Not Yet Dead, chapters 1-5 of approx. 23
Aug. 16th, 2012 07:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
castironTitle: Not Yet Dead
Fandoms: BBC Sherlock & ACD Sherlock Holmes.
Length: 106K±2K words, depending on whether you ask BBEdit or Google Docs (and AO3 will probably have yet another number).
Rating: BBC-series-comparable violence; body count's probably higher, though on a technicality. The MPAA would rate it R for the cussing.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has long been fascinated with (and haunted by) the tragic story of his namesake cousin. When his nightmares about it grow unbearable and he starts seeing hypnotherapist Jim Moriarty, however, Sherlock begins to wonder whether he himself is his cousin's reincarnation. Have Sherlock and the modern John Watson known each other before this life? Can Sherlock solve a nineteenth-century murder and prove the historic Dr. Watson innocent, and also solve the current string of oddly-posed unidentified corpses?
Warnings: Likely geography abuse; probable misrepresentation of the British Library's ability to catalog their archives; hypnosis doesn't really work that way; references to unrequited love, but decided lack of pr0n. Otherwise, I'm a "chooses not to warn" person, though on AO3 I did tick "Major Character Death". (Which is pretty useless, since a lot of the major characters are dead before the story even starts, so you don't know whether I mean them or others...)
Thanks to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thesmallhobbit for beta, Brit-picking, and extreme patience; belovedmuerto for reminders to get off my butt and write.
(If you're following the fic on AO3, you've seen all this; this is just a backup copy.)
A jeering crowd massed at the doors outside, but within the courtroom, all was somber.
Sherlock Holmes floated over the witness stand and watched the man who sat in the box, brown hair lightly sprinkled with grey, moustache unkempt. Throughout the trial, the man was silent, only speaking once: "I did not kill him. Ich habe ihn nicht getötet. Je ne l'ai pas tué. I did not. I could not."
He knew the man spoke the truth, but the jury did not see him, did not hear him, a ghost in the courtroom. There was no halting them, no silencing the cry of "Guilty!"
A prison cell, surprisingly bright and clean, but filled with the lingering odor of illness. Sherlock stood at the door, unseen.
The man lay on the straw pallet, pale and worn, focused on his visitor. "I did not kill him."
The visitor knelt by the man, his rat-like face sympathetic. "I'm not the one you have to convince, Dr. Watson."
"You are, Inspector. The fate of my body is sealed; the fate of my soul I leave to God; but you are my last chance to save what remains of my reputation. Sherlock Holmes was the best and wisest man I have ever known. I would have flung myself into that chasm rather than harm a hair of his head."
The visitor sighed. "I know. But I have seen the evidence."
"Damn the evidence! Do you believe me?"
The silence lingered, broken only by the breath of the wind, the shaky gusts through the dying man's lips.
"Yes," the visitor finally lied, looking away. "Yes, I believe you."
"Thank you." The man clasped the visitor's hand. "It has been a bitter thing, to be held guilty for what one never dreamed of doing, to be judged an evildoer by those who should have had faith in me. But soon I shall see him again, and for that I would face a harsher end than the few days of pain I endure now."
You are wrong, Sherlock thought. You will never see him again.
And he was once again at Reichenbach, hovering over the cliffs, standing at the edge. Falling water, thundering; the cry of "Holmes!" blending with the cry of the falls.
Grappling for his life, grappling with an implacable enemy.
Falling water. Falling body. Falling.
Sherlock sat up, gasping.
Room: mine. Bed: mine. I'm alive. It was only a dream. Ambient light: time anywhere between midnight and 5:00 a.m. Music from flat to north, so after 3:30. Quiet to south, so before 4:00. Look at phone—time: 3:43. Respiration: 75, harsh and shallow. Pulse: 158. Deeper breath. Another. Pulse: 132. More breath. More. More. Pulse: 99. It was only a dream. It was only a dream. Just that bloody family story that I can't delete from my hard drive. It was only a dream.
It was only the dream.
He rose from the bed; after the dream, there was never any point in trying to fall back asleep. And there was still much to pack. Best to finish early, in case Lestrade called about those so-called serial suicides.
He did not need the stream of useless psychiatrists of his youth to tell him why that dream, why tonight, the night before removal day. Thousands of people in London looking for flatmates, possibly a dozen that might be willing to tolerate him, and he had to meet the one who was named John Watson.
It was merely a coincidence.
Sherlock believed in coincidence. The improbable was not the same as the impossible, and it was irrational to think that the improbable carried any special meaning. Clearly, though, part of his brain remained irrational.
The battered leather suitcase sat with the two boxes that contained his other most vital possessions, ready to be moved in the first load; Sherlock stroked its smooth surface, not needing to see the contents. Newspaper articles (mostly prints from microfilm, but one precious original of the London Times with the headline "TRIAL OF HOLMES MURDERER TO BEGIN IN SWITZERLAND"), obituaries, and copies of the court records in the original French as well as in German and English translation. His meagre share of his predecessor's remaining possessions—after the second time he was evicted from a dodgy flat, Mycroft had confiscated the rest, saying that he refused to lose family artifacts to Sherlock's irresponsibility—an old magnifying glass; an improvised measuring tape; a photograph of an unidentified woman; a broken pocketwatch, face mold- and water-damaged; a set of lockpicks.
Today, they would return to their former home, his cousin's former home. Tonight, he would be living in 221B Baker Street, and if it was with a John Watson, well, he would endure Mycroft's amusement and the Yarders' teasing.
Struggling for his life. Falling water.
He shook off the dream. The experimental equipment alone would take another hour to pack.
Sherlock examined the body in Barts morgue, matching the messages of the corpse with the messages of his possessions. Male, early thirties, wealthy. Grooming said high-level business executive, but hands suggested scientist. Wealthy, engaged to be married, German-speaking but likely resident of the Czech Republic. "Cause of death?"
"Myocardial infarction," Molly said.
Not necessarily a murder, then. But still, a puzzle.
John leaned over the corpse. "He seems young for that." Sympathy was in his voice; how did John find the energy to care about unknown people?
"Yes," Molly agreed, glancing vaguely at John, "but his blood vessels were badly obstructed; the plaque must have been building up for some time." She added thoughtfully, "I wonder who he'll come back as."
"Oh, you believe in reincarnation?" John, ever patient even with idiots.
Sherlock ignored Molly's response—reincarnation, while ludicrous, was no more so than any other belief in life after death—and checked the fingers again. An unidentified well-to-do man, dead at least three days, well before his body had been placed on the banks of the Serpentine; why hadn't there been an outcry about his disappearance by now? Why had he been holding an obviously falsified photograph of himself and a young woman?
His left side itched. He should have known not to wear a new shirt while on a case; perhaps lack of sleep was finally affecting his brain. Nine hours over four days was less than optimal, and the planned eight last night had become three when the dream woke him. John had not noticed, at least, because otherwise he would be insisting that Sherlock leave the corpse and take a nap.
A slight breeze brushed his neck as the door opened. "Molly? Oh, sorry, didn't know you had guests."
"Jim!" Molly's usual eagerness became breathlessness. Ah. New romantic interest, finally. "Jim, there's someone I want you to meet. Sherlock, this is Jim from IT. Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes and...and his friend."
John. It is not a hard name to remember. Sherlock looked at the corpse's feet. Poor circulation, but not advanced enough to cause neuropathy....
Jim walked into Sherlock's field of vision, brushing too closely en route. "Sherlock Holmes? Molly's told me so much about you. I'm a huge fan of your work. I read Dr. Watson's blog all the time."
"I'm sorry you aren't able to find more educational reading material."
"Thanks so much," John murmured. He extended a hand to Jim. "John Watson. I'm also his assistant."
Jim shook John's hand quickly. "Well. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." His tone and the lift in his eyebrows showed that he knew the historical parallel, but he didn't pursue the topic, instead turning his attention back to Sherlock. "Everybody says you're so good at looking at someone and telling them all about themselves. Can you do that for me?"
It was always one of those two reactions—either "freak" or "party trick". Really, he preferred "freak". "This is not a good time."
"Please? I'd love to know what you can tell about me."
Sherlock set down the magnifier and glanced over him. Hair product, finger calluses, thumb angles, lack of dress sense, spots on t-shirt, visible contents of pockets, musculature, accent. Trivial. "Fine. You are, as Molly says, in IT, a programmer rather than an administrator. You prefer Macintosh to Windows. You've worked at Barts for less than a month. You have a second income source, either family money or an additional job; the available data can be interpreted either way. Your family is from Dublin, and though you travelled with your parents, you spent a great deal of time there in your youth. But you've lived in Britain for at least fifteen years, mostly in London. You dabble in guitar. Your preferred exercise is swimming. You're largely but not entirely vegetarian. You're dating Molly in spite of the fact that you're gay."
"What?" Molly said.
He had not actually intended to say that last. Damn itching shirt. "Good day."
John gave him the "so not good I can't begin to explain it" expression—ridiculous!—and said, "Did I mention that I'm his blogger? Have you read yesterday's post on what he said about the solar system?"
Jim smiled gamely, but any further comment was bypassed by Molly. "You said 'gay'."
Sherlock sighed. Couldn't she have let that go? "Voice, underwear, product in his hair."
"Blogger," John repeated, "assistant, and sometimes nanny."
"It's not true," Molly said. "Tell him, Jim."
"Also," Sherlock added, "the fact that he just slipped a card with his number into my coat pocket." The phone number was, admittedly, a guess, but a logical one.
Jim looked from Sherlock to Molly and back. "You're right; maybe this isn't such a good time. Molly, were you free for lunch?" At Molly's nod, he said, "Nice to meet you, Sherlock. John."
John shook his head after the door closed. "Was that absolutely necessary?"
"It was true." Sherlock turned back to the corpse.
"Not the same thing at all."
Bruise on the upper thigh, right height to be from a table or desk; stubbed toe could be from same incident. "Would it have been better to leave her in ignorance?"
"It would have been better to find a more tactful way to tell her."
"I don't do tact."
John sighed. "Yes, I'd noticed."
"Amazing. After three months of our sharing a flat, you have finally managed to make a correct deduction. In another fifteen years you might actually be useful." That was...bit not good. Sherlock considered blaming the shirt, or the lack of sleep, but finally decided once again that silence was the best choice.
"Right, then." John pulled on his coat.
"Why are you leaving?"
"Because otherwise I'm going to plan the perfect murder, and since it'll be yours, no one will solve it."
"You aren't capable of that." You're too good, he refused to add.
"Oh, really? If I pick the right day, Donovan and Lestrade will swear in court that the bullet hole in the wall containing your blood and brains was actually a badly botched attempt at hanging a picture, and Anderson will write up the entrance and exit wounds as unusually bad pimples. So don't push it. I'll see you back at the flat."
Trial of Holmes Murderer to Begin.... Had his namesake angered his friend to the point of murder? He shunted that thought aside. It was irrelevant to this case.
But he was not going to learn anything more from the corpse, at least not with his current shortage of sleep and not without stronger stimulants than he allowed himself to use anymore. Sherlock sighed and rezipped the body bag. He would give John a few more minutes head start, some extra time to calm down, and when he himself got home he would change out of this itchy shirt and perhaps be able to make John smile again.
John strode through the corridors, anger simmering.
Wanker. Prat. Sorry excuse for a human being.
Still the most interesting person I've ever met.
Damn it all.
Leaving Barts, he nearly bumped into DS Donovan coming in. "Afternoon," she said. "Freak still here? Has he found anything?"
He bristled internally at the nickname, as always. "This is Sherlock we're talking about. I'm sure he has. He just hasn't said yet."
Donovan looked at him with a knowing expression. "Drive you out, did he?" At John's noncommittal shrug, she said, "Great, one of those moods. I'll see if he'll deign to tell me what we're supposed to be looking for."
"Good luck. You might see if you can get him out of here before Molly Hooper comes back from lunch."
She rolled her eyes. "Times like these, I like to calm down by thinking of the Thames at night. Moonlight, streetlights, and the freak floating face down." She grinned. "If you decide to repeat history and put him there, try not to be too obvious about it; I'd hate to have to arrest you. See you later, I'm sure."
John would have complained, but as he'd just said about the same thing to Sherlock, he'd lost the moral high ground. "Later." And then, "Wait, what do you mean, repeating history?" But Donovan had already disappeared down the corridor.
When he got back to the flat, John lay down on the couch out of spite for a few minutes. Sherlock would be able to tell—God knew how; sometimes John could swear he'd borrowed a spy camera from Mycroft—and would complain that John had ruined the balance of the padding, but it was nice to stretch, and the git deserved the unsettlement. Fifteen minutes reading a book without Sherlock's commentary on its ending; that was what he needed right now.
Had Sherlock been rearranging the bookshelves again?
Christ, he had, which meant John's own books were forever lost. No, they were probably reshelved somewhere perfectly logical, if by logical you meant "numerically by final digit of Dewey number, then alphabetically by penultimate letter on page 15". Sighing, John stood and started to hunt for anything recognizably his.
Practical Beekeeping, a Nahuatl grammar, a manual for the gun currently hidden in John's wardrobe, an identification guide to jellyfish, huh, two books by someone surnamed Watson. John picked them up for closer examination. Now, that was a coincidence—another John H. Watson. He opened A Study in Scarlet and began to read. "Chapter One: Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
What?
The paper, the binding, both looked genuine and old; it was, then, not a bizarre practical joke that Sherlock was waiting for him to discover. Probably. He read further.
"....I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly...."
Fuck.
John made it through the mention of Stamford the dresser, but at "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive," he slammed the book closed. Air. Definitely time for air.
He had not been walking for more than ten minutes when a car pulled up, not-Anthea in the back seat. "Oh, no," John said aloud.
She opened the door, eyes as always on her Blackberry. "Oh, yes."
When John was escorted into a vacant Underground station that he was fairly sure he'd never seen on a map, he was unsurprised to see Mycroft Holmes sitting on a bench. "Sherlock's expecting me at home soon," John said calmly. Given that he'd left the book lying on the chair, it was probably even true; Sherlock had undoubtedly calculated how long a walk John would need to come to terms with the information.
Mycroft was equally calm. "I have already let him know you will be delayed."
The first time John had been interviewed by Mycroft Holmes had been frightening. And, yes, exhilarating—thank you very much, second Holmes who knows me better than I know myself. This time? He'd been living with Sherlock for three months. He'd shot a man for him, hauled him out of the Thames once, been mistaken for him and kidnapped, and been accidentally poisoned by an experiment Sherlock had mislabeled. He had new standards for danger; he occasionally thought wistfully of the long stretches of boredom military life had provided.
He surreptitiously checked his left hand. Not a twitch.
Right, then. "Still not spying for you," John said.
"How suspicious you are. And what if I asked you questions out of friendly concern?"
"Depends on the questions." John's shoulderblades prickled. He should not feel like he was walking into a Taliban stronghold wearing a pork jacket.
Mycroft smiled. "Have the nightmares been a problem?"
God, he wanted his gun. Irrational, he told himself, most dangerous man in London or no. "No more than usual. Better than they were before I started helping your brother."
"As good as that is to know, it was not your nightmares I was concerned about. He has been having them again, hasn't he?"
"You do bug our flat, don't you?"
"It is hardly necessary. I knew when I saw that Sherlock was wearing a new shirt while on a case."
John was absolutely certain that Mycroft had a logical chain between the two facts; he was also not going to ask. "I can't say whether he has nightmares or not. I don't know his sleeping habits that well, if you can call anything that irregular a habit...." He closed his mouth belatedly. "No. Still not informing on him."
"You've told me nothing I hadn't long since known. But let me make this easier on your conscience. I have a story to tell you." Mycroft gestured to the other end of the bench. "Sit down, if you wish, or stand if you prefer to loom over me."
John sighed, considered the reach of the umbrella, and sat.
Mycroft said, "You have just been reading about Sherlock Holmes—the nineteenth century one, not the twenty-first. Had you heard of him before?"
How the hell had he known? There must be a camera in the elk's head. "Not that I recall."
"Hmm. True, you are more a reader of speculative fiction than of mysteries." Mycroft sat back. "It has always been a favourite story in our family; the original Sherlock was a distant cousin. My brother and I are named for him and his older brother. And Sherlock has always been obsessed by his namesake's story."
"Really?" Sherlock's obsessions were usually far more obvious. "Why hasn't he ever said anything about it?"
"Probably because your name is John Watson."
Dangerdangerdanger. John braced himself mentally. "So I have the same name as someone who lived with him and wrote about him. What does that have to do with anything?"
"John Hamish Watson. Doctor, military, wounded in Afghanistan, returned to London after his discharge. Met Sherlock Holmes through a friend at Barts; became his flatmate, his assistant, and ultimately, his closest friend."
That was strangely warming. "I'm not sure he'd say that last, but you ought to be the better judge than I."
"I do not think that is where your histories diverge; I would point rather to the earlier Dr. Watson's marriage with Mary Morstan."
What? "You were talking about him? Wait, his middle name was Hamish too?"
"Ask Sherlock to show you the obituary. I am certain he has a printout from the microfilm. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson lived and worked together for several years. After his marriage, Dr. Watson removed to his own home but remained in contact with Holmes and still assisted him on some cases. He also published two books about Holmes, at least one of which you have clearly been looking at. I warn you that if you continue reading them, they are quite tedious in sections."
"And let me guess; I'm going to read on and find Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson...."
"Only Lestrade." Mycroft ignored John's quiet curse. "And a Mrs. Hudson, if I remember correctly. At any rate, in late April of 1891 Holmes and Watson left England suddenly, and several days later, on the fourth of May, Holmes died in the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, and Watson was arrested for Holmes' murder."
Unexpected, that sense of shock. "If that Sherlock Holmes was as bad about leaving experiments about the flat, I can't blame Watson; I'd have found him innocent due to extenuating circumstances."
Mycroft smiled slightly, but shook his head. "Watson maintained his innocence to his death, claiming that another man had pushed Holmes over the falls and had fallen in turn. But he could give no description of the man; there was no evidence of a third person at the scene, and there was only one body retrieved from Reichenbach, that of Sherlock Holmes. Watson was found guilty and was imprisoned in Switzerland. He was well treated and was even allowed to write further memoirs of Holmes' cases, though the manuscripts have been lost. In early 1894 he suddenly fell ill and died, swearing to the end that he had been poisoned by Holmes' true killers."
Now John understood what Donovan had been alluding to. "Christ. With that history, why is Sherlock willing to live in the same flat as me?"
"And 221B Baker Street at that? He would say he is too rational to let a coincidence interfere with his life. And as I said, he is obsessed with the story."
"What's so important about...oh, God, you're not telling me that they lived there too? You're taking the piss. Hell, you're taking the bladder and kidneys."
"Sherlock could not resist when he saw the advertisement for the flat; he almost asked me for assistance with the rent before he thought better of it."
This was beyond mad. This was all a bizarre hallucination, and he was going to section himself as soon as he got home. "But what does this have to do with nightmares?"
