eyes, the dark puffiness stressing the sallow skin that belied a sleepless night. Usually Sherlock's targets shrugged off his criticisms with either bewilderment or an indignant "piss off," but Hayter's must've hit him harder than I realized. That'll earn Sherlock another talk about table manner.

Before I could smooth over the offense, Hayter ran a hand over his face. "That'd be the second house this week," he sighed. "Whose was it?"

"The Acton's."

"Are they all right?"

"Oh, fine," murmured Sherlock. "As far as one can be when convicting their son for thievery."

"Arthur?" Hayter gasped, his eyes flying open for the first time that morning. "I knew him since he was a boy! He always quarreled with his old man, but to steal from him!"

"He didn't."

"What?"

"He didn't," Sherlock repeated. "The police here are about as useless as the ones in London. And the reporters!" He scoffed. "Four newspapers, and every one riddled with inaccuracies and—"

"Sherlock," I interrupted. "Remember that conversation we had? About showing off?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes," he quipped in way of explanation. He threw the newspaper on the table and stabbed his fork into the picture of a young woman on the cover. Not a drama queen at all, oh no.

"Arthur's cousin," he spat. "She is in liaison with the real thief. Arthur caught them in the middle of stealing his father's collectable volumes of Pope's Homer, worth a small fortune, but took the blame upon himself because the thief had his cousin twisted 'round his little finger."

"Mary…" Hayter passed a napkin over his weary face. "But she's such a sweet little thing, always coming by to visit me…"

"Lovestruck females are the easiest prey for psychopaths."

"Or sociopaths," I added.

"Especially those," Sherlock grinned, looking particularly pleased for himself in a way that had me wincing. I really ought to do a background check on the next person he proposes to.

Archie blinked at him. "Are you a sociopath, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yep."

"Can I be one when I grow up?"

"Sure."

The boy grinned. He started to read around the fork still embedded in the paper. I pried it up as gently as I could. Four small holes dotted the table. Hayter blanched. The dents weren't as noticeable as some of the scratches Sherlock had carved into our table, but then again…this wasn't our table.

"That was an, um…accident…" I pointed at Sherlock. "He can pay for it."

Except the consulting detective was no longer paying attention. His phone was out, and his fingers were speeding along the keyboard, presumably (hopefully) informing the police of his solved case. He looked nonthreatening enough in that moment, but last night and the more recent memory of him assaulting the dining table made Hayter clear his throat uneasily. "I never liked it much, anyway," he muttered.

Archie's brow was furrowed as he poured over the news article. "How long did it take you to solve this, Mr. Holmes?"

"Twenty-one seconds," he answered without looking up from his phone. "I glanced at it."

"You really are turning into Mycroft," I muttered.

His fingers froze over the keys. From underneath his hooded eyes, he shot me a look that superseded any scathing riposte. Then he tucked his phone away. Damn.

Leaning forward, he leveled his gaze on Hayter like an investigator interrogating a criminal.

"Those bags under your eyes weren't there yesterday. You also have brown food stuck in your teeth, but nothing we ate last night was brown and you've yet to eat any breakfast. Had the munchies, had we? Not very trimming for the waistline. Though it appears that isn't a concern of yours." His gaze flicked to Hayter's protruding stomach, just long enough for the man's cheeks to color, before pinning his stare again. "Something must've kept your vacuous mind occupied after you went to bed."

Hayter's brow shot up. I was about to kick Sherlock under the table (again), but the colonel shook his head. "I nearly forgot about it, actually. Thank you for reminding me."

That silenced the consulting detective—and the rest of the table, for that manner. If anything catches a bully off guard, it's gratitude. That, or not realizing that you've just been insulted.

"Something strange happened last night," he began. "At around midnight I was feeling a bit puckish. I went to get a snack, but saw a light was left on in the library. Everyone else had already turned in for the night, and I could hear you playing violin in your room, Mr. Holmes. I figured somebody must've forgotten to switch the light off. But when I went in the library, I saw one of the maids, a Miss Annie Morrison, sitting in one of the chairs. One of the locked cabinets was open, and laid out on the table beside her were some documents."

"What were they?" Sherlock questioned, any earlier bemusement that his insult had been disregarded replaced with only the strictest attention for a case that would relieve him of his holiday.

"Well, I think one of them was a map or chart of some sort. I didn't get a good look. Annie jumped when she spotted me, and she rushed to put them away. She started rambling about tiding up or some hodgepodge."

"What did you do, Dad?" Archie asked.

"Well, I fired her, of course. She was good at her job, but there's no excuse for a maid who takes to prying in her employer's private affairs. I gave her 'till tomorrow to leave."

"You said the cabinet was locked," I noted. "Where could she have gotten the key?"

"Fourth drawer from the right under the cabinet," spouted Sherlock. "If I could find that in twenty minutes, even the most dimwitted servant could within an average term of employment."

We stared at him.

"What? I was bored."

I shook my head. "Remind me to have a talk with you about snooping."

"I was investigating."

"Snooping."

Before the argument could escalate (or Hayter could throw us out), Archie's eyebrows furrowed, his lip almost protruding in a pout. "Does she really have to go Dad? I liked her. She helped me with algebra."

"We can hire a tutor," Hayter said blithely. "That was a tough decision, my boy, but it'll be one of many you'll have to make when you're master of this estate."

Archie rolled his eyes. I wanted to laugh. Even in my short acquaintance with the boy, I could picture him as master of an estate as easily as I could picture Sherlock as part of the fuzz in Scotland Yard.

Speaking of the consulting detective, he had sunken low into his seat. The signs were there: his fingertips formed a slim pyramid, almost touching his nose, and his eyelids were hooded, all his finite attention focused on mulling over what he had heard.

"Oh, no. Stop it, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked, breaking whatever train of thought had been racing through his mind. "Problem, John?"

"Depends. You're thinking about that maid, aren't you?"

"I think she is already in a relationship, Mr. Holmes," Hayter remarked.

"Two," chirped Archie, to everyone's (even Sherlock's) surprise.

I cleared my throat. "Um, no. I meant that Sherlock's getting caught up in whatever Annie was looking at, when he's supposed to be caring for his health."

"Oh." The colonel looked embarrassed. "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure it's nothing more than a bit of nosiness in the help. It's perfectly normal."

"Unfortunately," Sherlock hummed, crossing his legs and looking bored. But I wasn't going to fall for that act so easily, not after the last time. I leaned forward until I caught his eye.

"So you're not going to get involved?" I said.

"No, not at all."

"Really?"

"Really."

I sighed and shook my head. "You know, the last time you said something like that, we almost got blown up."

A grin slid across his face. He leaned back his head and sighed wistfully. "Ah, the good old days."

"You're actually calling Moriarty a good thing?"

Just like that, his mood darkened like a tempest. "He was certainly more exciting than this," he snapped, throwing his arm at the offending dining room.

"I know exactly how to cheer you up, Mr. Holmes," Hayter said jollily. "A nice, relaxing game of cricket."

"John, fetch me my revolver."

This time I did kick him under the table. "You didn't pack a revolver, Sherlock."

"Yes, I did. I always do."

"Nope, I unpacked it."

Silence—the knowledge sinking in like a cannon ball in molasses. "I need a patch," Sherlock spat, springing from his seat and storming out of the room.

"Wait, Mr. Holmes, wait!" Archie shoved away from the table. He was out the door in a second, leaving Hayter and I with our suddenly silent breakfast.

"A patch?" he asked.

"Nicotine. Don't take anything he says personally. He wore a sheet to Buckingham Palace once."

"After yesterday and this morning, I feel like I shouldn't be surprised." Hayter pointed his fork at the holes in his very expensive dining table. "You're paying for that, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

Comments:

Sherlock may know how to do my job better than I do, but at least I've got astronomy on my side.

G Lestrade

In what year did the Van Buren supernova appear? I'll know if you look it up.

Sherlock Holmes

Bastard.

G Lestrade.

What did he do to my table?!

Mrs Hudson

Blame the Jaria Diamond.

Sherlock Holmes

Chapter Text

Chapter Five:

I found Sherlock in the library.