"The first time Sherlock heard the story of Holmes' death, he had nightmares about it, and he swore the next day that Watson had been innocent and he was going to prove it. That was when he was four. Thirty years later, he has not proven it, but he has never forgotten the story. And it would surprise me greatly if he has stopped having the nightmares, though likely he conceals them better than he did as a child."
"What am I supposed to do about it, then?"
"Simply watch. And help him if he asks."
John laughed at that. "You dragged me down here to tell me that? Do you really think, at this point, that you need to force me to help him when he asks for it?"
His mobile chimed before Mycroft could respond.
*WHERE ARE YOU? SH*
John glanced at Mycroft and, at his nod, texted back. *held by dangerous man.*
*Escape and come home. I am about to take a bath and am in danger of falling asleep in tub. SH*
*if not duffer, won't drown.*
*You and Mycroft just sent me the same text. Whatever you're plotting with him, stop it. SH*
John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. "No," Mycroft said, "I am not tapping your phone. Good day, Dr. Watson. I'm sure we'll speak again soon."
Sherlock had, clearly, managed not to drown himself in the bath; when John finally returned to Baker Street, he found Sherlock changed into pyjamas and dressing gown, looking up something on John's laptop. "Why do we bother to have two computers?" John asked rhetorically.
"In case the battery dies in one. What did Mycroft want this time?"
"To give me a history lesson."
Sherlock stilled. Well, John thought, better have this out now. "So, we're Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his assistant Dr. John Watson, living in the same flat formerly inhabited by Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his assistant Dr. John Watson. Have I got all that?"
"Yes. Problem?"
"I'm not planning to throw you off a cliff, if you're concerned about that. Unless I find frog hearts in my tea mug again; then we're making a special trip to Dover."
Sherlock chuckled at that, as John had hoped, then shook his head. "So he told you the whole story. It is incredibly annoying. I am certain—certain!—that Dr. Watson was innocent, but I have never been able to find substantiating evidence. It's ridiculous to be so convinced without proof."
The kettle was already full, and the water heated. John knew a Sherlock apology when he saw one. He picked up his mug, checking it for contaminants before pouring the water. "Would there be any evidence left after so many years?"
"Unlikely. I am forced to remain content with supposition."
Sherlock fell silent, typing on the laptop again. John sat down at the desk with his tea and the book, turning back to where he had left off. Christ, they really did live here. Consulting detective. Violinist who actually played real tunes rather than merely mindless scraping. And God, Mycroft had been right; there was a Lestrade in this book as well.
"He was DI Lestrade's great-grandfather." Sherlock had set aside John's laptop and was now folded in the chair in one of his Thinking poses. "Still a coincidence, but possibly one that will disturb you less than an unconnected person sharing his name. And no, I have never modeled my interests on those of my cousin; we merely share many traits. Though I did intentionally name my website after his book."
Someday John would figure out how Sherlock managed to read his mind. "Does this whole situation weird you out too?"
"Not particularly. Coincidences exist. It is no surprise that I was named after a notable relation, especially since I share his birthday, and your name is not particularly rare. What did you think of the corpse?"
He welcomed the subject change. "Far too young for a heart attack victim. Looked healthy otherwise." John moved to the other chair. "Come on, then; what obvious things did I miss?"
"Besides that he was a German-speaking Czech national, research scientist turned executive in a pharmaceutical company, and being framed for cheating on his fiancée? There was little for you to miss; the useful evidence was removed or destroyed." Sherlock stared over his fingertips. "He clearly was killed elsewhere and moved to the scene; the evidence was so obvious that even Anderson saw it. He has been dead at least three days, and yet no one has reported him missing. Not his firm, so he was not travelling on business; not his family or friends, so they don't expect him home. Conclusion: he was in the UK for an extended holiday. But surely his fiancée would be troubled by the lack of communication; yet she hasn't contacted the police. Therefore, either she is somehow involved or she was a second victim."
Amazing. Again. No matter how many times John listened to Sherlock's reasoning and conclusions, he never tired of it, never stopped feeling proud to be Sherlock's audience. "Have you told...."
"Yes, John, I did give a full report to Lestrade, and I'm sure he will arrange for all the tedious immigration checks and so forth." Sherlock suddenly unfolded himself and stood. "And since there is nothing to do at this time but wait, good night."
John blinked and looked at the time. "It's not even seven."
"What would be the sense in sitting up until an arbitrary hour? There is nothing to do on the case now. Try not to stay up too late reading Dr. Watson's books."
An unfulfilled wish, as it turned out; by midnight, John was smiling and shaking his head over the end of The Sign of Four. Compelling stories, in spite of the digressions and inconsistencies; he'd hate to depend on Watson's testimony as a witness to anything, if the man couldn't remember where his own war wounds were....
"No!"
John was out of bed and halfway down the stairs before he consciously registered Sherlock's cry. He knocked on Sherlock's door. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock sounded disgusted. "Don't hover."
"You sure? You didn't sound fine."
No response, but a minute later, Sherlock opened the door, fully dressed. "I said, don't hover. I'll be back later."
"Where are you going?"
"To see people who prefer to remain anonymous." He threw on his suit jacket and left, the doors echoing behind him.
Well. I know when I'm not needed.
Nightmares.
John finally fell asleep, blessedly uninterrupted by nightmares himself.
"Looks like someone upended an archive on the pavement," Sally said.
Sherlock glanced at the strewn papers. "Hardly. This is standard A4 printer paper, a recently opened package at that. The use of a fountain pen does lend an older feel, but it will not be of interest for preservation for some years yet." Curious, he thought, examining the corpse. Hair colour; tattoo on wrist; haircut; pawnbroker's ticket in pocket; lack of tan lines on fingers; muscles of right arm; misshapen left thumbnail. Messages that told him nothing of use yet; the papers were far more interesting, with their unexpected text.
After awakening from the dream—this time, he had been kneeling at the cliff's edge reaching for his cousin, and had slipped and fallen in himself—it had been delightful to receive Lestrade's text about a new body found outside a large bank. The morning was only marred by the lack of John's presence. Who wanted to sit in a surgery and listen to dull symptoms when there was a crime to solve? Clearly, John.
"What have you found?" Lestrade crouched opposite him, just off the papers.
Anderson paused his off-pitch humming. "He's obviously been posed."
"Congratulations," Sherlock replied. "Next you'll be telling me he's dead." He sat back on his heels. "At least two days. Worked as a carpenter at some point, but more recently had a desk job. Hair dyed, possibly after death; texture suggests natural colour a light brown. Tattoo of fish on right wrist definitely applied after death. Placed here within the last four hours; the papers are too damp under him to have been earlier. Probably unmarried. The pawnbroker's ticket in his pocket suggests financial difficulties, but given the lack of identification, could have been planted."
"Any thoughts on cause of death?" Lestrade asked.
"No obvious signs of trauma." He ignored Anderson's mutter of I could have told you that. "We'll see what the autopsy tells us. Let me know when you have the results."
"I won't need to; you'll be texting me nine times an hour once it appears on my desk." Lestrade glanced aside. "Any progress on the mystery Czech?"
"Any new data?"
"No."
"Then no."
"Nothing at all?" Lestrade looked pained. "It's been nearly three weeks."
"And it will be some time longer. I'm late to an appointment."
As Sherlock walked, the lingering questions kept interrupting his observations of the changes on this street (new coffeehouse; closed dress shop; drain work in the building that held a law office and insurance company). It had been two and a half weeks since the dead man was found; Sherlock was still certain that he was indeed Czech, but so far no data on Czech nationals in the UK had matched up with the man's appearance. No police consultations, no missing person reports—and surely after this long, someone would have noticed—it would be a delicious puzzle if there were more data. As matters stood, there was little more he could find out, and it might yet end up in the sector labeled "insufficient data for solution".
As Sherlock had requested, Dennis was waiting near Lancaster Gate station. "Anything?" Sherlock asked.
"Not a word. Nobody saw anything in the park that night, or if they did, nobody wants to say. Want me to keep asking?"
"Actively, no; at this point anyone willing to talk would have come forward. But if someone does speak up, you know where to find me." Sherlock handed him the remaining payment, glad to get the weight out of his pockets; Dennis was convinced that paper money contained poisonous beetles but happy to accept two-pound coins. "And if anyone has information on the corpse found outside that bank this morning, send them to me."
Dennis nodded and headed off. Sherlock was about to hail a cab when someone called out, "Sherlock?"
It was Jim from Barts. Sherlock considered ignoring him, but he did need to use Barts facilities, and a person with the harder-to-crack Barts passwords was unfortunately a person it paid to be on friendly terms with. He stopped and waited for the man to catch up (worked last night; hasn't been home yet, but went to gym two hours ago; eggs for breakfast, no meat, no grains). "Jim."
"I'm glad I ran into you. I wanted to thank you."
Surprisingly, Jim seemed sincere. One mystery that Sherlock would not let linger. "For what?"
"For the push I needed to come out. Molly was my final try at women."
"Hardly who I would have picked for the test."
"Now, that's my very nice ex-girlfriend you're insulting there. She's been a saint. But I didn't want to talk about her. There's something I wanted to do for you."
Sherlock sighed. Really, he should find some clothing that was less appealing to random passersby. "I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I'm not interested."
"Well, that'd be high on my list too, but I'm not coming between you and your boyfriend. Pun not intended, though if you ever wanted to...."
"Not. Interested. Good day, Jim."
"Okay, sorry, didn't mean to offend you. I wanted to offer my professional services. For free, of course."
"I do my own computer work."
"My other profession...." Jim looked hurt. "You didn't look at my card, did you?"
It was still in his coat pocket. Sherlock pulled it out. JIM MORIARTY, HYPNOTHERAPIST. Moriarty. The last words of a dying cabbie; the allegations from the trials of a criminal gang over a century ago. Coincidence, or connection? "Whatever would I need a hypnotherapist for?"
"Oh, I treat all sorts of psychological and neurological issues. Chronic pain. Addiction. Sleep disorders. Especially nightmares."
He contained his start, but apparently not well enough; Jim smiled. "You have trouble with nightmares, then?"
"Not at all."
Jim shook his head. "There's really nothing to be ashamed of; it's a common problem. Does the subject vary, or is there a recurring theme?"
"I'm afraid my flatmate is expecting me. Good day, Jim."
Jim's smile broadened. "Later, Sherlock. You know where to find me when you need me."
Never, Sherlock thought. I don't need anything as unscientific as hypnosis. And I certainly don't need someone interfering with my brain. Especially not anyone named Moriarty.
Even if I'm having the dream every other night.
John finally finished with his last patient and, when the door closed, sat down to see how many texts Sherlock had sent him this time. Nineteen—that was surprisingly few. He skimmed them, reading the comments on the new case with interest and shaking his head at the eight texts that were variations of "why do you think your job is more interesting than my work?" *because paying bills and buying food are more interesting than starving on the streets,* he replied to the last one.
Instead of the caustic response John expected, the return text read, *As a medical professional, what's your opinion of hypnotherapy? SH*
*there's studies showing promise for chronic pain and for some addictions, but nothing's proven.*
And then, *why?*
Sherlock didn't answer. Of course. Well, it was time to go home anyway; hopefully Sherlock wasn't hypnotising random pedestrians to believe that they were cormorants.
When John went to Sarah's office to say good-bye, the door was ajar, with laughter and a second voice coming through—Donovan's, to John's surprise. "Three? And she was still conscious?"
Sarah said, "Oh, she was higher than the top of the Eye. And I took her wrist to get her pulse, and suddenly she's staring at her hands and saying, 'Puppet skeletons!' And here I am trying to get her vitals while she's doing this with her hands and singing—oh, I can't even remember what it was, something out of one of the Muppet movies. Took ten minutes just to take her temperature and blood pressure, and by the time I was done I had to turn her over to the senior doctor and go hide in the bathroom until I stopped laughing."
"God, I know what that's like—you aren't supposed to laugh, and you can't not. We picked up one woman when I was a constable, we called her Madame Octopus.... Ah, Dr. Watson." Abruptly Donovan was all business. "The boss asked me to keep this unofficial, so I'll just say, tell the freak to give it back."
"Give what back?" Oh, Christ. "Did he take evidence from the crime scene again?"
She grimaced. "Just tell him, all right? Boss says if it's back in his hands by nine tomorrow morning then it stays unofficial." She turned to Sarah. "Got time for one at the pub before you go home?"
"For the tale of Madame Octopus? Absolutely. John, see you next Thursday, then?"
"Yeah, see you." No, several weeks had not changed her mind about the advisability of dating someone who came with a mad flatmate. Not that he could really blame her, given that he was already hurrying home to find out what said mad flatmate was plotting.
When he entered the flat, Sherlock was stretched out on the couch. "Nightmares," he said.
"What?"
"Really, John, can't you follow a conversation?"
"When I have no idea what question you're responding to? Afraid not." He checked the fridge. "Is the cheese edible?"
"I have done nothing to it, if that is actually your question. Avoid the bread."
"Right. Also, Donovan says to give back the evidence you stole."
"It's in the folder on the table. You can take it back in the morning."
Of course. Cheddar in hand, John opened the folder and read the paper it contained. "This sounds like part of an encyclopaedia article."
"Encyclopaedia Britannica, ninth edition, published between 1875 and 1891; this is from the A's, so would have been in the 1875 volume. But why?"
"Why an encyclopaedia, or why that particular edition?"
"Both. I lack data."
John finished the cheese, debated whether he was still hungry enough to justify takeaway, and finally decided to just wait until breakfast. Then his brain finally caught up with the beginning of the conversation. "Nightmares, as in you're considering hypnotherapy to help with nightmares?"
In a smooth motion, Sherlock was off the couch and pacing. "It seems ludicrous. But dreams are ludicrous. And to have one's waking state affected by dreams is simply ridiculous." He paused. "Molly's now-ex-boyfriend offered his services."
"You outed him, and he wants to hypnotise you?" John shook his head.
"It does appear unlikely. But I am curious. There is one other oddity, though: his surname is Moriarty."
"Moriarty? You don't think...."
"I don't know. It's not a common name, but neither is it incredibly rare. If he is connected to the mysterious Moriarty, this would be one way to find out. But then again, if that's the case, I prefer not to have him tinkering with my brain."
"You could find a hypnotherapist who isn't named Moriarty."
"I could." Sherlock turned around and pulled a three-ring binder from a high shelf. "And then if Mr. Jim Moriarty has ulterior motives, he'll just have to find another way to get my attention. But there would be the same issue with other hypnotherapists. Any one of them could be suborned by people who would gladly see me dead or worse."
"That seems a little egotistical even for you."
"Read the discussion page on my Wikipedia entry if you don't think I have enemies." Sherlock closed the binder. "There is also the possibility that Moriarty, the criminal, is a well-chosen pseudonym. When the original Holmes was killed, he had just finished collecting evidence that broke up an enormous criminal gang. The leader of the gang was alleged to be one Professor Moriarty. If the modern Moriarty chose the name on purpose, then my would-be therapist might well be what he seems."
John shook his head. "Well, let me know if you do decide to try this hypnosis lark so I can be there."
"That's hardly necessary."
"You just finished telling me that you could be in danger from anyone. Sounds like you need someone looking on who you're reasonably sure won't rewrite your hard drive. Mind you, if hypnosis works on the nightmares, I want to see if it works on labelling the experiments too."
"A trite and repetitive complaint. But your initial point has merit." Sherlock sat at the desk with the binder and a notepad. "Your laptop is under the bathroom sink."
"Functional? Or have you been experimenting to see how humidity affects different computers?"
"Really, John, I won't need to run that experiment again until the various manufacturers bring out their next-year's models."
John refused to reply to that. He found the laptop and, on a whim, went to Wikipedia and searched for Sherlock Holmes. To his surprise, there was actually a disambiguation page:
He couldn't resist saying it. "It's a sobering thought that when Sherlock Holmes was my age, he'd been dead for two years." And now he'd have that Tom Lehrer song going through his head for the rest of the night. Worth it.
"Go to bed," Sherlock called up. "I can't think around your pointless references."
Two weeks later, Sherlock was huddled on the couch at 3:16 a.m. Shivering, but that could be explained by the temperature drop; it had nothing to do with the cry of "Holmes!" and the percussion of falling water still echoing in his head. Damn it all, was he going to have to resort to pharmaceuticals just to get one uninterrupted sleep cycle?
"Sherlock? Are you all right?"
He started; he hadn't heard John come down the stairs. "Of course I'm all right. Go back to bed. Or if you're staying up anyway, make an extra cup." He stretched and evaluated John, who was shaking his head and starting the tea (eyelids high, normal rate of blinking, slight frown, breathing slightly faster than normal—woke at least half an hour ago from his own nightmare and was having trouble going back to sleep; conclusion: he heard me).
A few minutes later, John handed him the mug, sat in his own chair, and said, "Anything interesting coming in through your website?"
"No. London has become boring and tedious, bereft of intriguing crimes."
"That other corpse last week wasn't intriguing?"
"Hardly." Sherlock had been delighted when Lestrade had called him in to see another posed corpse, this one on typed letters, wearing sunglasses and a false moustache; the similarities had suggested a possible serial killer (and oh, the challenges of one of those would have been perfect right now, a distraction from dullness and dreams). But once at the scene, Sherlock had been less certain. Corpse disguised and posed on papers, yes, but it was too different. Serial killers, in Sherlock's experience, liked patterns. This was not quite enough of a pattern to satisfy. Typewritten rather than handwritten text, love letters rather than encyclopaedia articles (but wasn't it odd? one would expect the love letters to be handwritten and the articles to be typed), body disguised but not actually modified. It was just different enough to irritate rather than entice.
John sipped his tea and relaxed into the chair. "Interesting that they both appear to have died from natural causes, though."
"Only means that the toxicology lab failed to find anything. Which could be correct or completely wrong, depending on who was on staff that day." Sherlock lay back on the couch. "You should go back to bed. After forty-five minutes, you're usually able to fall back asleep as long as you actually lie down. Seventy minutes, and you've lost the window."
John's expression made Sherlock want to spill out even more deductions, just to see that look again. "Amazing. And you?"
"I'll see what I can do."
He even tried, but as he'd suspected, it was hopeless; his brain was booted up for the day. He stayed in his room, though, until after John left for the surgery.
Once the flat was empty, Sherlock moved back to the couch to ponder. Three stalled cases; it was embarrassing. He might as well apply to the Yard at this rate.
"Your notion of interior decoration is frankly appalling."
Sherlock nearly fell off the couch. Bloody Mycroft with his silent feet. "The wall had it coming. Go away."
Mycroft inspected the bullet holes and shook his head, over either their existence or their inaccuracy (John, of course, would have hit every one dead centre, but John's opinion on indoor target practice had been scathing, and he'd changed the gun's hiding place, quite well; Sherlock had actually needed seven minutes to find it again). "You're bored again, my dear boy. Clearly you have time for another case. I have a little matter involving a stolen chemical formula."
"One of your cases? When have I ever been that bored?"
"Rarely, true. Which is why I'm offering a bribe as well."
"I don't want your money."
"What about your namesake's violin?"