My first guess was that he was searching for whatever Annie Morrison had left behind, but when I went down the hall, I heard not just Sherlock's voice, but Archie's, too. I stopped outside the door and peered inside.

Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the carpet, with Archie lying on his stomach next to him, his feet swinging in the air. A textbook was spread out between them, with an open in front of Archie. The fireplace was lit, casting a warm glow over their frames and softening their curly hair to the same shade of caramel.

"3x+5=32," Archie said.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Not two seconds had passed before he reeled off, "A dead man has exactly thirty-two injuries on his body, five of which were from self-defense. His killer had burned him x amount of times, and a sociopath whipped his corpse twice that amount."

"Why would a sociopath want to beat him up if he's already dead?"

"Plenty of reasons. One of which is to verify how long bruises are produced after death. If you can determine that, you can determine when the victim died. Crucial information in investigations. And," added Sherlock as an afterthought, "it's an effective way to manage homicidal fantasies."

"Sometimes I imagine punching bullies at school."

"You don't put your thumb inside your fist?"

"Duh."

"Excellent. Now, where were we?"

Archie looked down at his notes. "…'and a sociopath whipped his corpse twice that amount.'"

"Ah, yes. How many of the man's injuries are from burns and how many from whippings?"

Archie scrawled in his notebook.

"So the man has thirty-two marks, but five were from self-defense. Thirty-two take away five—that's twenty-seven. And the killer burned him x times, and the sociopath whipped 2x times. So x plus 2x is 3x, which is equal to twenty-seven. Twenty-seven divided by three is nine. That means nine equals x. So nine of the marks are burns and…nine times two…eighteen marks are from whippings."

"Correct."

Archie beamed. "Now I wish that Ms. Morrison got fired sooner. This is a lot more fun than calculating trees."

"What a waste of time," Sherlock scoffed. "What good will trees do you if you have more people who need to be shot than you have ammo?"

"You can be a really, really good shot."

"That helps," he conceded. "Word of advice: ninety per cent of everything that you learn at school will come with absolutely no practical application. It's up to you to apply it."

"Up to me," Archie repeated with a pleased smile. "For an adult, you're pretty cool."

"For a child, you're not so dull."

Archie giggled. With his chin in his palm, he looked up at him. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Is it true you don't know that the earth goes around the sun?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "NEXT."

I could barely hide my chuckle as Archie rattled off another equation. I suppose I should've been concerned that Sherlock was teaching a kid algebra through homicide. But then I heard a giggle. Stealing one last peek at the content grin on the boy's face and the curl of Sherlock's lips, I slowly backed away. Well, Sherlock has more friends now, whether he admits it or not, I thought with a smile of my own, as I go in search of Hayter. I could keep him away from the library for a few more hours.

I was typing away at my blog when footsteps creaked outside my door. I opened it a crack, just enough to see Sherlock disappearing into a room with a small figure in his arms. A moment later he slipped out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him, his arms empty.

"Why do you have it out for Hayter?" I asked, leaning against the doorway before he could escape.

I could see his eye roll even as he turned around, his expression showing zero surprise at my appearance. "I don't have it out for him," he said with an innocent raise of the brow, which made me only cross my arms and sigh.

"Yes, you do," I said. "Are you jealous because he's my friend?"

"Jealous? How in the world did you reach that conclusion?"

"Mary told me about Major Sholto."

His expression soured like he'd just been outwitted—oh, wait…

"Mary should know better about keeping what's said in confidence…in confidence. And I'll have you know that my aversion for people does not always revolve around your social life!"

"No, just anyone you deem less superior to yourself."

"As if he's not the same!" he spouted. "The way that man handles Archie as if he's a poodle bred only to please society rather than an intellect whose competencies are already beyond the rubbish he's constantly subjected to," he hissed, "is both degrading and imbecilic."

Anyone else would've taken one look at the consulting detective and been knocked on their arse from the pure rage rolling off him, but I stared right at him. "This isn't just about the way Hayter treats Archie, is it?"

There was no flash of pain, no loss of eye contact or clench of the jaw; Sherlock was too skilled for that. Instead his expression froze, as blank and cold as an alabaster statue's. And that's when I knew I hit upon the truth.

Of course. The memory of Sherlock and Archie together in the library resurfaced. When I saw the two of them, I had been struck with the idea that I was glimpsing into Sherlock's childhood. Was this what he was like? All curly brown hair and a brain already beyond that of his teachers', starving for knowledge and the application of it?

Archie was lucky. He had Sherlock to understand him, while Sherlock had no one as a child. No one but a brother who mocked him and parents who were just as oblivious as Hayter. If he revealed his intelligence, adults were offended; if he hid it, he was tormented with the sluggish pace of society. No wonder he has so little respect for people; they had never given him any when he was young.

"Anyone who thinks that youth means that one does not know their own mind, or—worse yet—that you shouldn't be knowledgeable in the first place, has no respect for me and I for them." He stepped back. "Now, if you have concluded your interrogation…" Sherlock gave a dramatic bow, then spun on his heel and stormed away.

Comments:

Poor Sherlock! :( I just want to go back in time and hug him!

Molly Hooper

You would've had a high chance of being kicked. Nothing personal.

Sherlock Holmes.

You have reached a new level in romantic sensationalism, John. "…glimpsing into [my] childhood," caramel hair, etc. Where do you get these ridiculous descriptions?

Sherlock Holmes

Just calling your hair brown is boring.

John Watson.

Caramel…yum…

Harry Watson

i wish i had known sherlock back then i could've understood him. :(

theimprobableone

Chapter Text

Chapter Six:

In the army, it doesn't matter what the time is or how tired you are. If you open your eyes, you're ready for anything. So, when my bedroom flooded with light, I shot up straight, my stinging eyes already scanning the area for threats. No enemies, nothing amiss…nothing but one consulting detective standing at the doorway in his dressing gown and pyjamas.

"Get up!" he barked.

"What? What's wrong?"

"A missing girl."

Sherlock grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Isn't it grand?"

With that, he whisked away, his dressing gown fluttering behind him like a bloody cape. If I had been worried about him before, whether it was his self-destructive tendencies when bored or his anger at my "interrogation," the promise of a new mystery had cleared away any ill feelings. And just in time; I was one tantrum away from needing a bottle of Anadin Extra.

I quickly changed out of my pyjamas and into clothes. According to the clock on my nightstand, it was six o'clock. The sun should've been just peeping up, but the band of storm clouds blocked any light. When I looked outside, raindrops clung to the window and darkened the concrete. It must've rained last night while we had been sleeping.

The rest of the house was lit up like a Christmas tree. Servants were rushing through the halls, their hands laden with cleaning supplies. I stopped one in the middle of her routine, and asked where I was supposed to meet everybody else. She led me downstairs into the servant's quarters, where Hayter and Sherlock were waiting. Well…I say 'waiting' loosely.

Hayter was fully dressed and standing just outside the closed door.

"Where's Sherlock?" I asked.

He pointed at the door.

"Let me guess," I said. "He could hear you thinking?"

Hayter nodded sadly.

I patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, chap. I'll talk some sense into him." If only.

As soon as I entered the room, a voice barked, "Shut the door!" Sherlock was on his hands and knees, peering at the carpet with his sliding magnifier. "The air's already been polluted with too much stupidity," he muttered.

He was still in his pyjamas; the only difference was that he had swapped his dressing gown for his coat, so his striped pants peeked out at the bottom. Not that he really seemed to mind. Whether he wore a sheet or a custom-tailored suit, he was satisfied. I just considered myself lucky that he was actually dressed this time.

The room had the distinct atmosphere that whoever it belonged to, it would not be theirs for much longer. Two suitcases stood side by side a bed that was as neatly made as a soldier's (trust me, I should know). The personal ornaments that once decorated the room had been taken down, as evidenced by the noticeable outlines they had left behind in the dust.

"Is it the maid who's missing?" I guessed.

"Annie Morrison," Sherlock confirmed. "Hasn't been seen since last night. Another servant came to wake her up this morning but couldn't find her."

"Well, her bed's made so she didn't sleep in it. And she left her bags here."