Sherlock sat up. "I already have a replacement; I hardly need another instrument."
Why did he ever bother lying to Mycroft? And indeed, Mycroft's slight smile said that he knew exactly how much Sherlock cared about his pawn-shop acquisition when compared with his cousin's Strad.
They switched to silent debate for some minutes; Sherlock, as usual, was the one who gave up and spoke. "It's not enough. I do not want to traipse about whichever country you're taking over this week asking questions for your benefit."
Mycroft sighed. "As you wish." He leaned forwards. "Are you really quite well, Sherlock? You are not looking your best."
"I've never been better."
"If you need a recommendation for a therapist to help with the nightmares...."
"No. End of discussion. Out."
He waited until Mycroft had gathered his umbrella and left, checked the news, then dressed and went to the Yard. In Lestrade's office, Lestrade and Sally were arguing over a pile of paperwork. Sherlock ignored Sally and took the free chair. "What's this about a man beaten to death with the butt end of a rifle?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How did you get in this time? Never mind. Sorry, nothing interesting about it. Though Anderson says the injury might have been inflicted after death."
"Since when do you believe anything Anderson says?"
Sally looked unimpressed. "Let's see: you've been saying that for the past three years at least, but he's still employed. The logical deduction: he's not as incompetent as you claim he is."
"And yet he continually misses the obvious."
"Which makes him different from 99% of the population how?"
"No difference at all. You're all idiots too. Lestrade, have you nothing at all for me to do?"
"Nope," Lestrade said. "A word before you go, though. Donovan, give us a moment."
When the door closed, Lestrade said, "I told you back then that if you wanted me to call you in on cases, you had to stay clean. I meant it."
"What?" Whereever had Lestrade got that idea? "I am clean."
"Red-rimmed eyes. Shaky hands. Attention span of a hyperactive pigeon. Sound familiar?"
Damn, he clearly had neglected his physical needs for too long. "It's lack of sleep. No drugs, legal or illegal. Do you want a sample to prove it? Bring out the kit. Really, Lestrade, you should know me better than that by now!"
"I know that you're bored, and you have unsolved cases that you can't do anything with. When you show up looking like you've been comparison testing Class As, what do you expect me to think?" He held his hands up before Sherlock could speak further. "You say it's not drugs. Fine. I'll believe you; and if I'm wrong, I don't think your doctor friend will let you get away with it for long. But if it's really lack of sleep, better up the warm milk. You look like hell."
"Oh, for God's sake." There was no point in staying here.
After leaving the Yard, Sherlock walked and considered his options. Ridiculous. But if it works....
At last, he called the number on the business card. "Jim? Sherlock Holmes. Does your offer still stand?"
Jim's office was on the ground floor of a small house in a very nice neighborhood; as the cab pulled up, John wondered how Jim could afford rent here. Jim answered the unspoken question as he invited Sherlock and John in. "This is actually my mother's house. A mutually beneficial arrangement; at her age, she needs someone to keep a bit of an eye on her. And she would never accept financial assistance, but rent for the office is another story."
The hall was certainly posher than John would have expected. And Jim himself was much better dressed than he had been on their first meeting; Sherlock said, "Do you habitually wear a suit while seeing clients?"
"Usually. I find that most people are more comfortable with a hypnotherapist who looks like a professional."
"Whereas if you wore a suit at Barts, people would assume you were an IT administrator rather than an actual programmer. Clever." Sherlock actually did sound mildly impressed.
"People are so much more amenable when one meets their expectations, I find."
Jim led them into a large room. On first glance, it seemed more like a waiting room for an architect than a consultation room for a hypnotherapist; framed architectural drawings covered much of the wall space. John recognized the facade of the Royal Opera House and an overhead view of the Alexandra Palace. The other decor was nothing at all like the neutral and minimalist furnishing John remembered from Dr. Thompson's office. The curtains were richly coloured, patterned with intertwined red and blue lines like blood vessels on a deep green background, and the carpet had probably been woven a hundred years ago in a country John had been stationed in. The occasional tables were all covered with curvy abstract wooden sculptures and small models of famous buildings, but the elegantly carved desk was bare except for a candle in a brass holder, a glass bowl full of translucent beads, and a small black-and-white box. The chairs around the desk were upholstered in needlepoint, and the nearby couch with its lacy frame looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a consulting room.
"Tea, either of you?" When Sherlock emphatically shook his head and John more calmly replied "no thanks", Jim said, "Then let's begin. Sherlock, why don't you sit here, in front of the desk, and John—may I call you John?—over on the couch?"
When they were seated—the couch was definitely designed for appearance rather than comfort—Jim said, "So, Sherlock, tell me about the nightmares. How long have you been having them?"
"As long as I can remember. But they've worsened in the past few months."
Since I met him? John wondered.
"Any obvious trigger?"
"Not particularly."
Jim stirred the bowl of beads with a finger. "Do they vary, or is there a common theme?"
"My nineteenth-century namesake...."
"Sherlock Holmes the detective, murdered by his friend John Watson?"
Sherlock blinked; John was also startled. "So you do know the story?" Sherlock asked. Am I the only person who doesn't? John thought.
Jim chuckled. "What do you think made me so interested in you? A modern detective also named Sherlock Holmes—fascinating. Now, the common theme in the nightmares?"
Sherlock sat back. "They are always about the historic Holmes and Watson. Usually I'm watching as Holmes falls into Reichenbach; once in a while I am Holmes falling. Sometimes I'm watching Watson's trial, and I'm trying to tell the judge that Watson's innocent; no one ever hears me."
John tried to wrap his brain around that idea—Sherlock being upset about an innocent man's sentence. He could easily imagine Sherlock being angry about his own professional failure, but a victim's fate seemed to make no impression on him.
Jim's forehead wrinkled. "Have you considered the possibility that the coincidence of your name...."
"Hardly a coincidence that I am named after a notable relative."
Now, Jim laughed. "Oh, this is quite the family affair here. Your relative accused my grandfather's uncle of leading a criminal gang."
"Which explains your interest in my predecessor." Sherlock was clearly interested again, a slight smile playing across his face.
John threw his hands up in disbelief. "Just so we're clear, I'm not related to anyone involved in that mess."
Jim glanced at John. "True, Watson is hardly a rare surname. But the coincidence—Sherlock, your nightmares increased after the two of you started living together, correct?"
"Indeed, and it is a coincidence. I have no subconscious fears that John will murder me."
"Remember, the whole point of the subconscious is that you aren't consciously aware of it. There could be some event in your past you don't consciously remember that causes these nightmares. Though in your case...." Jim leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. "What do you think of reincarnation?"
Sherlock's answer was immediate. "Utter bollocks."
"I used to think so myself, but.... Would you be willing to take part in an experiment?"
John shuddered. "I could live the rest of my life quite happily without hearing that sentence again."
Jim ignored him. "I'd like to try guiding you into a past life regression."
What?
"What would be the point?" Sherlock asked. "To have past life regression, there would have to exist past lives."
Jim smiled. "How do you know there don't?"
"It is completely illogical. Why would we live multiple lives and not remember? Even if people were more than bundles of neurons exchanging electrical signals, even if anything remained of us after our bodies rotted away, why would we start the whole sorry course over again?" Sherlock folded his hands in his lap. "Reincarnation is rubbish. I don't need to attempt a regression to prove that, just as I don't need to drink cyanide to prove that it is deadly."
"But you'd like to taste it, wouldn't you?" There was certainty in Jim's voice.
John stared at Jim. How the hell had he figured out Sherlock's personality so quickly? Or was he guessing?
Sherlock sounded calm. "What would make you think that?"
"Molly said a great deal about you. And I've learned a bit about reading people in my work. You have enough outside evidence to prove cyanide's a poison, but if you didn't, wouldn't you try it once, just to find out? Just to know the flavour, if nothing else?"
A pink pill, held in the air.... John wished he had brought his gun, then pushed that thought aside as irrational.
Jim continued, "Hypnosis, on the other hand, won't kill you. And who knows? You may find it interesting." He sat back. "I won't pressure you. I can't; hypnosis only works with the consent of the client. But I believe I can help you, and I would love to attempt the experiment. It is entirely up to you."
"At worst, you will perhaps be able to help me with my nightmares using more conventional hypnotherapy, correct?"
"At the very least, I believe I can do that for you."
Sherlock looked at John. John gestured back to him. Your brain; your call. That seemed to decide Sherlock; he leaned forward and said, "How do we start?"
"Let me turn down the lights." Jim clicked a remote control; the lamps dimmed. He set a candle in the middle of the desk and lit it, then sat back. "Now. Look at the candle. Breathe deeply, and concentrate on the flame; when your eyes grow heavy, let them close."
Whether Sherlock was finding Jim's tone hypnotic or not, John certainly was; it was so tempting to relax into that voice, let the words lull him. He twisted around until he found an uncomfortable position.
After a few minutes, Jim said, "You're thinking too hard. Let go; concentrate on the flame. You have nothing to fear here; I will make sure nothing happens to you."
Sherlock glanced over at John; John lifted his chin. I'm on duty now. Get this mission over with.
Sherlock turned back to the candle again and breathed. A slow inhale. A slower exhale. His eyes fell closed. John pushed up against his own left elbow until his shoulder ached.
"Good," Jim said. "Keep relaxing, and let yourself descend, as if you were walking down a flight of stairs. When you reach the bottom, open the door to the past."
No background music, John suddenly noticed, but no outside noises either; no sign that this house was shared with anyone else. Just the sound of Sherlock's breathing, just....
"No! God help me!"
John jumped out of his chair as Sherlock doubled over, but Jim held up a hand. "Sherlock. What do you...."
"It hurts. Christ, it hurts. No!" And Sherlock was standing, blinking, shaking.
John automatically reached out towards him, then caught himself. He'd learned that Sherlock, while frequently happy to touch other people and things, didn't like being touched himself. Instead, John said, "Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right," Sherlock snapped. "It was only in my head; it wasn't real."
"Like my leg?"
Sherlock either didn't catch or simply ignored the sarcasm. "Exactly." He rubbed his forehead. "And quite odd."
"What did you see?" Jim asked.
"Nothing. Just pain. Like I'd received several blows to my torso."
"Your death. Excellent."
John couldn't hold the comment back. "What the hell do you mean, excellent?"
"It means that Sherlock's made it back that far, to that moment. Now it's simply a matter of jumping that little bit further, so we can find out what actually happened."
Sherlock was still rubbing his head—well, that made sense; a fall from a cliff into a river would presumably result in head injuries as well—but at Jim's words he sat back down. "Again, then."
Jim tilted his head. "You're sure you don't want to rest first?"
"No point. Let's finish this."
On the second try, Sherlock again cried out, but this time he remained in the chair, apparently still in trance. "I can't go past it," Sherlock whispered. "I'm back on the...call it a stairwell if you must, though the metaphor is weak."
Jim's voice remained soothing and even. "Often people find a past life too painful to experience as a participant, but if they can watch it as if they were an observer, it becomes bearable. Try that instead. Go in again, but stay out of your own head; you are an outsider, an indifferent witness."
A third cycle of relaxation, of slow breathing, of sudden tension and anguished noise. "It's too much. It hurts too much."
John unclenched his fist. "What if you try to go further back? Get some momentum and rush past it to an earlier time?" What was he saying? This was mad.
But Jim nodded. "If your past death is the cause of your present nightmares, then yes, it may be too painful for you to reach directly. Let's try that. Open the door again, and this time, go past your death; jump back farther. Much farther."
Sherlock's chest rose and fell; his shoulders stiffened, and then he was relaxed again, smiling. "I'm through."
It was very like a dream, but more vivid, less bizarre. Brilliant sunlight, cool breezes, the scent of autumn and harvest and coal fires, the crackle of dead grass and the spring of live.
Observe. Only observe. He dutifully kept his distance from the small boy running down the path.
"Where are you?" The lilting voice was clear, and yet far distant.
He replied, "In Sussex on holiday with my parents. Outside. I'm supposed to be inside with the nurse, but I was bored. My older brother left for school yesterday; I miss him already. He told me that he'd found a snake near a stream, and I've gone looking for it. And there it is." A deep green snake, moving slowly along the bank; the boy did not yet know that it was nearing hibernation time for the snakes, but the observer could supply that knowledge.
"Good. You're still too close to the events, though. Watch the scene as if you were floating above it, as if you were seeing a film. Like you do in your dreams. Like everything you see is happening to someone else, not you."
He breathed again, and said, "I've...."
"Distance. As if it's not you."
"He's caught the snake now. But it's wriggling so much that he drops it. A grass snake, but he's so pleased at his bravery that it might as well be an adder."
"Excellent. Now, let's move forward again. Let's go to the day your former self met his closest friend. What day is that?"
He left the boy in the countryside, leapt into time and landed in a high-ceilinged room filled with tables and chemical equipment. "The twenty-ninth of January, 1881. Barts. Dr. Stamford has just introduced his old acquaintance Dr. John Watson to Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
The voice remained calm and gentle. "Dr. Watson wrote about the meeting later. What can you tell me about the meeting that isn't in Watson's chronicle?"
He chuckled, watching the scene. "Watson left out the collision." Holmes ran across the room to the other two men, holding aloft a test tube that appeared to contain salt; in his enthusiasm, he skidded to a stop and bumped against Watson.
"My dear sir, I am terribly sorry." Holmes threw out his free arm and steadied Watson. "And you so lately returned from Afghanistan; pray forgive me. I assure you I am not normally so clumsy; I was overcome by the excitement of solving this little chemical problem."
Watson steadied himself on his cane before his leg gave out. "Quite all right, I assure you."
Another far distant voice, a warm voice giving the observer a jolt of joy. "So it was his leg where he was injured."
"It was both," the observer replied. "The shoulder wound nearly killed him and led to his mustering out; the leg wound seemed less severe at first but caused longer-term problems."
Now Watson was examining the test tube. "This reagent, you say, detects blood?"
Holmes beamed. "In the smallest quantities."
"Incredible! But surely it is not merely detecting the iron in the haemoglobin? For in that case, a rusty nail should ruin the results."
Holmes' smile broadened. "I have tested it against that as well. No, this reagent reacts to blood and to nothing else. Let me show you...."
The observer laughed. "He almost pulls poor Watson off his feet again, leading him to his worktable. He is so eager to demonstrate his process that he stabs his own finger with a large needle to procure the needed blood. But he is rewarded; Watson is duly impressed."
Indeed, Watson leaned forward in fascination. "Astounding! A very delicate test indeed."
"Yes, and think of how many crimes will be solved by means of it! Had this test existed in the past, Von Bischoff of Frankfort would not now be walking a free man, nor Samson of New Orleans dead for a murder he did not commit.... I am afraid that I bore you."
"Not at all," Watson said cheerfully. "You have performed a great service to the police!"
"I hope I shall also have performed a great service to my purse," Holmes said wryly, "as that concerns me more. But I shall consider myself compensated in full if this test proves the guilt of a criminal or saves an innocent man from the gallows."
The lilting voice spoke again. "This is excellent. Now, move forward in time. Go to the cause of your nightmares."
He lingered for a moment, watching as Stamford explained Watson's situation, as Holmes and Watson discussed their habits and finally agreed to see the rooms; it was with something very like wistfulness that he finally leapt forward.
Again he was on the familiar cliff, no longer an observer. The low sun, the smell of spring and of colder air, the thunder of the spray. The slide of his feet in the mud. The grasp of strong arms wrestling him, the struggle against a mortal enemy. For a moment only.
Pain resurged, anguish/grief/terror/fury thundering into his head and jolting him back to normal consciousness.
Sherlock blinked and raised his hands to his temples. His head pounded; he had not wanted morphine so badly in years.
What was that?
"Sherlock?" That was John, the doctor and concerned companion in unison.
I must look like I was hit by a lorry. I feel like I was hit by one.
"Do you want to try again?" Jim asked. "Or have you had enough?"
Sherlock shook his head. God, that pain. "I can't anymore. Not today."
Surprisingly, Jim looked delighted. "Oh, you've done very well for a first try. That's a great deal of progress; you seem to have had a successful regression."
"Regression? Or hallucination?"
"Easy to check. Are there any details from your experience that you can verify?"
He shook his head slightly; that didn't hurt too badly. Perhaps the headache would fade soon. "After over a century? No. The furnishings would hardly be the same; the broken pane in the window would have long since been restored; nothing would remain to...."
The ceiling. There had been a gouge in the moulding, near the wall where Holmes' table sat. It might have been painted or otherwise restored, but at that height, it would hardly have been a priority.
He leapt up. "The ceiling. I have to check the ceiling." Sherlock ran out of the room and out the front door just as a cab rounded the corner. "Barts," he shouted as he flung himself into the back seat.
Why does he always have to do this?
John gave up on catching up with Sherlock when the front door slammed before he could untangle himself to get up from the couch. "I'm sorry," he said to Jim. "He gets like this when he's on the trail of a clue."
"Molly's told me about him, remember? I understand." Jim blew out the candle. "This really was excellent work for a first time. Go catch up with him. I'm sure I'll see you two again soon."
When he opened the front door and looked up and down the street, there was no sign of Sherlock. "Fuck," he muttered.
A creak behind him made him whirl. An old woman was halfway down the stairs; this must be Jim's mother. "Sorry," John said. "I didn't mean to.... I hope we didn't disturb you."
"Not at all; I'm quite used to James' visitors." She looked highly amused. "I saw from the window that your friend caught a cab. There's a rank not far away; left and left again."
"Thanks." Jim had implied that his mother was in need of care, but John couldn't see that in this woman. Perhaps she was more frail than she looked. "Well, have a good afternoon." He hurried out to find the cab.
Sherlock didn't answer his texts, but John had spent enough time in Barts to guess what rooms Sherlock would check. He finally found Sherlock in a large lecture room, standing on top of a precarious stack of chairs even taller than him. "Are you trying to break your neck?"
"This gouge, here." Sherlock pointed to a large dent in the moulding. "I saw that in....I saw it."
John stared up at it. Christ. "So, it's confirmation, then?"
"No. I've been in this room before. An excruciating lecture that I had expected to be far more useful than it turned out to be."
"Which means...."
"Which means that I could have subconsciously remembered it. The entire experience may merely be the product of my questionable imagination."
He had to say it, voice the thought that he'd had several times while Sherlock related strange visions. "Were you actually seeing something, or were you putting on an act for Jim?"
Sherlock looked down at him. "Why would I want to pretend? It was an experiment, not a trap. At any rate, I was most definitely there in mind. It was very odd. Far more realistic than a dream." He looked back at the gouge. "There was one interesting detail. At the end, at Reichenbach...."
"You did see it?" Sherlock had said nothing to them, only screamed in pain again before opening his eyes; John would be quite happy if they could never repeat that experience.
"Of course. It was much like my dreams; I was on the cliff wrestling someone. But the man I was wrestling—he was thin, and taller than me. Watson was not short by any means...."
"Lucky sod."
"...but he was certainly shorter than Holmes, and the extant photographs show him to be a man of sturdy build. Whomever I was wrestling with on that cliff, it was not Dr. Watson."
Of course not, John thought, then wondered where that had come from. "Are you going to try this again, then?"
Sherlock scrambled down the chairs. "Yes. But not today. Let's go home."
Back at the flat, Sherlock grabbed John's laptop; John considered protesting but decided there was no point, and went to the kitchen instead. When he returned with tea and sandwiches, though, Sherlock pushed the laptop to him, browser open at an online photography archive. "This was taken around 1888, here in this room. I no longer have a copy myself, but you wanted to know what they looked like."
"I didn't say anything." John ignored Sherlock's disgusted exhalation—of course he hadn't needed to say anything—and looked at the picture.
It certainly looked like a nineteenth-century photograph, though he wasn't nearly enough of a clothing expert to be certain. A stocky man with a carefully-trimmed moustache sat in a high-backed chair; a cane rested against the right side. To his left stood a tall slender man, darker-haired, clean-shaven, chin on hand and elbow on the back of the chair, smirking at the photographer. That dark hair, and that nose.... John couldn't help laughing. "He looks...he looks like...."
"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, sounding irritated but resigned. "I assure you that despite my cousin's resemblance to him, I am less closely related to Anderson than I am to you."
Oh, that was an obvious opening. "Can't know that for sure," John said. "Not without a DNA analysis...oh, Christ, you didn't, did you?"
"One day he cut his thumb at a crime scene—no, John, I had nothing to do with it; I simply took advantage of the opportunity."
"All right. Wait, so when did you....never mind, stupid question, I'm sure my DNA's all over this flat."
"Hairbrush." Sherlock actually smiled at him before pulling a shoebox full of dried leaves from under a chair. "Now, be quiet; I need to concentrate on this experiment."
"Yeah, and I need to update my blog."
But he bookmarked the page and left the browser window open, occasionally returning to look at it. It made him smile, albeit wistfully, as if he were looking at a photo of his old unit. And if Jim was correct, this was really an old picture of Sherlock as he once was.
If Jim was correct. If this wasn't all a bizarre trick.
Sherlock glared at the orange-haired corpse, at Lestrade frowning, at Anderson humming, at John. This is an utter waste of a Sunday morning.
There must be something obvious he was missing about this corpse (not far from the riverbank, dyed hair, fake scar on face, dressed like a homeless person, pennies sewn into the hems of his shirt and jacket; cause of death: drowning, like the corpse that had been found last Saturday under the Waterloo Bridge with five orange pips in one hand) or the scene (no footprints, no tell-tale litter; whoever was planting these bodies was highly skilled).
This made five mysterious and unidentified bodies—six, if last week's body, the one whose head had been beaten with the rifle, turned out to be a related case—and there was no clue, no thread, no hint of who might be behind this. It was unbelievably frustrating.
And there was no progress on the hypnosis front either. True, Sherlock had had two nights of long and uninterrupted sleep, but after the orange pip corpse, the nightmares had returned. He and John had seen Jim twice since then, but in neither session had Sherlock been able to enter the trance he had the first time. Two hours on Monday and three on Thursday, and all he had to show for it was a series of headaches.
Jim's patience, however, seemed boundless. The second time, after Sherlock had finally said "Enough!" and pressed his hands to his temples, Jim had said, "If this were easy, everyone would do it, and there would be no doubt that it is possible. You are trying to overcome powerful psychological barriers. And possibly powerful natural barriers as well; there may be reasons why we don't remember past lives."
"And the reason may be that I was merely hallucinating," Sherlock said.
Jim gave Sherlock a conspiratorial look, and even included John in it. "Can I tell you something I don't share with most of my clients? I believe in past lives because I once did a regression on myself, and because I was later able to independently verify some of what I learned."
"Who were you?" John asked, obviously curious.
Jim smiled, almost bashfully. "Just a distant relative, no one you'd ever have heard of. Later, though, I found some old family papers and was able to confirm things I saw. That was incredible." He leaned forward. "Trying to regress is very challenging, though, even when you want to believe. And you? You don't want to believe."
Sherlock had been indignant; how dare Jim accuse him of refusing to accept unassailable facts? Emphasis, of course, on unassailable. "I have no opinion either way on it. I want to know the truth."
"You are a rationalist. Reincarnation, past life regression—they're so far outside your established ideas as to make pi times i look rational and real. But you were able to do it once. You'll do it again. Would next Monday work for you?"
"If I don't have a case."
Which he clearly would not. This was not a case. This was a waste of time.
"Anything?" Lestrade asked.
John added, "Other than the obvious fact that he drowned?"
Wait, John hadn't yet examined the corpse. "How did you know that?"
John tilted his head towards Anderson. "Background music. Phil Collins."
It made no sense to Sherlock, but as Anderson immediately turned sullen, Sherlock counted it as a victory. "Drowned, but not here. A swimming pool, most likely; there's still faint hints of chlorine odour. Someone has gone to some effort to make him appear genuinely homeless, but the condition of the fingernails and feet is suspicious, and his skin is hardly tan enough for spending so long outdoors. I'll check with some consultants to verify that, though."
Lestrade shook his head. "What consultants? Sherlock, I'm already stretching it to let you in...."
"Good day, Lestrade. Come along, John."
Sally let them through the barrier almost gleefully. When they were out of earshot, Sherlock said, "Did you get it?"
John held out his phone, picture of the corpse's face on the screen. "Good enough for your purposes?"
"Excellent. There's a coffee shop around that corner. I'll take one black, no sugar."
John rolled his eyes. "And do I meet you here, there, or somewhere in Edinburgh?"
"I'll be there in a few minutes."
Sherlock waited until John had left, then walked to the designated rendevous, John's phone in hand. The four were waiting for him: Dennis (the two-pound coins were already putting too much weight on Sherlock's pockets), Carolyn (perfectly normal in conversation, until she heard an aeroplane and ran for the nearest shelter), Ed (unbelievable tolerance for doses of heroin that would kill most people; unbelievable intolerance for absence of same), and Peter (Sherlock had yet to deduce what had caused him to end up a member of London's homeless population, which fascinated him).
Of course, none of them had ever seen the man. Not a complete confirmation, given the size of London's homeless population, but if he was a regular around this area, one of them would likely have recognized him. Sherlock handed out the notes and coins. "You know the routine. Anyone who does know him, anyone who's seen one of these bodies being placed, find me."
Perhaps tomorrow's session with Jim would be more productive.
Jim let them in to his consulting room on Monday and then excused himself. "My mother needs some help with her computer. I'll only be a few minutes; make yourself comfortable in the meantime."
Sherlock tried to imagine helping his mother with a computer problem, his mother who had on her deathbed presented him and Mycroft with laptops that could boot in Windows, OS X, and her own proprietary flavour of UNIX. He had upgraded occasional components since then but had never yet needed to fully replace it.
"Comfortable," John said after Jim left. "In here?"
Sherlock shrugged. Another night of minimal sleep; the chair would certainly keep him from dozing off, though it was surprisingly conducive to the hypnotic trance. "It's a tolerable space." He picked up the black and white box from Jim's desk. Fascinating little thing; he slid the lid back. Ouch!
John was immediately by him. "What happened?"
The door opened. "Sorry to keep you waiting...damn! I should've put that away." Jim hurried over and grabbed Sherlock's hand (firm grip, at least; not the light touch that would irritate more than the cut), examining the bleeding finger. "I'm terribly sorry. That box has a trick spring in it; nasty little device." He released Sherlock's hand before Sherlock had to ask him to. "The bathroom's to the right of the stairs if you'd like to clean that off; there's sticking plasters in the bottom shelf of the cabinet."
John leaned over and gave the nick the doctor's once-over. "Doesn't look too deep, but yeah, God knows where that's been. Especially if other people stabbed themselves on it."
"Let's see—me, my mother, my father, six of my school friends, at least eleven of my parents' friends that I know of...."
"Fine," Sherlock said, rising. "I'll be back."
After a liberal application of liquid handwash and a few minutes of scrubbing, he returned. The box was gone, and Jim apologized again.
Then his manner abruptly shifted into the therapist's mode. "I've been thinking about the failure of your past attempts, as you're clearly a person of strong will and focus. I suspect I know the problem: you are trying too hard to see your previous death."
What rot. "If past lives were real and if I had experienced these things, then seeing what actually happened to my cousin at Reichenbach would be the whole point of these efforts."
"But clearly it's difficult for you. It's not uncommon for people to find their past death so disturbing that they don't let themselves see it."
"Ridiculous. I have no fear of death, even my own."
John shuffled in his chair. "That's an understatement."
He remembered John tied to a chair in a tunnel and repressed a shudder. Perhaps there was one death he did fear...irrelevant, here and now.
Jim picked through the beads in the bowl on his desk, forehead furrowed. "Still, why don't we try something different? Instead of your death, instead of the event that causes your nightmares, let's see if you can regress to a happy time."
Sherlock sighed. "If we must. It hardly solves the mystery."
"It might make it easier for you to enter the regression trance, though. And once you can reliably enter that state, then we can work on the more difficult times."
Jim turned off the light, and Sherlock inhaled and focused on the candle. This part was easy, the slow fading and descent, the relaxation. It was passing the barrier at the bottom that was....
The gentle lilting voice filled his ears. "When you pass the door, don't try to see your death. Jump over that, further back, to one of the happiest days of your past life. And remember that you are only an observer. You are not experiencing this; you are not seeing it through your own eyes, through the eyes of the person you were. You are only observing. You are floating above the scene; you are watching a recording. This is not happening to you, Sherlock Holmes of the twenty-first century; it is happening to a person in the past, and you are only an observer, not a participant. Now, jump."
And he was hurtling through the darkness, past a blur of pain, to a room he knew well in spite of the changed furnishings, the different wallpaper and curtains. To the sitting room of 221B, to two men sitting by the fire, one tall and dark-haired, one brown-haired and stocky.
He was only an observer. So much easier this way. He knew how to observe, how to describe what he saw to his listening audience. The burns on the chair, where Watson had once dropped his pipe—he had been lucky that it was the chair and not his leg that was scarred. The bullet holes in the wall spelling VR, where Holmes had performed target practice in a fit of boredom. The stains in the carpet—and on the floorboards beneath—where one of Holmes' chemical experiments had left its traces. (I've seen those, Sherlock remembered, before his own thoughts faded away, leaving only the flat.)
Holmes and Watson, tonight, sat in their chairs by the fireplace, smoking their pipes, talking of anything and nothing. Holmes' latest researches; Watson's recent patients; the critical reception of Verdi's new opera Otello and the possibility of a London performance; the condition of the roads; the history of Renaissance architecture.
There appeared to be nothing whatsoever special about this evening. No case would interrupt them; no telegram would summon Holmes to Scotland Yard or Watson to a patient. They would merely share each other's company until the hour was late and they retired to their rooms. It was an inexpressibly, unbearably perfect night, all the more so for its commonality, its apparent mundanity.
"But it must be important," said the soothing voice. "Why did you go to this night?"
"Because it is the last one," the observer replied. "Tomorrow Miss Mary Morstan will consult Sherlock Holmes, and Watson's heart will be lost to her. Tonight, though, there is only this perfect camaraderie, this settled peace, this utter contentment." The emotions were seeping in despite his distance. "I thought it would last...not forever, of course, for nothing in this world is so blessed or cursed, but certainly until one or the other of us died. I did not know...I did not know...." He gasped as the pain struck.
"Sherlock. Step away from it."
He could not. He could not step back and watch this moment as an indifferent observer, not when it had been forever lost, squandered in ignorance. Holmes laughed at one of Watson's comments, refilled their glasses of brandy, and began to tell a story about a case centering around an aluminum crutch. I am sorry, the observer thought. I am so sorry. I did not know that this was the beginning of the end.
The other voice, the warm one that he wrapped around himself like a scarf. "Can you snap your fingers and wake him up?"
The first voice, the lilt. "It doesn't actually work that way until we set a waking trigger. But yes, that's a popular one. Four snaps, let's say—harder to do by accident."
"Better than four knocks, right? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about; he wouldn't know David Tennant from Bernard Cribbins. Sherlock, do you hear us? Wake up when you hear four snaps, will you? Please?"
"Sherlock, it's time to come back. When I snap my fingers four times, you'll wake up, and you will remember the scene as an observer only. Now. Come back."
Four snaps.
Sherlock opened his eyes, blinked away the tears—allergens, it must be—and looked at Jim's concerned face, at John's stoic one. "Well?"
"Well." Jim now smiled. "You see? When we chose a better entry point, you were able to regress. Do you want to try again today? Or would you rather wait? I'm afraid between Barts and some other projects I'm not available tomorrow, but Wednesday, perhaps?"
He might be remembering the scene as an observer, but he also remembered his reactions. No more, not today. "Yes, Wednesday."
In the cab, John finally spoke. "What the hell happened to you? You didn't say anything for—well, it was only three or four minutes, but it felt like forever."
Even to John, he was not about to say that he couldn't bear to stop watching them. "I was only observing some interesting points about the room. Did you know that you can still feel the VR in the wall where Holmes shot it?"
John giggled. "God, I can already tell this whole business is not going to end well." His expression suddenly grew grim. "What's the best place in London to get something analysed for traces of contaminants or poisons?"
"Our flat. Well, Barts if it calls for a spectrometer or an electron microscope. But I'm the best person for the job." Unless one wanted to call in Mycroft's people, which one never wanted.
"I was afraid you'd say that." He sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the black and white box.
Sherlock felt a strange twist in his chest. "Does Jim know you have that?"
"No. He put it in one of the desk drawers. I nicked it while you both were out of the room." John handed it to Sherlock. "Jim may be right about half of London handling it with no ill effects other than plasters and tetanus jabs, but..."
"Excellent. I'll go to Barts tonight and examine it. Jim only works until eleven, so I should be unencumbered by explanations."
"And in the meantime, I suppose we'll be moving furniture and pulling back rugs to find if those floorboard stains are still there?"
"Unnecessary. They are."
John looked interested. "You mean it's confirmation?"
Sherlock shook his head. "It means nothing. I went over every inch of the flat when we moved in; I haven't deleted any of the details."
"Wait, so you're saying it wasn't damage done by the original Holmes?"
"Oh, it easily could be. But it does nothing to prove whether I am actually seeing a past life or am simply making up an elaborate hallucination. Everything I have seen could have come from my memories and from books. Perhaps Wednesday we will get more data."
"And we can give Jim back his box." John's eyebrows lowered. "I'm taking a definite dislike to it. That's a hell of a trick to play on someone."
Sherlock looked out the window and didn't respond.
Sherlock had planned to spend the afternoon on the couch, reviewing what he knew so far about the six open cases. Instead, he fell asleep and didn't wake until after midnight.
What is wrong with me?, he wondered as he sat up and catalogued the room (John had indeed moved the rug and the bookcase in the corner, enough to see the stains for himself; the fact that Sherlock had slept through it spoke poorly for his physical state; John was upstairs, asleep). It would be horribly inconvenient if he were actually falling ill. But no, no fever, no aches, no scratchy throat or clogged nasal passages.
And no nightmares. That, at least, was promising.
He called his favourite cab service and was in the lab a half hour later. Unfortunately, it wasn't empty; Molly Hooper was working late tonight. He ignored her and set up the microscope and slides.
"Hi, Sherlock...oh, that looks like Jim's trick box."
"Very similar," Sherlock agreed. "Do you have any useful observations, or are you merely spouting trivia?"
"If you keep your fingers to the sides instead of the middle, you won't prick your finger. I was lucky when I opened it and did it right."
"Congratulations." He was not about to admit that he hadn't. "Now be quiet."
A few minutes later, he added, "The definition of 'quiet', surprisingly, excludes humming."
She looked up from her slides. "Oh, sorry. But you might like this song. It's a folksong about a serial killer."
What was it about forensics people and tune production? Was it just that they had a captive audience? "A large percentage of folksongs are about murders and murderers. Nonetheless, I don't care to listen to them. The murderers are usually obvious; the mystery is long solved; and they have nothing to add to our knowledge of crime and criminals."
"This one's good, though; his final victim pushes him off a cliff and saves herself. 'No help, no help, oh false sir John, no help or pity for thee; it's seven king's daughters you have drowned, and the eighth will not be me....'"
Sherlock swooped to his feet and gathered the box and slides. "How much longer will you be working?"
Molly smiled shyly. "Another ten minutes at most."
"Good. I'll be back in eleven."
He walked down to the office wing—Mike Stamford probably hadn't changed his password lately, so his desktop would serve for some work—and nearly bumped into Jim.
Damn! "You're here late." (T-shirt featuring a cartoon of a scruffy stick figure talking on a phone and a punchline about systems administrators, shirt rumpled but free of food debris; box with operating system installation disk; thumb drive in left jeans pocket. Probably repairing a computer infected with a virus.)
"Virus in one of the faculty computers. Ironic, isn't it? I hope he takes better precautions for surgery than he does for music downloads." Jim grinned. "And what about you?"
"Some analysis for a case. I'm waiting for the lab to be clear."
"You're checking the spring on that box, aren't you?"
What? "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"It wasn't in the drawer after you left. I may not be the incredible Sherlock Holmes, but I can make an occasional deduction." Jim leaned against the wall. "Keep it as long as you need to. Analyse it to your heart's content. You won't find anything, because there's nothing to find. But you need to see that for yourself."
This was unbelievable. "Is this the kind of conversation that won the heart of Molly Hooper?"
Jim chuckled. "Not in the slightest. This is purely professional. To have the most success in our sessions, you need to trust me. And you don't, not yet." He raised his hand before Sherlock could argue or agree. "Which is entirely sensible. Given your work, you've probably made a lot of enemies. If I want your trust, I'll have to earn it, by showing you time and time again that I'm not going to harm you."
"Sentimental tosh."
"But true." Jim straightened. "Oh, and I was thinking, do you have any heirlooms that belonged to your cousin?"
"A couple of items." He thought of the Strad, thought of Mycroft's offer, pushed the thought away.
"Why don't you bring one on Wednesday? We might try using it as a focus for regression, see what you can find out from it. Well, good night; see you Wednesday morning."
Molly was gone when Sherlock returned to the lab, and he immediately set to work. By the end of the night, Sherlock was half relieved, half disappointed, to find that the spring appeared clean. As best he could tell, the only substances on the spring were skin and traces of blood, the quantity so low as to suggest, in spite of Jim's list of past victims, that it was all his own, that someone had cleaned it thoroughly before Sherlock's accident. The data from pricking his fingers with sterile lancets once, twice, and three times agreed.
But why would someone bother cleaning the spring? It'd be easier to remove it entirely. Conclusion: someone, or several someones, wanted that box intact. Why?
No answers came to mind, and he filed the thought in the "solution: likely unfindable" sector.
Fandoms: BBC Sherlock & ACD Sherlock Holmes.
Length: 106K±2K words, depending on whether you ask BBEdit or Google Docs (and AO3 will probably have yet another number).