He nodded. "Clearly she was intending to leave, but not in the way she expected. Look at this."

I went to where Sherlock was kneeling by the bed. Two adjacent floorboards were caked in mud in the same spot. "She had enough time to grab her shoes," I observed.

"Boots, not shoes. The tread marks in the mud are wider. She would've known she needed the boots because of the heavy rain from last night."

Sherlock bolted to the suitcases. He seized them, snapping their lids open. His hands flew as he rifled through the contents. "No, no, no," he muttered, throwing horribly mismatched clothing and paperback romances over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, you can't just throw a person's things on the floor!" I hissed, gathering what he had tossed and trying to neatly place them on her bed.

As if to say 'watch me,' he shoved the empty suitcase away and seized the next one, dumping its contents on the floor. Alright, so maybe he wasn't quite finished being angry. But right away there were two dull thuds. "Haha!" He laughed, and raised his prize: a pair of black shoes. "Look at the scuff marks, the scratches. These were the shoes she wore every day. Already packed." Putting an article of clothing to his nose, he breathed in deeply. "Worn clothes on the top. Not pyjamas. She must've already changed into them when she left. No signs of a struggle, but she was in enough of a hurry that she couldn't change out of her pyjamas even in terrible weather."

"Maybe a family emergency?" I suggested.

"That's theory number three."

"What's the second?"

"Ninjas."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Last time we take on a case that has to do with comic books."

"Graphic novels, John," he corrected. "Come on. Let's take a walk."

'Walk', of course, translated to bolting out of the room without further warning. My stupefaction that Sherlock can remember the proper name of comic books but not the artist Van Gogh was cut short as I hurried after him. A confused Hayter gaped at us as we rushed past him and out the house. If I had known where we were going, I would've followed Annie's lead and put on better shoes. As for Sherlock, he had slipped on a pair of slippers a size too large by the front door. "The mud's dry," he noted, glancing at the door mat. "She didn't return last night."

Once outside, he took one glance at the mud-soaked ground and told me, "Stay on the porch."

So much for a walk.

I watched as he took out his magnifier and crouch to his hands and knees, his nose only inches away from the dirt like a bloodhound, not giving a thought to the mud he was dragging onto his clothes. Even though I knew Sherlock's methods, theory was a world's difference than reality when I looked at the mud and could conclude only that it was, indeed, mud. It was times like these where I wished I could help more, but years of working with Sherlock taught me that sometimes it's better to just let the detective do his work. The estate was on acres of land, but I soon realized that Sherlock only searched around the house's perimeter. Even I didn't have to be a consulting detective to know why: if there were going to be any marks, it would be near the entrances of the house.

After about a half hour of waiting, Sherlock strode back to the porch with a furrowed brow.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"No footprints. The rain must've washed them away, which means Annie had either left before or during the storm."

"Not much to go on," I sighed. "Now what?"

"Now we talk to an expert." For the first time in days his face wasn't a pallor or feverish flush, but just enough of a healthy color to that alabaster skin. Unlike myself, Sherlock wasted no time on the doormat. He strode into the house with Hayter's freshly soiled-sandals tracking in mud. He bounded straight up the stairs. I had to run to catch up with him, and even then, I had barely enough time to hold him back before he barged in through one of the bedroom doors. His brow furrowed. "Not good?"

"Coming into somebody's bedroom unannounced? Not good." I knocked on the door.

"Go away," a bored voice droned.

"Want to help solve a crime?" Sherlock called out. That was all it took before we heard footsteps pound on the other side of the door. The dead bolt clicked and the door flew open. Archie's face never looked more like a puppy's than when he beamed up at Sherlock with eager eyes. "What can I do?"

I could swear that Sherlock's lips quirked up when he kneeled to the boy's eye level. "The gardener with the scar on his left eyebrow. What's his favorite hobby?"

"Writing," Archie said without hesitation. "He always has ink on his hand."

"Which one is dominant?"

"His right."

"Wrong. It's his left. How do I know?"