Rating: BBC-series-comparable violence; body count's probably higher, though on a technicality. The MPAA would rate it R for the cussing.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has long been fascinated with (and haunted by) the tragic story of his namesake cousin. When his nightmares about it grow unbearable and he starts seeing hypnotherapist Jim Moriarty, however, Sherlock begins to wonder whether he himself is his cousin's reincarnation. Have Sherlock and the modern John Watson known each other before this life? Can Sherlock solve a nineteenth-century murder and prove the historic Dr. Watson innocent, and also solve the current string of oddly-posed unidentified corpses?
Warnings: Likely geography abuse; probable misrepresentation of the British Library's ability to catalog their archives; hypnosis doesn't really work that way; references to unrequited love, but decided lack of pr0n. Otherwise, I'm a "chooses not to warn" person, though on AO3 I did tick "Major Character Death". (Which is pretty useless, since a lot of the major characters are dead before the story even starts, so you don't know whether I mean them or others...)
Thanks to:
thesmallhobbit for beta, Brit-picking, and extreme patience; belovedmuerto for reminders to get off my butt and write.(If you're following the fic on AO3, you've seen all this; this is just a backup copy.)
Chapter 1: Prologue, 29 January
A jeering crowd massed at the doors outside, but within the courtroom, all was somber.
Sherlock Holmes floated over the witness stand and watched the man who sat in the box, brown hair lightly sprinkled with grey, moustache unkempt. Throughout the trial, the man was silent, only speaking once: "I did not kill him. Ich habe ihn nicht getötet. Je ne l'ai pas tué. I did not. I could not."
He knew the man spoke the truth, but the jury did not see him, did not hear him, a ghost in the courtroom. There was no halting them, no silencing the cry of "Guilty!"
A prison cell, surprisingly bright and clean, but filled with the lingering odor of illness. Sherlock stood at the door, unseen.
The man lay on the straw pallet, pale and worn, focused on his visitor. "I did not kill him."
The visitor knelt by the man, his rat-like face sympathetic. "I'm not the one you have to convince, Dr. Watson."
"You are, Inspector. The fate of my body is sealed; the fate of my soul I leave to God; but you are my last chance to save what remains of my reputation. Sherlock Holmes was the best and wisest man I have ever known. I would have flung myself into that chasm rather than harm a hair of his head."
The visitor sighed. "I know. But I have seen the evidence."
"Damn the evidence! Do you believe me?"
The silence lingered, broken only by the breath of the wind, the shaky gusts through the dying man's lips.
"Yes," the visitor finally lied, looking away. "Yes, I believe you."
"Thank you." The man clasped the visitor's hand. "It has been a bitter thing, to be held guilty for what one never dreamed of doing, to be judged an evildoer by those who should have had faith in me. But soon I shall see him again, and for that I would face a harsher end than the few days of pain I endure now."
You are wrong, Sherlock thought. You will never see him again.
And he was once again at Reichenbach, hovering over the cliffs, standing at the edge. Falling water, thundering; the cry of "Holmes!" blending with the cry of the falls.
Grappling for his life, grappling with an implacable enemy.
Falling water. Falling body. Falling.
Sherlock sat up, gasping.
Room: mine. Bed: mine. I'm alive. It was only a dream. Ambient light: time anywhere between midnight and 5:00 a.m. Music from flat to north, so after 3:30. Quiet to south, so before 4:00. Look at phone—time: 3:43. Respiration: 75, harsh and shallow. Pulse: 158. Deeper breath. Another. Pulse: 132. More breath. More. More. Pulse: 99. It was only a dream. It was only a dream. Just that bloody family story that I can't delete from my hard drive. It was only a dream.
It was only the dream.
He rose from the bed; after the dream, there was never any point in trying to fall back asleep. And there was still much to pack. Best to finish early, in case Lestrade called about those so-called serial suicides.
He did not need the stream of useless psychiatrists of his youth to tell him why that dream, why tonight, the night before removal day. Thousands of people in London looking for flatmates, possibly a dozen that might be willing to tolerate him, and he had to meet the one who was named John Watson.
It was merely a coincidence.
Sherlock believed in coincidence. The improbable was not the same as the impossible, and it was irrational to think that the improbable carried any special meaning. Clearly, though, part of his brain remained irrational.
The battered leather suitcase sat with the two boxes that contained his other most vital possessions, ready to be moved in the first load; Sherlock stroked its smooth surface, not needing to see the contents. Newspaper articles (mostly prints from microfilm, but one precious original of the London Times with the headline "TRIAL OF HOLMES MURDERER TO BEGIN IN SWITZERLAND"), obituaries, and copies of the court records in the original French as well as in German and English translation. His meagre share of his predecessor's remaining possessions—after the second time he was evicted from a dodgy flat, Mycroft had confiscated the rest, saying that he refused to lose family artifacts to Sherlock's irresponsibility—an old magnifying glass; an improvised measuring tape; a photograph of an unidentified woman; a broken pocketwatch, face mold- and water-damaged; a set of lockpicks.
Today, they would return to their former home, his cousin's former home. Tonight, he would be living in 221B Baker Street, and if it was with a John Watson, well, he would endure Mycroft's amusement and the Yarders' teasing.
Struggling for his life. Falling water.
He shook off the dream. The experimental equipment alone would take another hour to pack.
Chapter 2: 24 April
Sherlock examined the body in Barts morgue, matching the messages of the corpse with the messages of his possessions. Male, early thirties, wealthy. Grooming said high-level business executive, but hands suggested scientist. Wealthy, engaged to be married, German-speaking but likely resident of the Czech Republic. "Cause of death?"
"Myocardial infarction," Molly said.
Not necessarily a murder, then. But still, a puzzle.
John leaned over the corpse. "He seems young for that." Sympathy was in his voice; how did John find the energy to care about unknown people?
"Yes," Molly agreed, glancing vaguely at John, "but his blood vessels were badly obstructed; the plaque must have been building up for some time." She added thoughtfully, "I wonder who he'll come back as."
"Oh, you believe in reincarnation?" John, ever patient even with idiots.
Sherlock ignored Molly's response—reincarnation, while ludicrous, was no more so than any other belief in life after death—and checked the fingers again. An unidentified well-to-do man, dead at least three days, well before his body had been placed on the banks of the Serpentine; why hadn't there been an outcry about his disappearance by now? Why had he been holding an obviously falsified photograph of himself and a young woman?
His left side itched. He should have known not to wear a new shirt while on a case; perhaps lack of sleep was finally affecting his brain. Nine hours over four days was less than optimal, and the planned eight last night had become three when the dream woke him. John had not noticed, at least, because otherwise he would be insisting that Sherlock leave the corpse and take a nap.
A slight breeze brushed his neck as the door opened. "Molly? Oh, sorry, didn't know you had guests."
"Jim!" Molly's usual eagerness became breathlessness. Ah. New romantic interest, finally. "Jim, there's someone I want you to meet. Sherlock, this is Jim from IT. Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes and...and his friend."
John. It is not a hard name to remember. Sherlock looked at the corpse's feet. Poor circulation, but not advanced enough to cause neuropathy....
Jim walked into Sherlock's field of vision, brushing too closely en route. "Sherlock Holmes? Molly's told me so much about you. I'm a huge fan of your work. I read Dr. Watson's blog all the time."
"I'm sorry you aren't able to find more educational reading material."
"Thanks so much," John murmured. He extended a hand to Jim. "John Watson. I'm also his assistant."
Jim shook John's hand quickly. "Well. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." His tone and the lift in his eyebrows showed that he knew the historical parallel, but he didn't pursue the topic, instead turning his attention back to Sherlock. "Everybody says you're so good at looking at someone and telling them all about themselves. Can you do that for me?"
It was always one of those two reactions—either "freak" or "party trick". Really, he preferred "freak". "This is not a good time."
"Please? I'd love to know what you can tell about me."
Sherlock set down the magnifier and glanced over him. Hair product, finger calluses, thumb angles, lack of dress sense, spots on t-shirt, visible contents of pockets, musculature, accent. Trivial. "Fine. You are, as Molly says, in IT, a programmer rather than an administrator. You prefer Macintosh to Windows. You've worked at Barts for less than a month. You have a second income source, either family money or an additional job; the available data can be interpreted either way. Your family is from Dublin, and though you travelled with your parents, you spent a great deal of time there in your youth. But you've lived in Britain for at least fifteen years, mostly in London. You dabble in guitar. Your preferred exercise is swimming. You're largely but not entirely vegetarian. You're dating Molly in spite of the fact that you're gay."
"What?" Molly said.
He had not actually intended to say that last. Damn itching shirt. "Good day."
John gave him the "so not good I can't begin to explain it" expression—ridiculous!—and said, "Did I mention that I'm his blogger? Have you read yesterday's post on what he said about the solar system?"
Jim smiled gamely, but any further comment was bypassed by Molly. "You said 'gay'."
Sherlock sighed. Couldn't she have let that go? "Voice, underwear, product in his hair."
"Blogger," John repeated, "assistant, and sometimes nanny."
"It's not true," Molly said. "Tell him, Jim."
"Also," Sherlock added, "the fact that he just slipped a card with his number into my coat pocket." The phone number was, admittedly, a guess, but a logical one.
Jim looked from Sherlock to Molly and back. "You're right; maybe this isn't such a good time. Molly, were you free for lunch?" At Molly's nod, he said, "Nice to meet you, Sherlock. John."
John shook his head after the door closed. "Was that absolutely necessary?"
"It was true." Sherlock turned back to the corpse.
"Not the same thing at all."
Bruise on the upper thigh, right height to be from a table or desk; stubbed toe could be from same incident. "Would it have been better to leave her in ignorance?"
"It would have been better to find a more tactful way to tell her."
"I don't do tact."
John sighed. "Yes, I'd noticed."
"Amazing. After three months of our sharing a flat, you have finally managed to make a correct deduction. In another fifteen years you might actually be useful." That was...bit not good. Sherlock considered blaming the shirt, or the lack of sleep, but finally decided once again that silence was the best choice.
"Right, then." John pulled on his coat.
"Why are you leaving?"
"Because otherwise I'm going to plan the perfect murder, and since it'll be yours, no one will solve it."
"You aren't capable of that." You're too good, he refused to add.
"Oh, really? If I pick the right day, Donovan and Lestrade will swear in court that the bullet hole in the wall containing your blood and brains was actually a badly botched attempt at hanging a picture, and Anderson will write up the entrance and exit wounds as unusually bad pimples. So don't push it. I'll see you back at the flat."
Trial of Holmes Murderer to Begin.... Had his namesake angered his friend to the point of murder? He shunted that thought aside. It was irrelevant to this case.
But he was not going to learn anything more from the corpse, at least not with his current shortage of sleep and not without stronger stimulants than he allowed himself to use anymore. Sherlock sighed and rezipped the body bag. He would give John a few more minutes head start, some extra time to calm down, and when he himself got home he would change out of this itchy shirt and perhaps be able to make John smile again.
John strode through the corridors, anger simmering.
Wanker. Prat. Sorry excuse for a human being.
Still the most interesting person I've ever met.
Damn it all.
Leaving Barts, he nearly bumped into DS Donovan coming in. "Afternoon," she said. "Freak still here? Has he found anything?"
He bristled internally at the nickname, as always. "This is Sherlock we're talking about. I'm sure he has. He just hasn't said yet."
Donovan looked at him with a knowing expression. "Drive you out, did he?" At John's noncommittal shrug, she said, "Great, one of those moods. I'll see if he'll deign to tell me what we're supposed to be looking for."
"Good luck. You might see if you can get him out of here before Molly Hooper comes back from lunch."
She rolled her eyes. "Times like these, I like to calm down by thinking of the Thames at night. Moonlight, streetlights, and the freak floating face down." She grinned. "If you decide to repeat history and put him there, try not to be too obvious about it; I'd hate to have to arrest you. See you later, I'm sure."
John would have complained, but as he'd just said about the same thing to Sherlock, he'd lost the moral high ground. "Later." And then, "Wait, what do you mean, repeating history?" But Donovan had already disappeared down the corridor.
When he got back to the flat, John lay down on the couch out of spite for a few minutes. Sherlock would be able to tell—God knew how; sometimes John could swear he'd borrowed a spy camera from Mycroft—and would complain that John had ruined the balance of the padding, but it was nice to stretch, and the git deserved the unsettlement. Fifteen minutes reading a book without Sherlock's commentary on its ending; that was what he needed right now.
Had Sherlock been rearranging the bookshelves again?
Christ, he had, which meant John's own books were forever lost. No, they were probably reshelved somewhere perfectly logical, if by logical you meant "numerically by final digit of Dewey number, then alphabetically by penultimate letter on page 15". Sighing, John stood and started to hunt for anything recognizably his.
Practical Beekeeping, a Nahuatl grammar, a manual for the gun currently hidden in John's wardrobe, an identification guide to jellyfish, huh, two books by someone surnamed Watson. John picked them up for closer examination. Now, that was a coincidence—another John H. Watson. He opened A Study in Scarlet and began to read. "Chapter One: Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
What?
The paper, the binding, both looked genuine and old; it was, then, not a bizarre practical joke that Sherlock was waiting for him to discover. Probably. He read further.
"....I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly...."
Fuck.
John made it through the mention of Stamford the dresser, but at "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive," he slammed the book closed. Air. Definitely time for air.
He had not been walking for more than ten minutes when a car pulled up, not-Anthea in the back seat. "Oh, no," John said aloud.
She opened the door, eyes as always on her Blackberry. "Oh, yes."
When John was escorted into a vacant Underground station that he was fairly sure he'd never seen on a map, he was unsurprised to see Mycroft Holmes sitting on a bench. "Sherlock's expecting me at home soon," John said calmly. Given that he'd left the book lying on the chair, it was probably even true; Sherlock had undoubtedly calculated how long a walk John would need to come to terms with the information.
Mycroft was equally calm. "I have already let him know you will be delayed."
The first time John had been interviewed by Mycroft Holmes had been frightening. And, yes, exhilarating—thank you very much, second Holmes who knows me better than I know myself. This time? He'd been living with Sherlock for three months. He'd shot a man for him, hauled him out of the Thames once, been mistaken for him and kidnapped, and been accidentally poisoned by an experiment Sherlock had mislabeled. He had new standards for danger; he occasionally thought wistfully of the long stretches of boredom military life had provided.
He surreptitiously checked his left hand. Not a twitch.
Right, then. "Still not spying for you," John said.
"How suspicious you are. And what if I asked you questions out of friendly concern?"
"Depends on the questions." John's shoulderblades prickled. He should not feel like he was walking into a Taliban stronghold wearing a pork jacket.
Mycroft smiled. "Have the nightmares been a problem?"
God, he wanted his gun. Irrational, he told himself, most dangerous man in London or no. "No more than usual. Better than they were before I started helping your brother."
"As good as that is to know, it was not your nightmares I was concerned about. He has been having them again, hasn't he?"
"You do bug our flat, don't you?"
"It is hardly necessary. I knew when I saw that Sherlock was wearing a new shirt while on a case."
John was absolutely certain that Mycroft had a logical chain between the two facts; he was also not going to ask. "I can't say whether he has nightmares or not. I don't know his sleeping habits that well, if you can call anything that irregular a habit...." He closed his mouth belatedly. "No. Still not informing on him."
"You've told me nothing I hadn't long since known. But let me make this easier on your conscience. I have a story to tell you." Mycroft gestured to the other end of the bench. "Sit down, if you wish, or stand if you prefer to loom over me."
John sighed, considered the reach of the umbrella, and sat.
Mycroft said, "You have just been reading about Sherlock Holmes—the nineteenth century one, not the twenty-first. Had you heard of him before?"
How the hell had he known? There must be a camera in the elk's head. "Not that I recall."
"Hmm. True, you are more a reader of speculative fiction than of mysteries." Mycroft sat back. "It has always been a favourite story in our family; the original Sherlock was a distant cousin. My brother and I are named for him and his older brother. And Sherlock has always been obsessed by his namesake's story."
"Really?" Sherlock's obsessions were usually far more obvious. "Why hasn't he ever said anything about it?"
"Probably because your name is John Watson."
Dangerdangerdanger. John braced himself mentally. "So I have the same name as someone who lived with him and wrote about him. What does that have to do with anything?"
"John Hamish Watson. Doctor, military, wounded in Afghanistan, returned to London after his discharge. Met Sherlock Holmes through a friend at Barts; became his flatmate, his assistant, and ultimately, his closest friend."
That was strangely warming. "I'm not sure he'd say that last, but you ought to be the better judge than I."
"I do not think that is where your histories diverge; I would point rather to the earlier Dr. Watson's marriage with Mary Morstan."
What? "You were talking about him? Wait, his middle name was Hamish too?"
"Ask Sherlock to show you the obituary. I am certain he has a printout from the microfilm. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson lived and worked together for several years. After his marriage, Dr. Watson removed to his own home but remained in contact with Holmes and still assisted him on some cases. He also published two books about Holmes, at least one of which you have clearly been looking at. I warn you that if you continue reading them, they are quite tedious in sections."
"And let me guess; I'm going to read on and find Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson...."
"Only Lestrade." Mycroft ignored John's quiet curse. "And a Mrs. Hudson, if I remember correctly. At any rate, in late April of 1891 Holmes and Watson left England suddenly, and several days later, on the fourth of May, Holmes died in the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, and Watson was arrested for Holmes' murder."
Unexpected, that sense of shock. "If that Sherlock Holmes was as bad about leaving experiments about the flat, I can't blame Watson; I'd have found him innocent due to extenuating circumstances."
Mycroft smiled slightly, but shook his head. "Watson maintained his innocence to his death, claiming that another man had pushed Holmes over the falls and had fallen in turn. But he could give no description of the man; there was no evidence of a third person at the scene, and there was only one body retrieved from Reichenbach, that of Sherlock Holmes. Watson was found guilty and was imprisoned in Switzerland. He was well treated and was even allowed to write further memoirs of Holmes' cases, though the manuscripts have been lost. In early 1894 he suddenly fell ill and died, swearing to the end that he had been poisoned by Holmes' true killers."
Now John understood what Donovan had been alluding to. "Christ. With that history, why is Sherlock willing to live in the same flat as me?"
"And 221B Baker Street at that? He would say he is too rational to let a coincidence interfere with his life. And as I said, he is obsessed with the story."
"What's so important about...oh, God, you're not telling me that they lived there too? You're taking the piss. Hell, you're taking the bladder and kidneys."
"Sherlock could not resist when he saw the advertisement for the flat; he almost asked me for assistance with the rent before he thought better of it."
This was beyond mad. This was all a bizarre hallucination, and he was going to section himself as soon as he got home. "But what does this have to do with nightmares?"
"The first time Sherlock heard the story of Holmes' death, he had nightmares about it, and he swore the next day that Watson had been innocent and he was going to prove it. That was when he was four. Thirty years later, he has not proven it, but he has never forgotten the story. And it would surprise me greatly if he has stopped having the nightmares, though likely he conceals them better than he did as a child."
"What am I supposed to do about it, then?"
"Simply watch. And help him if he asks."
John laughed at that. "You dragged me down here to tell me that? Do you really think, at this point, that you need to force me to help him when he asks for it?"
His mobile chimed before Mycroft could respond.
*WHERE ARE YOU? SH*
John glanced at Mycroft and, at his nod, texted back. *held by dangerous man.*
*Escape and come home. I am about to take a bath and am in danger of falling asleep in tub. SH*
*if not duffer, won't drown.*
*You and Mycroft just sent me the same text. Whatever you're plotting with him, stop it. SH*
John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. "No," Mycroft said, "I am not tapping your phone. Good day, Dr. Watson. I'm sure we'll speak again soon."
Sherlock had, clearly, managed not to drown himself in the bath; when John finally returned to Baker Street, he found Sherlock changed into pyjamas and dressing gown, looking up something on John's laptop. "Why do we bother to have two computers?" John asked rhetorically.
"In case the battery dies in one. What did Mycroft want this time?"
"To give me a history lesson."
Sherlock stilled. Well, John thought, better have this out now. "So, we're Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his assistant Dr. John Watson, living in the same flat formerly inhabited by Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his assistant Dr. John Watson. Have I got all that?"
"Yes. Problem?"
"I'm not planning to throw you off a cliff, if you're concerned about that. Unless I find frog hearts in my tea mug again; then we're making a special trip to Dover."
Sherlock chuckled at that, as John had hoped, then shook his head. "So he told you the whole story. It is incredibly annoying. I am certain—certain!—that Dr. Watson was innocent, but I have never been able to find substantiating evidence. It's ridiculous to be so convinced without proof."
The kettle was already full, and the water heated. John knew a Sherlock apology when he saw one. He picked up his mug, checking it for contaminants before pouring the water. "Would there be any evidence left after so many years?"
"Unlikely. I am forced to remain content with supposition."
Sherlock fell silent, typing on the laptop again. John sat down at the desk with his tea and the book, turning back to where he had left off. Christ, they really did live here. Consulting detective. Violinist who actually played real tunes rather than merely mindless scraping. And God, Mycroft had been right; there was a Lestrade in this book as well.
"He was DI Lestrade's great-grandfather." Sherlock had set aside John's laptop and was now folded in the chair in one of his Thinking poses. "Still a coincidence, but possibly one that will disturb you less than an unconnected person sharing his name. And no, I have never modeled my interests on those of my cousin; we merely share many traits. Though I did intentionally name my website after his book."
Someday John would figure out how Sherlock managed to read his mind. "Does this whole situation weird you out too?"
"Not particularly. Coincidences exist. It is no surprise that I was named after a notable relation, especially since I share his birthday, and your name is not particularly rare. What did you think of the corpse?"
He welcomed the subject change. "Far too young for a heart attack victim. Looked healthy otherwise." John moved to the other chair. "Come on, then; what obvious things did I miss?"
"Besides that he was a German-speaking Czech national, research scientist turned executive in a pharmaceutical company, and being framed for cheating on his fiancée? There was little for you to miss; the useful evidence was removed or destroyed." Sherlock stared over his fingertips. "He clearly was killed elsewhere and moved to the scene; the evidence was so obvious that even Anderson saw it. He has been dead at least three days, and yet no one has reported him missing. Not his firm, so he was not travelling on business; not his family or friends, so they don't expect him home. Conclusion: he was in the UK for an extended holiday. But surely his fiancée would be troubled by the lack of communication; yet she hasn't contacted the police. Therefore, either she is somehow involved or she was a second victim."
Amazing. Again. No matter how many times John listened to Sherlock's reasoning and conclusions, he never tired of it, never stopped feeling proud to be Sherlock's audience. "Have you told...."
"Yes, John, I did give a full report to Lestrade, and I'm sure he will arrange for all the tedious immigration checks and so forth." Sherlock suddenly unfolded himself and stood. "And since there is nothing to do at this time but wait, good night."
John blinked and looked at the time. "It's not even seven."
"What would be the sense in sitting up until an arbitrary hour? There is nothing to do on the case now. Try not to stay up too late reading Dr. Watson's books."
An unfulfilled wish, as it turned out; by midnight, John was smiling and shaking his head over the end of The Sign of Four. Compelling stories, in spite of the digressions and inconsistencies; he'd hate to depend on Watson's testimony as a witness to anything, if the man couldn't remember where his own war wounds were....
"No!"
John was out of bed and halfway down the stairs before he consciously registered Sherlock's cry. He knocked on Sherlock's door. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock sounded disgusted. "Don't hover."
"You sure? You didn't sound fine."
No response, but a minute later, Sherlock opened the door, fully dressed. "I said, don't hover. I'll be back later."
"Where are you going?"
"To see people who prefer to remain anonymous." He threw on his suit jacket and left, the doors echoing behind him.
Well. I know when I'm not needed.
Nightmares.
John finally fell asleep, blessedly uninterrupted by nightmares himself.
Chapter 3: 12 May - 26 May
"Looks like someone upended an archive on the pavement," Sally said.
Sherlock glanced at the strewn papers. "Hardly. This is standard A4 printer paper, a recently opened package at that. The use of a fountain pen does lend an older feel, but it will not be of interest for preservation for some years yet." Curious, he thought, examining the corpse. Hair colour; tattoo on wrist; haircut; pawnbroker's ticket in pocket; lack of tan lines on fingers; muscles of right arm; misshapen left thumbnail. Messages that told him nothing of use yet; the papers were far more interesting, with their unexpected text.
After awakening from the dream—this time, he had been kneeling at the cliff's edge reaching for his cousin, and had slipped and fallen in himself—it had been delightful to receive Lestrade's text about a new body found outside a large bank. The morning was only marred by the lack of John's presence. Who wanted to sit in a surgery and listen to dull symptoms when there was a crime to solve? Clearly, John.
"What have you found?" Lestrade crouched opposite him, just off the papers.
Anderson paused his off-pitch humming. "He's obviously been posed."
"Congratulations," Sherlock replied. "Next you'll be telling me he's dead." He sat back on his heels. "At least two days. Worked as a carpenter at some point, but more recently had a desk job. Hair dyed, possibly after death; texture suggests natural colour a light brown. Tattoo of fish on right wrist definitely applied after death. Placed here within the last four hours; the papers are too damp under him to have been earlier. Probably unmarried. The pawnbroker's ticket in his pocket suggests financial difficulties, but given the lack of identification, could have been planted."
"Any thoughts on cause of death?" Lestrade asked.
"No obvious signs of trauma." He ignored Anderson's mutter of I could have told you that. "We'll see what the autopsy tells us. Let me know when you have the results."
"I won't need to; you'll be texting me nine times an hour once it appears on my desk." Lestrade glanced aside. "Any progress on the mystery Czech?"
"Any new data?"
"No."
"Then no."
"Nothing at all?" Lestrade looked pained. "It's been nearly three weeks."
"And it will be some time longer. I'm late to an appointment."
As Sherlock walked, the lingering questions kept interrupting his observations of the changes on this street (new coffeehouse; closed dress shop; drain work in the building that held a law office and insurance company). It had been two and a half weeks since the dead man was found; Sherlock was still certain that he was indeed Czech, but so far no data on Czech nationals in the UK had matched up with the man's appearance. No police consultations, no missing person reports—and surely after this long, someone would have noticed—it would be a delicious puzzle if there were more data. As matters stood, there was little more he could find out, and it might yet end up in the sector labeled "insufficient data for solution".
As Sherlock had requested, Dennis was waiting near Lancaster Gate station. "Anything?" Sherlock asked.
"Not a word. Nobody saw anything in the park that night, or if they did, nobody wants to say. Want me to keep asking?"
"Actively, no; at this point anyone willing to talk would have come forward. But if someone does speak up, you know where to find me." Sherlock handed him the remaining payment, glad to get the weight out of his pockets; Dennis was convinced that paper money contained poisonous beetles but happy to accept two-pound coins. "And if anyone has information on the corpse found outside that bank this morning, send them to me."
Dennis nodded and headed off. Sherlock was about to hail a cab when someone called out, "Sherlock?"
It was Jim from Barts. Sherlock considered ignoring him, but he did need to use Barts facilities, and a person with the harder-to-crack Barts passwords was unfortunately a person it paid to be on friendly terms with. He stopped and waited for the man to catch up (worked last night; hasn't been home yet, but went to gym two hours ago; eggs for breakfast, no meat, no grains). "Jim."
"I'm glad I ran into you. I wanted to thank you."
Surprisingly, Jim seemed sincere. One mystery that Sherlock would not let linger. "For what?"
"For the push I needed to come out. Molly was my final try at women."
"Hardly who I would have picked for the test."
"Now, that's my very nice ex-girlfriend you're insulting there. She's been a saint. But I didn't want to talk about her. There's something I wanted to do for you."
Sherlock sighed. Really, he should find some clothing that was less appealing to random passersby. "I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I'm not interested."
"Well, that'd be high on my list too, but I'm not coming between you and your boyfriend. Pun not intended, though if you ever wanted to...."
"Not. Interested. Good day, Jim."
"Okay, sorry, didn't mean to offend you. I wanted to offer my professional services. For free, of course."
"I do my own computer work."
"My other profession...." Jim looked hurt. "You didn't look at my card, did you?"
It was still in his coat pocket. Sherlock pulled it out. JIM MORIARTY, HYPNOTHERAPIST. Moriarty. The last words of a dying cabbie; the allegations from the trials of a criminal gang over a century ago. Coincidence, or connection? "Whatever would I need a hypnotherapist for?"
"Oh, I treat all sorts of psychological and neurological issues. Chronic pain. Addiction. Sleep disorders. Especially nightmares."
He contained his start, but apparently not well enough; Jim smiled. "You have trouble with nightmares, then?"
"Not at all."
Jim shook his head. "There's really nothing to be ashamed of; it's a common problem. Does the subject vary, or is there a recurring theme?"
"I'm afraid my flatmate is expecting me. Good day, Jim."
Jim's smile broadened. "Later, Sherlock. You know where to find me when you need me."
Never, Sherlock thought. I don't need anything as unscientific as hypnosis. And I certainly don't need someone interfering with my brain. Especially not anyone named Moriarty.
Even if I'm having the dream every other night.
John finally finished with his last patient and, when the door closed, sat down to see how many texts Sherlock had sent him this time. Nineteen—that was surprisingly few. He skimmed them, reading the comments on the new case with interest and shaking his head at the eight texts that were variations of "why do you think your job is more interesting than my work?" *because paying bills and buying food are more interesting than starving on the streets,* he replied to the last one.
Instead of the caustic response John expected, the return text read, *As a medical professional, what's your opinion of hypnotherapy? SH*
*there's studies showing promise for chronic pain and for some addictions, but nothing's proven.*
And then, *why?*
Sherlock didn't answer. Of course. Well, it was time to go home anyway; hopefully Sherlock wasn't hypnotising random pedestrians to believe that they were cormorants.
When John went to Sarah's office to say good-bye, the door was ajar, with laughter and a second voice coming through—Donovan's, to John's surprise. "Three? And she was still conscious?"
Sarah said, "Oh, she was higher than the top of the Eye. And I took her wrist to get her pulse, and suddenly she's staring at her hands and saying, 'Puppet skeletons!' And here I am trying to get her vitals while she's doing this with her hands and singing—oh, I can't even remember what it was, something out of one of the Muppet movies. Took ten minutes just to take her temperature and blood pressure, and by the time I was done I had to turn her over to the senior doctor and go hide in the bathroom until I stopped laughing."
"God, I know what that's like—you aren't supposed to laugh, and you can't not. We picked up one woman when I was a constable, we called her Madame Octopus.... Ah, Dr. Watson." Abruptly Donovan was all business. "The boss asked me to keep this unofficial, so I'll just say, tell the freak to give it back."
"Give what back?" Oh, Christ. "Did he take evidence from the crime scene again?"
She grimaced. "Just tell him, all right? Boss says if it's back in his hands by nine tomorrow morning then it stays unofficial." She turned to Sarah. "Got time for one at the pub before you go home?"
"For the tale of Madame Octopus? Absolutely. John, see you next Thursday, then?"
"Yeah, see you." No, several weeks had not changed her mind about the advisability of dating someone who came with a mad flatmate. Not that he could really blame her, given that he was already hurrying home to find out what said mad flatmate was plotting.
When he entered the flat, Sherlock was stretched out on the couch. "Nightmares," he said.
"What?"
"Really, John, can't you follow a conversation?"
"When I have no idea what question you're responding to? Afraid not." He checked the fridge. "Is the cheese edible?"
"I have done nothing to it, if that is actually your question. Avoid the bread."
"Right. Also, Donovan says to give back the evidence you stole."
"It's in the folder on the table. You can take it back in the morning."
Of course. Cheddar in hand, John opened the folder and read the paper it contained. "This sounds like part of an encyclopaedia article."
"Encyclopaedia Britannica, ninth edition, published between 1875 and 1891; this is from the A's, so would have been in the 1875 volume. But why?"
"Why an encyclopaedia, or why that particular edition?"
"Both. I lack data."
John finished the cheese, debated whether he was still hungry enough to justify takeaway, and finally decided to just wait until breakfast. Then his brain finally caught up with the beginning of the conversation. "Nightmares, as in you're considering hypnotherapy to help with nightmares?"
In a smooth motion, Sherlock was off the couch and pacing. "It seems ludicrous. But dreams are ludicrous. And to have one's waking state affected by dreams is simply ridiculous." He paused. "Molly's now-ex-boyfriend offered his services."
"You outed him, and he wants to hypnotise you?" John shook his head.
"It does appear unlikely. But I am curious. There is one other oddity, though: his surname is Moriarty."
"Moriarty? You don't think...."
"I don't know. It's not a common name, but neither is it incredibly rare. If he is connected to the mysterious Moriarty, this would be one way to find out. But then again, if that's the case, I prefer not to have him tinkering with my brain."
"You could find a hypnotherapist who isn't named Moriarty."
"I could." Sherlock turned around and pulled a three-ring binder from a high shelf. "And then if Mr. Jim Moriarty has ulterior motives, he'll just have to find another way to get my attention. But there would be the same issue with other hypnotherapists. Any one of them could be suborned by people who would gladly see me dead or worse."
"That seems a little egotistical even for you."
"Read the discussion page on my Wikipedia entry if you don't think I have enemies." Sherlock closed the binder. "There is also the possibility that Moriarty, the criminal, is a well-chosen pseudonym. When the original Holmes was killed, he had just finished collecting evidence that broke up an enormous criminal gang. The leader of the gang was alleged to be one Professor Moriarty. If the modern Moriarty chose the name on purpose, then my would-be therapist might well be what he seems."
John shook his head. "Well, let me know if you do decide to try this hypnosis lark so I can be there."
"That's hardly necessary."
"You just finished telling me that you could be in danger from anyone. Sounds like you need someone looking on who you're reasonably sure won't rewrite your hard drive. Mind you, if hypnosis works on the nightmares, I want to see if it works on labelling the experiments too."
"A trite and repetitive complaint. But your initial point has merit." Sherlock sat at the desk with the binder and a notepad. "Your laptop is under the bathroom sink."
"Functional? Or have you been experimenting to see how humidity affects different computers?"
"Really, John, I won't need to run that experiment again until the various manufacturers bring out their next-year's models."
John refused to reply to that. He found the laptop and, on a whim, went to Wikipedia and searched for Sherlock Holmes. To his surprise, there was actually a disambiguation page:
- Sherlock Holmes (1854-1891) (consulting detective)
- Sherlock Holmes (1976- ) (consulting detective)
He couldn't resist saying it. "It's a sobering thought that when Sherlock Holmes was my age, he'd been dead for two years." And now he'd have that Tom Lehrer song going through his head for the rest of the night. Worth it.
"Go to bed," Sherlock called up. "I can't think around your pointless references."
Two weeks later, Sherlock was huddled on the couch at 3:16 a.m. Shivering, but that could be explained by the temperature drop; it had nothing to do with the cry of "Holmes!" and the percussion of falling water still echoing in his head. Damn it all, was he going to have to resort to pharmaceuticals just to get one uninterrupted sleep cycle?
"Sherlock? Are you all right?"
He started; he hadn't heard John come down the stairs. "Of course I'm all right. Go back to bed. Or if you're staying up anyway, make an extra cup." He stretched and evaluated John, who was shaking his head and starting the tea (eyelids high, normal rate of blinking, slight frown, breathing slightly faster than normal—woke at least half an hour ago from his own nightmare and was having trouble going back to sleep; conclusion: he heard me).
A few minutes later, John handed him the mug, sat in his own chair, and said, "Anything interesting coming in through your website?"
"No. London has become boring and tedious, bereft of intriguing crimes."
"That other corpse last week wasn't intriguing?"
"Hardly." Sherlock had been delighted when Lestrade had called him in to see another posed corpse, this one on typed letters, wearing sunglasses and a false moustache; the similarities had suggested a possible serial killer (and oh, the challenges of one of those would have been perfect right now, a distraction from dullness and dreams). But once at the scene, Sherlock had been less certain. Corpse disguised and posed on papers, yes, but it was too different. Serial killers, in Sherlock's experience, liked patterns. This was not quite enough of a pattern to satisfy. Typewritten rather than handwritten text, love letters rather than encyclopaedia articles (but wasn't it odd? one would expect the love letters to be handwritten and the articles to be typed), body disguised but not actually modified. It was just different enough to irritate rather than entice.
John sipped his tea and relaxed into the chair. "Interesting that they both appear to have died from natural causes, though."
"Only means that the toxicology lab failed to find anything. Which could be correct or completely wrong, depending on who was on staff that day." Sherlock lay back on the couch. "You should go back to bed. After forty-five minutes, you're usually able to fall back asleep as long as you actually lie down. Seventy minutes, and you've lost the window."
John's expression made Sherlock want to spill out even more deductions, just to see that look again. "Amazing. And you?"
"I'll see what I can do."
He even tried, but as he'd suspected, it was hopeless; his brain was booted up for the day. He stayed in his room, though, until after John left for the surgery.
Once the flat was empty, Sherlock moved back to the couch to ponder. Three stalled cases; it was embarrassing. He might as well apply to the Yard at this rate.
"Your notion of interior decoration is frankly appalling."
Sherlock nearly fell off the couch. Bloody Mycroft with his silent feet. "The wall had it coming. Go away."
Mycroft inspected the bullet holes and shook his head, over either their existence or their inaccuracy (John, of course, would have hit every one dead centre, but John's opinion on indoor target practice had been scathing, and he'd changed the gun's hiding place, quite well; Sherlock had actually needed seven minutes to find it again). "You're bored again, my dear boy. Clearly you have time for another case. I have a little matter involving a stolen chemical formula."
"One of your cases? When have I ever been that bored?"
"Rarely, true. Which is why I'm offering a bribe as well."
"I don't want your money."
"What about your namesake's violin?"
Sherlock sat up. "I already have a replacement; I hardly need another instrument."
Why did he ever bother lying to Mycroft? And indeed, Mycroft's slight smile said that he knew exactly how much Sherlock cared about his pawn-shop acquisition when compared with his cousin's Strad.