Archie frowned. He looked down, chewing his bottom lip as he mulled it over. In a flash of insight, I think of my therapist and the pen always in her hand. "I know. It's because—"

"Don't tell me!" Archie whined. "It's—it's—um…"

"Think," Sherlock urged. "A writer always has…"

"A pencil—no, a pen, because of the ink." A spark lit up in Archie's eyes. "Oh! Because he's always gets excited after he jots down something his journal, so when he recaps, the ink gets on the side of his right thumb and index finger. That means he holds the pen in his left hand and the cap in the right."

Sherlock smiled—smiled—and looked at me. "Archie observes every person in this dull house. You should be taking notes, John."

My amazement at Archie's deductions was broken when the boy started to snigger. "You should've brought Molly, then," I rebutted, pleased when that wiped away Sherlock's smug smirk.

"Right, well." He cleared his throat awkwardly and looked at Archie. "You said that Annie had two boyfriends."

Archie nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Well, sort of. Whenever she talks on the mobile with this one bloke, her voice gets higher and faster. That's the one she really, really likes, and she always finds a reason to hover around when he comes over. The bloke's high class or something."

"And the other?"

Archie shrugged. "Stuck in the friend phase."

"Do you remember the names of these guys?" I asked.

He blinked at me. "You're Hamish, right?"

Sherlock snickered. I inhaled deeply before correcting, "It's John, actually." (Knew I should've never put my name on those bloody invitations).

Before I could upgrade Archie to a Level 3 Brat, footsteps thundered up the staircase. "Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!" Hayter came wheezing in. Red blotches colored his face and he leaned heavily on his walking stick for support. In his hand, he gripped the morning's newspaper.

"Water, get some water!" I ordered, rushing to his side.

For once Archie forgo the adolescent quips and ran to the bathroom for water, while Sherlock looked baffled. God knows he's my best friend, but when it comes to medical emergencies, he's hogwash.

"What happened?" I demanded, my fingertips pressing against his wrist.

Hayter shook his head, and flapped the newspaper at us. "Murder," he wheezed. "My…brother…"

Comments:

do you have a picture of sherlock in his pj's

theimprobableone

Do I want to know why you want one?

John Watson

Stalker alert.

Harry Watson

Do you have another vile of snake venom?

Sherlock Holmes

yes

theimprobaleone

Text me for negotiations.

Sherlock Holmes

For the record, I have 0 part in this.

John Watson

Oh, my, I thought you two would be sharing a bedroom?

Mrs Hudson

FOR THE LAST TIME: I AM NOT GAY. I AM MARRIED.

John Watson

I'm trying to convert him.

Harry Watson

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

The 'm' word snapped Sherlock out of his daze. "Where is it?"

"Chair first," I snapped at him.

"Oh, right."

By the time that Hayter slumped down into the chair Sherlock had fetched, I had determined he was not having a heart attack, but was just panicked from the news…rushing up the staircase in his physique didn't help much, either. Hayter gulped down the glass of water that Archie had brought.

"Thank you, my boy," he said, handing it back.

"Now tell me about the murder quite quickly before your heart explodes," Sherlock said.

"My what?"

"Figure of expression." I added hurriedly.

"Yes, yes. Now who's dead?"

"My brother's chauffer," Hayter said. He held up the newspaper for us to see. The paper was rumpled from his grip, but under the heading it showed a picture of a dead man. I grabbed the newspaper and read, "Last night at approximately twelve o'clock, William Kirwan, twenty-five, was shot to death after attempting to catch a burglar at the Cunninghams'. Mr. Cunningham and his son, Alec—"

"My stepfather and brother," Hayter clarified.

"—had witnessed the burglar shooting Mr. Kirwan. The burglar is still at large and has not been identified, but the police believes it is the same unsub who had broken into the Acton's house a day ago."

Sherlock snatched the paper from my hands. "Of course it's not the same unsub!" he shouted at it. "I caught him! Practically delivered him on a silver platter for you idiots!"

I gently eased the newspaper out of his hands. "Ink can hear you just as much as crap telly," I told him.

"Maybe you got it wrong, Mr. Holmes," Hayter suggested.

Sherlock whirled on him. "Of course I didn't! A burglar with half the brain cells of Anderson wouldn't steal from a town this small twice within days. Too noticeable. Your modern family," he said, changing the topic abruptly. "Explain."

"Oh, well." Hayter cleared his throat. "Can I get another glass of water?"

"No." A glare from me, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Hurry."

Archie fetched him another drink. Hayter had barely swallowed before Sherlock snatched it, trapped between his palms, his fingers snared around it and his gaze intense and impatient.

"Well, now, let's see. My father died when I was just a boy. A sad time, really; especially now that Archie here has no grandfather—"

"Skipping the dramatic childhood," Sherlock directed.

"Right. Well, my mum remarried to my stepfather, George Cunningham. They had my brother—well, half-brother—some years later. We never got along well, though. After my mom died, there were some dispute in her will over who owned her estates. She never was a very straightforward woman. My father and I arranged to split the estates, one for each of us, but there's been bad blood ever since. A pity that. Family really should be close together, shouldn't they, Mr. Holmes?"

"No idea. Haven't seen my other brother in years," Sherlock said.

"Other brother?" I asked. "You have another?" A chill settled over me as I wondered which brother he took after—both options seemed nightmarish. For better or for worse, Sherlock didn't answer. He straightened his coat and asked, "What's your half-brother's address?"

Hayter gave it, then said, "Will you be helping at the crime scene, Mr. Holmes?"

"Consulting," Sherlock corrected. "Helping is so…selfless."

"Can I come, too?" Archie chirped.

"Sure," Sherlock said the same time that Hayter exclaimed, "No!" The colonel, realizing his overreaction, cleared his throat. He patted down the tangle of curls on his son's head, much to the boy's chagrin, and said, "I think your time is better spent here than elsewhere. Why don't you go along and do your numbers?"

With a roll of his eyes, Archie departed. Sherlock looked ready to protest, but when he saw me shake my head, his lips tightened.

"One," I said. "Taking a kid to a murder scene? Not good."

"Ridiculous. I saw my first one when I was four."

"Two," I continued. "You're supposed to be taking it easy."

"I am taking it easy," he argued. "A missing maid? A local burglarly? Separately, these cases could barely score a two. Combined they just make a four and a half—an exercise before brunch. That, and it's either this or cricket. The last time didn't go too well."

I knew better than to ask, but unfortunately, Hayter did not. "What happened?"

"A wicket impaled a man's thigh."

At our shocked expressions, Sherlock explained, "He tripped. Twice."

Somehow I did not feel any better. Perhaps it was the smoothness in his tone that set me uneasy. Or perhaps it was the memory of how we had to explain to the insurance company how the window had broken and Mrs. Hudson's bins permanently dented in the shape of a human being.

I was ready to make a last-ditch argument when Hayter wheezed, "Oh, just let him come. I need to give my condolences, anyway, and perhaps Mr. Holmes can shed some light on this tragedy."

"See?" Sherlock clapped me on the shoulder. "What a terrible guest I'd be if I were to refuse my host's insistences? After all, it'd just be a quick peek."

But I could already see that he had no intention of letting go. The consulting detective believed that every aspect of the mind is a finite resource, from memory to attention. It's the reason why he can identify the origin of a drop of water but not the name of a single celebrity, and why he never spends energy on digestion during a case when he can spend it on his mental facilities instead. By the same logic, when Sherlock has nothing to channel that energy, he becomes a cyclone—never knowing where it'll go or when it'll touch down.

Now that he has a focus, so does his energy. His stride became more purposeful as he strode into his room for his proper outfit and his eyes sparked with the thrill of the challenge. I knew that no matter how many times I might argue, to him, the game was on.

Comments:

Oh, how lovely that you've found a good mystery. Murder is the best medicine.

Mrs. Hudson

I knew there was a reason you're my housekeeper.

Sherlock Holmes

I am not your housekeeper, young man!

Mrs. Hudson

If you need another autopsy done on William, I'd be more than happy to help.

Molly Hooper

I'll be bringing someone else with me.

Sherlock Holmes

Don't you always bring John?

Molly Hooper

John, too, but I'm bringing Archie to see the corpse.

Sherlock Holmes

NO YOU'RE NOT.

John Watson