They switched to silent debate for some minutes; Sherlock, as usual, was the one who gave up and spoke. "It's not enough. I do not want to traipse about whichever country you're taking over this week asking questions for your benefit."
Mycroft sighed. "As you wish." He leaned forwards. "Are you really quite well, Sherlock? You are not looking your best."
"I've never been better."
"If you need a recommendation for a therapist to help with the nightmares...."
"No. End of discussion. Out."
He waited until Mycroft had gathered his umbrella and left, checked the news, then dressed and went to the Yard. In Lestrade's office, Lestrade and Sally were arguing over a pile of paperwork. Sherlock ignored Sally and took the free chair. "What's this about a man beaten to death with the butt end of a rifle?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How did you get in this time? Never mind. Sorry, nothing interesting about it. Though Anderson says the injury might have been inflicted after death."
"Since when do you believe anything Anderson says?"
Sally looked unimpressed. "Let's see: you've been saying that for the past three years at least, but he's still employed. The logical deduction: he's not as incompetent as you claim he is."
"And yet he continually misses the obvious."
"Which makes him different from 99% of the population how?"
"No difference at all. You're all idiots too. Lestrade, have you nothing at all for me to do?"
"Nope," Lestrade said. "A word before you go, though. Donovan, give us a moment."
When the door closed, Lestrade said, "I told you back then that if you wanted me to call you in on cases, you had to stay clean. I meant it."
"What?" Whereever had Lestrade got that idea? "I am clean."
"Red-rimmed eyes. Shaky hands. Attention span of a hyperactive pigeon. Sound familiar?"
Damn, he clearly had neglected his physical needs for too long. "It's lack of sleep. No drugs, legal or illegal. Do you want a sample to prove it? Bring out the kit. Really, Lestrade, you should know me better than that by now!"
"I know that you're bored, and you have unsolved cases that you can't do anything with. When you show up looking like you've been comparison testing Class As, what do you expect me to think?" He held his hands up before Sherlock could speak further. "You say it's not drugs. Fine. I'll believe you; and if I'm wrong, I don't think your doctor friend will let you get away with it for long. But if it's really lack of sleep, better up the warm milk. You look like hell."
"Oh, for God's sake." There was no point in staying here.
After leaving the Yard, Sherlock walked and considered his options. Ridiculous. But if it works....
At last, he called the number on the business card. "Jim? Sherlock Holmes. Does your offer still stand?"
Chapter 4: 27 May
Jim's office was on the ground floor of a small house in a very nice neighborhood; as the cab pulled up, John wondered how Jim could afford rent here. Jim answered the unspoken question as he invited Sherlock and John in. "This is actually my mother's house. A mutually beneficial arrangement; at her age, she needs someone to keep a bit of an eye on her. And she would never accept financial assistance, but rent for the office is another story."
The hall was certainly posher than John would have expected. And Jim himself was much better dressed than he had been on their first meeting; Sherlock said, "Do you habitually wear a suit while seeing clients?"
"Usually. I find that most people are more comfortable with a hypnotherapist who looks like a professional."
"Whereas if you wore a suit at Barts, people would assume you were an IT administrator rather than an actual programmer. Clever." Sherlock actually did sound mildly impressed.
"People are so much more amenable when one meets their expectations, I find."
Jim led them into a large room. On first glance, it seemed more like a waiting room for an architect than a consultation room for a hypnotherapist; framed architectural drawings covered much of the wall space. John recognized the facade of the Royal Opera House and an overhead view of the Alexandra Palace. The other decor was nothing at all like the neutral and minimalist furnishing John remembered from Dr. Thompson's office. The curtains were richly coloured, patterned with intertwined red and blue lines like blood vessels on a deep green background, and the carpet had probably been woven a hundred years ago in a country John had been stationed in. The occasional tables were all covered with curvy abstract wooden sculptures and small models of famous buildings, but the elegantly carved desk was bare except for a candle in a brass holder, a glass bowl full of translucent beads, and a small black-and-white box. The chairs around the desk were upholstered in needlepoint, and the nearby couch with its lacy frame looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a consulting room.
"Tea, either of you?" When Sherlock emphatically shook his head and John more calmly replied "no thanks", Jim said, "Then let's begin. Sherlock, why don't you sit here, in front of the desk, and John—may I call you John?—over on the couch?"
When they were seated—the couch was definitely designed for appearance rather than comfort—Jim said, "So, Sherlock, tell me about the nightmares. How long have you been having them?"
"As long as I can remember. But they've worsened in the past few months."
Since I met him? John wondered.
"Any obvious trigger?"
"Not particularly."
Jim stirred the bowl of beads with a finger. "Do they vary, or is there a common theme?"
"My nineteenth-century namesake...."
"Sherlock Holmes the detective, murdered by his friend John Watson?"
Sherlock blinked; John was also startled. "So you do know the story?" Sherlock asked. Am I the only person who doesn't? John thought.
Jim chuckled. "What do you think made me so interested in you? A modern detective also named Sherlock Holmes—fascinating. Now, the common theme in the nightmares?"
Sherlock sat back. "They are always about the historic Holmes and Watson. Usually I'm watching as Holmes falls into Reichenbach; once in a while I am Holmes falling. Sometimes I'm watching Watson's trial, and I'm trying to tell the judge that Watson's innocent; no one ever hears me."
John tried to wrap his brain around that idea—Sherlock being upset about an innocent man's sentence. He could easily imagine Sherlock being angry about his own professional failure, but a victim's fate seemed to make no impression on him.
Jim's forehead wrinkled. "Have you considered the possibility that the coincidence of your name...."
"Hardly a coincidence that I am named after a notable relative."
Now, Jim laughed. "Oh, this is quite the family affair here. Your relative accused my grandfather's uncle of leading a criminal gang."
"Which explains your interest in my predecessor." Sherlock was clearly interested again, a slight smile playing across his face.
John threw his hands up in disbelief. "Just so we're clear, I'm not related to anyone involved in that mess."
Jim glanced at John. "True, Watson is hardly a rare surname. But the coincidence—Sherlock, your nightmares increased after the two of you started living together, correct?"
"Indeed, and it is a coincidence. I have no subconscious fears that John will murder me."
"Remember, the whole point of the subconscious is that you aren't consciously aware of it. There could be some event in your past you don't consciously remember that causes these nightmares. Though in your case...." Jim leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. "What do you think of reincarnation?"
Sherlock's answer was immediate. "Utter bollocks."
"I used to think so myself, but.... Would you be willing to take part in an experiment?"
John shuddered. "I could live the rest of my life quite happily without hearing that sentence again."
Jim ignored him. "I'd like to try guiding you into a past life regression."
What?
"What would be the point?" Sherlock asked. "To have past life regression, there would have to exist past lives."
Jim smiled. "How do you know there don't?"
"It is completely illogical. Why would we live multiple lives and not remember? Even if people were more than bundles of neurons exchanging electrical signals, even if anything remained of us after our bodies rotted away, why would we start the whole sorry course over again?" Sherlock folded his hands in his lap. "Reincarnation is rubbish. I don't need to attempt a regression to prove that, just as I don't need to drink cyanide to prove that it is deadly."
"But you'd like to taste it, wouldn't you?" There was certainty in Jim's voice.
John stared at Jim. How the hell had he figured out Sherlock's personality so quickly? Or was he guessing?
Sherlock sounded calm. "What would make you think that?"
"Molly said a great deal about you. And I've learned a bit about reading people in my work. You have enough outside evidence to prove cyanide's a poison, but if you didn't, wouldn't you try it once, just to find out? Just to know the flavour, if nothing else?"
A pink pill, held in the air.... John wished he had brought his gun, then pushed that thought aside as irrational.
Jim continued, "Hypnosis, on the other hand, won't kill you. And who knows? You may find it interesting." He sat back. "I won't pressure you. I can't; hypnosis only works with the consent of the client. But I believe I can help you, and I would love to attempt the experiment. It is entirely up to you."
"At worst, you will perhaps be able to help me with my nightmares using more conventional hypnotherapy, correct?"
"At the very least, I believe I can do that for you."
Sherlock looked at John. John gestured back to him. Your brain; your call. That seemed to decide Sherlock; he leaned forward and said, "How do we start?"
"Let me turn down the lights." Jim clicked a remote control; the lamps dimmed. He set a candle in the middle of the desk and lit it, then sat back. "Now. Look at the candle. Breathe deeply, and concentrate on the flame; when your eyes grow heavy, let them close."
Whether Sherlock was finding Jim's tone hypnotic or not, John certainly was; it was so tempting to relax into that voice, let the words lull him. He twisted around until he found an uncomfortable position.
After a few minutes, Jim said, "You're thinking too hard. Let go; concentrate on the flame. You have nothing to fear here; I will make sure nothing happens to you."
Sherlock glanced over at John; John lifted his chin. I'm on duty now. Get this mission over with.
Sherlock turned back to the candle again and breathed. A slow inhale. A slower exhale. His eyes fell closed. John pushed up against his own left elbow until his shoulder ached.
"Good," Jim said. "Keep relaxing, and let yourself descend, as if you were walking down a flight of stairs. When you reach the bottom, open the door to the past."
No background music, John suddenly noticed, but no outside noises either; no sign that this house was shared with anyone else. Just the sound of Sherlock's breathing, just....
"No! God help me!"
John jumped out of his chair as Sherlock doubled over, but Jim held up a hand. "Sherlock. What do you...."
"It hurts. Christ, it hurts. No!" And Sherlock was standing, blinking, shaking.
John automatically reached out towards him, then caught himself. He'd learned that Sherlock, while frequently happy to touch other people and things, didn't like being touched himself. Instead, John said, "Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right," Sherlock snapped. "It was only in my head; it wasn't real."
"Like my leg?"
Sherlock either didn't catch or simply ignored the sarcasm. "Exactly." He rubbed his forehead. "And quite odd."
"What did you see?" Jim asked.
"Nothing. Just pain. Like I'd received several blows to my torso."
"Your death. Excellent."
John couldn't hold the comment back. "What the hell do you mean, excellent?"
"It means that Sherlock's made it back that far, to that moment. Now it's simply a matter of jumping that little bit further, so we can find out what actually happened."
Sherlock was still rubbing his head—well, that made sense; a fall from a cliff into a river would presumably result in head injuries as well—but at Jim's words he sat back down. "Again, then."
Jim tilted his head. "You're sure you don't want to rest first?"
"No point. Let's finish this."
On the second try, Sherlock again cried out, but this time he remained in the chair, apparently still in trance. "I can't go past it," Sherlock whispered. "I'm back on the...call it a stairwell if you must, though the metaphor is weak."
Jim's voice remained soothing and even. "Often people find a past life too painful to experience as a participant, but if they can watch it as if they were an observer, it becomes bearable. Try that instead. Go in again, but stay out of your own head; you are an outsider, an indifferent witness."
A third cycle of relaxation, of slow breathing, of sudden tension and anguished noise. "It's too much. It hurts too much."
John unclenched his fist. "What if you try to go further back? Get some momentum and rush past it to an earlier time?" What was he saying? This was mad.
But Jim nodded. "If your past death is the cause of your present nightmares, then yes, it may be too painful for you to reach directly. Let's try that. Open the door again, and this time, go past your death; jump back farther. Much farther."
Sherlock's chest rose and fell; his shoulders stiffened, and then he was relaxed again, smiling. "I'm through."
It was very like a dream, but more vivid, less bizarre. Brilliant sunlight, cool breezes, the scent of autumn and harvest and coal fires, the crackle of dead grass and the spring of live.
Observe. Only observe. He dutifully kept his distance from the small boy running down the path.
"Where are you?" The lilting voice was clear, and yet far distant.
He replied, "In Sussex on holiday with my parents. Outside. I'm supposed to be inside with the nurse, but I was bored. My older brother left for school yesterday; I miss him already. He told me that he'd found a snake near a stream, and I've gone looking for it. And there it is." A deep green snake, moving slowly along the bank; the boy did not yet know that it was nearing hibernation time for the snakes, but the observer could supply that knowledge.
"Good. You're still too close to the events, though. Watch the scene as if you were floating above it, as if you were seeing a film. Like you do in your dreams. Like everything you see is happening to someone else, not you."
He breathed again, and said, "I've...."
"Distance. As if it's not you."
"He's caught the snake now. But it's wriggling so much that he drops it. A grass snake, but he's so pleased at his bravery that it might as well be an adder."
"Excellent. Now, let's move forward again. Let's go to the day your former self met his closest friend. What day is that?"
He left the boy in the countryside, leapt into time and landed in a high-ceilinged room filled with tables and chemical equipment. "The twenty-ninth of January, 1881. Barts. Dr. Stamford has just introduced his old acquaintance Dr. John Watson to Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
The voice remained calm and gentle. "Dr. Watson wrote about the meeting later. What can you tell me about the meeting that isn't in Watson's chronicle?"
He chuckled, watching the scene. "Watson left out the collision." Holmes ran across the room to the other two men, holding aloft a test tube that appeared to contain salt; in his enthusiasm, he skidded to a stop and bumped against Watson.
"My dear sir, I am terribly sorry." Holmes threw out his free arm and steadied Watson. "And you so lately returned from Afghanistan; pray forgive me. I assure you I am not normally so clumsy; I was overcome by the excitement of solving this little chemical problem."
Watson steadied himself on his cane before his leg gave out. "Quite all right, I assure you."
Another far distant voice, a warm voice giving the observer a jolt of joy. "So it was his leg where he was injured."
"It was both," the observer replied. "The shoulder wound nearly killed him and led to his mustering out; the leg wound seemed less severe at first but caused longer-term problems."
Now Watson was examining the test tube. "This reagent, you say, detects blood?"
Holmes beamed. "In the smallest quantities."
"Incredible! But surely it is not merely detecting the iron in the haemoglobin? For in that case, a rusty nail should ruin the results."
Holmes' smile broadened. "I have tested it against that as well. No, this reagent reacts to blood and to nothing else. Let me show you...."
The observer laughed. "He almost pulls poor Watson off his feet again, leading him to his worktable. He is so eager to demonstrate his process that he stabs his own finger with a large needle to procure the needed blood. But he is rewarded; Watson is duly impressed."
Indeed, Watson leaned forward in fascination. "Astounding! A very delicate test indeed."
"Yes, and think of how many crimes will be solved by means of it! Had this test existed in the past, Von Bischoff of Frankfort would not now be walking a free man, nor Samson of New Orleans dead for a murder he did not commit.... I am afraid that I bore you."
"Not at all," Watson said cheerfully. "You have performed a great service to the police!"
"I hope I shall also have performed a great service to my purse," Holmes said wryly, "as that concerns me more. But I shall consider myself compensated in full if this test proves the guilt of a criminal or saves an innocent man from the gallows."
The lilting voice spoke again. "This is excellent. Now, move forward in time. Go to the cause of your nightmares."
He lingered for a moment, watching as Stamford explained Watson's situation, as Holmes and Watson discussed their habits and finally agreed to see the rooms; it was with something very like wistfulness that he finally leapt forward.
Again he was on the familiar cliff, no longer an observer. The low sun, the smell of spring and of colder air, the thunder of the spray. The slide of his feet in the mud. The grasp of strong arms wrestling him, the struggle against a mortal enemy. For a moment only.
Pain resurged, anguish/grief/terror/fury thundering into his head and jolting him back to normal consciousness.
Sherlock blinked and raised his hands to his temples. His head pounded; he had not wanted morphine so badly in years.
What was that?
"Sherlock?" That was John, the doctor and concerned companion in unison.
I must look like I was hit by a lorry. I feel like I was hit by one.
"Do you want to try again?" Jim asked. "Or have you had enough?"
Sherlock shook his head. God, that pain. "I can't anymore. Not today."
Surprisingly, Jim looked delighted. "Oh, you've done very well for a first try. That's a great deal of progress; you seem to have had a successful regression."
"Regression? Or hallucination?"
"Easy to check. Are there any details from your experience that you can verify?"
He shook his head slightly; that didn't hurt too badly. Perhaps the headache would fade soon. "After over a century? No. The furnishings would hardly be the same; the broken pane in the window would have long since been restored; nothing would remain to...."
The ceiling. There had been a gouge in the moulding, near the wall where Holmes' table sat. It might have been painted or otherwise restored, but at that height, it would hardly have been a priority.
He leapt up. "The ceiling. I have to check the ceiling." Sherlock ran out of the room and out the front door just as a cab rounded the corner. "Barts," he shouted as he flung himself into the back seat.
Why does he always have to do this?
John gave up on catching up with Sherlock when the front door slammed before he could untangle himself to get up from the couch. "I'm sorry," he said to Jim. "He gets like this when he's on the trail of a clue."
"Molly's told me about him, remember? I understand." Jim blew out the candle. "This really was excellent work for a first time. Go catch up with him. I'm sure I'll see you two again soon."
When he opened the front door and looked up and down the street, there was no sign of Sherlock. "Fuck," he muttered.
A creak behind him made him whirl. An old woman was halfway down the stairs; this must be Jim's mother. "Sorry," John said. "I didn't mean to.... I hope we didn't disturb you."
"Not at all; I'm quite used to James' visitors." She looked highly amused. "I saw from the window that your friend caught a cab. There's a rank not far away; left and left again."
"Thanks." Jim had implied that his mother was in need of care, but John couldn't see that in this woman. Perhaps she was more frail than she looked. "Well, have a good afternoon." He hurried out to find the cab.
Sherlock didn't answer his texts, but John had spent enough time in Barts to guess what rooms Sherlock would check. He finally found Sherlock in a large lecture room, standing on top of a precarious stack of chairs even taller than him. "Are you trying to break your neck?"
"This gouge, here." Sherlock pointed to a large dent in the moulding. "I saw that in....I saw it."
John stared up at it. Christ. "So, it's confirmation, then?"
"No. I've been in this room before. An excruciating lecture that I had expected to be far more useful than it turned out to be."
"Which means...."
"Which means that I could have subconsciously remembered it. The entire experience may merely be the product of my questionable imagination."
He had to say it, voice the thought that he'd had several times while Sherlock related strange visions. "Were you actually seeing something, or were you putting on an act for Jim?"
Sherlock looked down at him. "Why would I want to pretend? It was an experiment, not a trap. At any rate, I was most definitely there in mind. It was very odd. Far more realistic than a dream." He looked back at the gouge. "There was one interesting detail. At the end, at Reichenbach...."
"You did see it?" Sherlock had said nothing to them, only screamed in pain again before opening his eyes; John would be quite happy if they could never repeat that experience.
"Of course. It was much like my dreams; I was on the cliff wrestling someone. But the man I was wrestling—he was thin, and taller than me. Watson was not short by any means...."
"Lucky sod."
"...but he was certainly shorter than Holmes, and the extant photographs show him to be a man of sturdy build. Whomever I was wrestling with on that cliff, it was not Dr. Watson."
Of course not, John thought, then wondered where that had come from. "Are you going to try this again, then?"
Sherlock scrambled down the chairs. "Yes. But not today. Let's go home."
Back at the flat, Sherlock grabbed John's laptop; John considered protesting but decided there was no point, and went to the kitchen instead. When he returned with tea and sandwiches, though, Sherlock pushed the laptop to him, browser open at an online photography archive. "This was taken around 1888, here in this room. I no longer have a copy myself, but you wanted to know what they looked like."
"I didn't say anything." John ignored Sherlock's disgusted exhalation—of course he hadn't needed to say anything—and looked at the picture.
It certainly looked like a nineteenth-century photograph, though he wasn't nearly enough of a clothing expert to be certain. A stocky man with a carefully-trimmed moustache sat in a high-backed chair; a cane rested against the right side. To his left stood a tall slender man, darker-haired, clean-shaven, chin on hand and elbow on the back of the chair, smirking at the photographer. That dark hair, and that nose.... John couldn't help laughing. "He looks...he looks like...."
"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, sounding irritated but resigned. "I assure you that despite my cousin's resemblance to him, I am less closely related to Anderson than I am to you."
Oh, that was an obvious opening. "Can't know that for sure," John said. "Not without a DNA analysis...oh, Christ, you didn't, did you?"
"One day he cut his thumb at a crime scene—no, John, I had nothing to do with it; I simply took advantage of the opportunity."
"All right. Wait, so when did you....never mind, stupid question, I'm sure my DNA's all over this flat."
"Hairbrush." Sherlock actually smiled at him before pulling a shoebox full of dried leaves from under a chair. "Now, be quiet; I need to concentrate on this experiment."
"Yeah, and I need to update my blog."
But he bookmarked the page and left the browser window open, occasionally returning to look at it. It made him smile, albeit wistfully, as if he were looking at a photo of his old unit. And if Jim was correct, this was really an old picture of Sherlock as he once was.
If Jim was correct. If this wasn't all a bizarre trick.
Chapter 5: 6 June - 7 June
Sherlock glared at the orange-haired corpse, at Lestrade frowning, at Anderson humming, at John. This is an utter waste of a Sunday morning.
There must be something obvious he was missing about this corpse (not far from the riverbank, dyed hair, fake scar on face, dressed like a homeless person, pennies sewn into the hems of his shirt and jacket; cause of death: drowning, like the corpse that had been found last Saturday under the Waterloo Bridge with five orange pips in one hand) or the scene (no footprints, no tell-tale litter; whoever was planting these bodies was highly skilled).
This made five mysterious and unidentified bodies—six, if last week's body, the one whose head had been beaten with the rifle, turned out to be a related case—and there was no clue, no thread, no hint of who might be behind this. It was unbelievably frustrating.
And there was no progress on the hypnosis front either. True, Sherlock had had two nights of long and uninterrupted sleep, but after the orange pip corpse, the nightmares had returned. He and John had seen Jim twice since then, but in neither session had Sherlock been able to enter the trance he had the first time. Two hours on Monday and three on Thursday, and all he had to show for it was a series of headaches.
Jim's patience, however, seemed boundless. The second time, after Sherlock had finally said "Enough!" and pressed his hands to his temples, Jim had said, "If this were easy, everyone would do it, and there would be no doubt that it is possible. You are trying to overcome powerful psychological barriers. And possibly powerful natural barriers as well; there may be reasons why we don't remember past lives."
"And the reason may be that I was merely hallucinating," Sherlock said.
Jim gave Sherlock a conspiratorial look, and even included John in it. "Can I tell you something I don't share with most of my clients? I believe in past lives because I once did a regression on myself, and because I was later able to independently verify some of what I learned."
"Who were you?" John asked, obviously curious.
Jim smiled, almost bashfully. "Just a distant relative, no one you'd ever have heard of. Later, though, I found some old family papers and was able to confirm things I saw. That was incredible." He leaned forward. "Trying to regress is very challenging, though, even when you want to believe. And you? You don't want to believe."
Sherlock had been indignant; how dare Jim accuse him of refusing to accept unassailable facts? Emphasis, of course, on unassailable. "I have no opinion either way on it. I want to know the truth."
"You are a rationalist. Reincarnation, past life regression—they're so far outside your established ideas as to make pi times i look rational and real. But you were able to do it once. You'll do it again. Would next Monday work for you?"
"If I don't have a case."
Which he clearly would not. This was not a case. This was a waste of time.
"Anything?" Lestrade asked.
John added, "Other than the obvious fact that he drowned?"
Wait, John hadn't yet examined the corpse. "How did you know that?"
John tilted his head towards Anderson. "Background music. Phil Collins."
It made no sense to Sherlock, but as Anderson immediately turned sullen, Sherlock counted it as a victory. "Drowned, but not here. A swimming pool, most likely; there's still faint hints of chlorine odour. Someone has gone to some effort to make him appear genuinely homeless, but the condition of the fingernails and feet is suspicious, and his skin is hardly tan enough for spending so long outdoors. I'll check with some consultants to verify that, though."
Lestrade shook his head. "What consultants? Sherlock, I'm already stretching it to let you in...."
"Good day, Lestrade. Come along, John."
Sally let them through the barrier almost gleefully. When they were out of earshot, Sherlock said, "Did you get it?"
John held out his phone, picture of the corpse's face on the screen. "Good enough for your purposes?"
"Excellent. There's a coffee shop around that corner. I'll take one black, no sugar."
John rolled his eyes. "And do I meet you here, there, or somewhere in Edinburgh?"
"I'll be there in a few minutes."
Sherlock waited until John had left, then walked to the designated rendevous, John's phone in hand. The four were waiting for him: Dennis (the two-pound coins were already putting too much weight on Sherlock's pockets), Carolyn (perfectly normal in conversation, until she heard an aeroplane and ran for the nearest shelter), Ed (unbelievable tolerance for doses of heroin that would kill most people; unbelievable intolerance for absence of same), and Peter (Sherlock had yet to deduce what had caused him to end up a member of London's homeless population, which fascinated him).
Of course, none of them had ever seen the man. Not a complete confirmation, given the size of London's homeless population, but if he was a regular around this area, one of them would likely have recognized him. Sherlock handed out the notes and coins. "You know the routine. Anyone who does know him, anyone who's seen one of these bodies being placed, find me."
Perhaps tomorrow's session with Jim would be more productive.
Jim let them in to his consulting room on Monday and then excused himself. "My mother needs some help with her computer. I'll only be a few minutes; make yourself comfortable in the meantime."
Sherlock tried to imagine helping his mother with a computer problem, his mother who had on her deathbed presented him and Mycroft with laptops that could boot in Windows, OS X, and her own proprietary flavour of UNIX. He had upgraded occasional components since then but had never yet needed to fully replace it.
"Comfortable," John said after Jim left. "In here?"
Sherlock shrugged. Another night of minimal sleep; the chair would certainly keep him from dozing off, though it was surprisingly conducive to the hypnotic trance. "It's a tolerable space." He picked up the black and white box from Jim's desk. Fascinating little thing; he slid the lid back. Ouch!
John was immediately by him. "What happened?"
The door opened. "Sorry to keep you waiting...damn! I should've put that away." Jim hurried over and grabbed Sherlock's hand (firm grip, at least; not the light touch that would irritate more than the cut), examining the bleeding finger. "I'm terribly sorry. That box has a trick spring in it; nasty little device." He released Sherlock's hand before Sherlock had to ask him to. "The bathroom's to the right of the stairs if you'd like to clean that off; there's sticking plasters in the bottom shelf of the cabinet."
John leaned over and gave the nick the doctor's once-over. "Doesn't look too deep, but yeah, God knows where that's been. Especially if other people stabbed themselves on it."
"Let's see—me, my mother, my father, six of my school friends, at least eleven of my parents' friends that I know of...."
"Fine," Sherlock said, rising. "I'll be back."
After a liberal application of liquid handwash and a few minutes of scrubbing, he returned. The box was gone, and Jim apologized again.
Then his manner abruptly shifted into the therapist's mode. "I've been thinking about the failure of your past attempts, as you're clearly a person of strong will and focus. I suspect I know the problem: you are trying too hard to see your previous death."
What rot. "If past lives were real and if I had experienced these things, then seeing what actually happened to my cousin at Reichenbach would be the whole point of these efforts."
"But clearly it's difficult for you. It's not uncommon for people to find their past death so disturbing that they don't let themselves see it."
"Ridiculous. I have no fear of death, even my own."
John shuffled in his chair. "That's an understatement."
He remembered John tied to a chair in a tunnel and repressed a shudder. Perhaps there was one death he did fear...irrelevant, here and now.
Jim picked through the beads in the bowl on his desk, forehead furrowed. "Still, why don't we try something different? Instead of your death, instead of the event that causes your nightmares, let's see if you can regress to a happy time."
Sherlock sighed. "If we must. It hardly solves the mystery."
"It might make it easier for you to enter the regression trance, though. And once you can reliably enter that state, then we can work on the more difficult times."
Jim turned off the light, and Sherlock inhaled and focused on the candle. This part was easy, the slow fading and descent, the relaxation. It was passing the barrier at the bottom that was....
The gentle lilting voice filled his ears. "When you pass the door, don't try to see your death. Jump over that, further back, to one of the happiest days of your past life. And remember that you are only an observer. You are not experiencing this; you are not seeing it through your own eyes, through the eyes of the person you were. You are only observing. You are floating above the scene; you are watching a recording. This is not happening to you, Sherlock Holmes of the twenty-first century; it is happening to a person in the past, and you are only an observer, not a participant. Now, jump."
And he was hurtling through the darkness, past a blur of pain, to a room he knew well in spite of the changed furnishings, the different wallpaper and curtains. To the sitting room of 221B, to two men sitting by the fire, one tall and dark-haired, one brown-haired and stocky.
He was only an observer. So much easier this way. He knew how to observe, how to describe what he saw to his listening audience. The burns on the chair, where Watson had once dropped his pipe—he had been lucky that it was the chair and not his leg that was scarred. The bullet holes in the wall spelling VR, where Holmes had performed target practice in a fit of boredom. The stains in the carpet—and on the floorboards beneath—where one of Holmes' chemical experiments had left its traces. (I've seen those, Sherlock remembered, before his own thoughts faded away, leaving only the flat.)
Holmes and Watson, tonight, sat in their chairs by the fireplace, smoking their pipes, talking of anything and nothing. Holmes' latest researches; Watson's recent patients; the critical reception of Verdi's new opera Otello and the possibility of a London performance; the condition of the roads; the history of Renaissance architecture.
There appeared to be nothing whatsoever special about this evening. No case would interrupt them; no telegram would summon Holmes to Scotland Yard or Watson to a patient. They would merely share each other's company until the hour was late and they retired to their rooms. It was an inexpressibly, unbearably perfect night, all the more so for its commonality, its apparent mundanity.
"But it must be important," said the soothing voice. "Why did you go to this night?"
"Because it is the last one," the observer replied. "Tomorrow Miss Mary Morstan will consult Sherlock Holmes, and Watson's heart will be lost to her. Tonight, though, there is only this perfect camaraderie, this settled peace, this utter contentment." The emotions were seeping in despite his distance. "I thought it would last...not forever, of course, for nothing in this world is so blessed or cursed, but certainly until one or the other of us died. I did not know...I did not know...." He gasped as the pain struck.
"Sherlock. Step away from it."
He could not. He could not step back and watch this moment as an indifferent observer, not when it had been forever lost, squandered in ignorance. Holmes laughed at one of Watson's comments, refilled their glasses of brandy, and began to tell a story about a case centering around an aluminum crutch. I am sorry, the observer thought. I am so sorry. I did not know that this was the beginning of the end.
The other voice, the warm one that he wrapped around himself like a scarf. "Can you snap your fingers and wake him up?"
The first voice, the lilt. "It doesn't actually work that way until we set a waking trigger. But yes, that's a popular one. Four snaps, let's say—harder to do by accident."
"Better than four knocks, right? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about; he wouldn't know David Tennant from Bernard Cribbins. Sherlock, do you hear us? Wake up when you hear four snaps, will you? Please?"
"Sherlock, it's time to come back. When I snap my fingers four times, you'll wake up, and you will remember the scene as an observer only. Now. Come back."
Four snaps.
Sherlock opened his eyes, blinked away the tears—allergens, it must be—and looked at Jim's concerned face, at John's stoic one. "Well?"
"Well." Jim now smiled. "You see? When we chose a better entry point, you were able to regress. Do you want to try again today? Or would you rather wait? I'm afraid between Barts and some other projects I'm not available tomorrow, but Wednesday, perhaps?"
He might be remembering the scene as an observer, but he also remembered his reactions. No more, not today. "Yes, Wednesday."
In the cab, John finally spoke. "What the hell happened to you? You didn't say anything for—well, it was only three or four minutes, but it felt like forever."
Even to John, he was not about to say that he couldn't bear to stop watching them. "I was only observing some interesting points about the room. Did you know that you can still feel the VR in the wall where Holmes shot it?"
John giggled. "God, I can already tell this whole business is not going to end well." His expression suddenly grew grim. "What's the best place in London to get something analysed for traces of contaminants or poisons?"
"Our flat. Well, Barts if it calls for a spectrometer or an electron microscope. But I'm the best person for the job." Unless one wanted to call in Mycroft's people, which one never wanted.
"I was afraid you'd say that." He sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the black and white box.
Sherlock felt a strange twist in his chest. "Does Jim know you have that?"
"No. He put it in one of the desk drawers. I nicked it while you both were out of the room." John handed it to Sherlock. "Jim may be right about half of London handling it with no ill effects other than plasters and tetanus jabs, but..."
"Excellent. I'll go to Barts tonight and examine it. Jim only works until eleven, so I should be unencumbered by explanations."
"And in the meantime, I suppose we'll be moving furniture and pulling back rugs to find if those floorboard stains are still there?"
"Unnecessary. They are."
John looked interested. "You mean it's confirmation?"
Sherlock shook his head. "It means nothing. I went over every inch of the flat when we moved in; I haven't deleted any of the details."
"Wait, so you're saying it wasn't damage done by the original Holmes?"
"Oh, it easily could be. But it does nothing to prove whether I am actually seeing a past life or am simply making up an elaborate hallucination. Everything I have seen could have come from my memories and from books. Perhaps Wednesday we will get more data."
"And we can give Jim back his box." John's eyebrows lowered. "I'm taking a definite dislike to it. That's a hell of a trick to play on someone."
Sherlock looked out the window and didn't respond.
Sherlock had planned to spend the afternoon on the couch, reviewing what he knew so far about the six open cases. Instead, he fell asleep and didn't wake until after midnight.
What is wrong with me?, he wondered as he sat up and catalogued the room (John had indeed moved the rug and the bookcase in the corner, enough to see the stains for himself; the fact that Sherlock had slept through it spoke poorly for his physical state; John was upstairs, asleep). It would be horribly inconvenient if he were actually falling ill. But no, no fever, no aches, no scratchy throat or clogged nasal passages.
And no nightmares. That, at least, was promising.
He called his favourite cab service and was in the lab a half hour later. Unfortunately, it wasn't empty; Molly Hooper was working late tonight. He ignored her and set up the microscope and slides.
"Hi, Sherlock...oh, that looks like Jim's trick box."
"Very similar," Sherlock agreed. "Do you have any useful observations, or are you merely spouting trivia?"
"If you keep your fingers to the sides instead of the middle, you won't prick your finger. I was lucky when I opened it and did it right."
"Congratulations." He was not about to admit that he hadn't. "Now be quiet."
A few minutes later, he added, "The definition of 'quiet', surprisingly, excludes humming."
She looked up from her slides. "Oh, sorry. But you might like this song. It's a folksong about a serial killer."
What was it about forensics people and tune production? Was it just that they had a captive audience? "A large percentage of folksongs are about murders and murderers. Nonetheless, I don't care to listen to them. The murderers are usually obvious; the mystery is long solved; and they have nothing to add to our knowledge of crime and criminals."
"This one's good, though; his final victim pushes him off a cliff and saves herself. 'No help, no help, oh false sir John, no help or pity for thee; it's seven king's daughters you have drowned, and the eighth will not be me....'"
Sherlock swooped to his feet and gathered the box and slides. "How much longer will you be working?"
Molly smiled shyly. "Another ten minutes at most."
"Good. I'll be back in eleven."
He walked down to the office wing—Mike Stamford probably hadn't changed his password lately, so his desktop would serve for some work—and nearly bumped into Jim.
Damn! "You're here late." (T-shirt featuring a cartoon of a scruffy stick figure talking on a phone and a punchline about systems administrators, shirt rumpled but free of food debris; box with operating system installation disk; thumb drive in left jeans pocket. Probably repairing a computer infected with a virus.)
"Virus in one of the faculty computers. Ironic, isn't it? I hope he takes better precautions for surgery than he does for music downloads." Jim grinned. "And what about you?"
"Some analysis for a case. I'm waiting for the lab to be clear."
"You're checking the spring on that box, aren't you?"
What? "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"It wasn't in the drawer after you left. I may not be the incredible Sherlock Holmes, but I can make an occasional deduction." Jim leaned against the wall. "Keep it as long as you need to. Analyse it to your heart's content. You won't find anything, because there's nothing to find. But you need to see that for yourself."
This was unbelievable. "Is this the kind of conversation that won the heart of Molly Hooper?"
Jim chuckled. "Not in the slightest. This is purely professional. To have the most success in our sessions, you need to trust me. And you don't, not yet." He raised his hand before Sherlock could argue or agree. "Which is entirely sensible. Given your work, you've probably made a lot of enemies. If I want your trust, I'll have to earn it, by showing you time and time again that I'm not going to harm you."
"Sentimental tosh."
"But true." Jim straightened. "Oh, and I was thinking, do you have any heirlooms that belonged to your cousin?"
"A couple of items." He thought of the Strad, thought of Mycroft's offer, pushed the thought away.
"Why don't you bring one on Wednesday? We might try using it as a focus for regression, see what you can find out from it. Well, good night; see you Wednesday morning."
Molly was gone when Sherlock returned to the lab, and he immediately set to work. By the end of the night, Sherlock was half relieved, half disappointed, to find that the spring appeared clean. As best he could tell, the only substances on the spring were skin and traces of blood, the quantity so low as to suggest, in spite of Jim's list of past victims, that it was all his own, that someone had cleaned it thoroughly before Sherlock's accident. The data from pricking his fingers with sterile lancets once, twice, and three times agreed.
But why would someone bother cleaning the spring? It'd be easier to remove it entirely. Conclusion: someone, or several someones, wanted that box intact. Why?
No answers came to mind, and he filed the thought in the "solution: likely unfindable" sector.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-09-01 05:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-09-01 08:34 pm (UTC)Sally's a character I've always, not necessarily *liked*, but *understood*. I wanted to create a Sally who's consistent with the person we see in canon, but who has some more depths and some personality beyond "I don't like Sherlock (for what may be trivial stupid reasons or what may be damn good reasons; Mofftiss haven't bothered to reveal that part of my backstory)."
And your point in the ML thread is a valid one ;-).
(no subject)
Date: 2012-09-01 08:40 pm (UTC)