Fiction: Johnny Cat. Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off
Title: Johnny Cat, Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off
Rating: PG
Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Anderson, a cat named Johnny (OC), Dr. Shapiro (OC), and Rhonda (OC)
Warnings: Bawdy humour.
Word Count: This chapter: 4,300ish. Complete Story: just over 24,000
Summary: Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of friendship.
Beta: ShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine. Also, many thanks to Livia Carica whose keen eyes found ways to improve the bar scene.
Author's Notes: The Wilton and La Hacienda hotels may or may not resemble the Hilton and La Quinta hotels, real places in New York City, as I've never been to either.
Johnny Cat
Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off
John's speech had gone over surprisingly well. Yes, it had helped that he knew his material inside and out. Of course he did. He'd lived it and remembered more about those days serving as an army doctor and medic in Afghanistan than he did about what he'd eaten for breakfast that morning. True, the reserved demeanor of his audience and the hushed silence of the large auditorium had thrown him, just for a second. And, for a brief moment, John had wished that the atmosphere could have been more like it had been the last time he'd given this talk when, pinned down by heavy enemy fire, John had taken the opportunity to lecture the three green medics he'd taken with him on patrol on the finer points of battlefield triage, which he was able to demonstrate as he was also, conveniently, engaged in closing a massive bleeder gushing from the traumatically filleted chest of a freshly wounded soldier. Yes, the somber lecture hall definitely lacked the energy and sense of immediacy provided by an active battlefield, and John had worried that he himself might fall asleep before the first slide. But somehow, as if taken over by a powerful outside force, John had found his voice and plunged ahead with a bravado that had surprised him.
In less than a minute he, John Watson, an ex-army doctor far more comfortable with a gun and a scalpel than he was with a microphone, had taken total command of the room. Striding back and forth across the small stage, lighting up the text bullets of his slides with his laser pointer, John stared down the sleepy and the ironically bemused faces as he paused to ask the audience a question, then, flaring with impatience, he answered it himself, adding perhaps one too many "obviouslys" in making his point. He was dynamic, he was on fire, he was…oh my god…channeling his flatmate. It was like an out of body experience, a very good one, but when it was over and the crowd had dispersed (the crowd which, to a man, had stood and applauded) John was left thinking, "Where the hell did that come from?"
Just as John was about to hurry off to find a closet or an empty room where he could let out the huge upwelling of hysterical giggles he was suppressing, he was approach by an elderly gentleman. John recognized his kind face from the lecture hall. The man had been sitting the front row and had listened to his lecture in rapt attention.
"Wonderful presentation, Dr. Watson," the old fellow said, extending his hand. "I'm just glad I'm not speaking next-you'd be a hard act to follow. Although I would have liked to have heard more about…"
The man wore no nametag. "Damn," thought John, "If I had taken the time to research the other speakers, I'd know who this guy is and could say something appropriate instead of grinning and staring like an idiot."
But then he noticed the man's boots, coincidentally the exact same style as those Sherlock pointed out during a case as being custom made and only available at one boutique in Melbourne, Australia. The boots, the deep tan that stopped at the neckline (in March), the New York accent that sounded a little muddled as if mixed with something else (yes, could well be Australian), his age, and the comment he was now making about his work in the field of pericardial infections gave John his answer.
"Doctor Shapiro! Thank you so much for inviting me to speak. Fantastic conference you've organized. And how are things at Austin Hospital?"
John felt a huge rush of relief. Standing before him was the man most likely responsible for getting the committee to invite him, John Watson, not an acclaimed researcher but a humble ex-army doctor, to speak. It was also very likely that Dr. Shapiro was also responsible for John getting the generous stipend that had made his trip to New York possible.
"Fine, just fine. So, we've never met, but it appears you've done your homework. What did you think about my last paper, the one recommending new precautions against multidrug resistant staphylococci in RAMC facilities?"
John froze like a deer caught in the headlights. He hadn't read that paper or anything else by the good Dr. Shapiro. All John knew was what he had read in the limited description outlined in the conference brochure. John knew that Dr. Shapiro was the conference organizer. He knew that he was formerly a heart surgeon at Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York. He knew that he was currently researching heart infections in recovering soldiers at Austin Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. But that was it, the sum total of everything knew about the man standing before him, effectively his host and patron, and the man waiting to hear John's opinion on what he could tell was his all-consuming passion. There was only one thing to do.
"I wish I could tell you that, Dr. Shapiro, I really do, because I can think of few issues more important than the problem of MRSI in hospitals. But, to be honest, I've found myself caught up in some other projects which leave me little time to keep up with journal articles in the way I would like."
Dr. Shapiro's smiled sympathetically. He had a soft spot for soldiers and army doctors, and clearly, based on his unorthodox but admittedly impassioned speaking style, Dr. John Watson was to be given some leeway-war does take its toll on good men.
"That's alright, son. When you get a chance. I just thought that since you knew who I was…I go incognito so I can shirk my duties and enjoy the talks with everyone else." Dr. Shapiro winked as he tapped the place on his shirt where his nametag should have been. Then suddenly, puzzled, he asked, "But then how then, may I ask, did you know who I was?"
Maybe it was the older doctor's kindly mannerisms, or maybe it was a bit of residual bravado left over from his lecture, but for some reason, without giving it another thought, John told him.
When he saw Dr. Shapiro's reaction, John knew he should have lied ("Someone pointed you out earlier."). What was that he always told Sherlock?
You know I never tire of hearing your lines of deduction as they are nothing short of brilliant, but please, Sherlock, could you try to keep them too yourself. Certain people, police inspectors, research scientists, market analysts, people who think of themselves as observant and intelligent professionals, really hate to be the object of your skills. It really gets up their nose and, in the end, makes your job all that much harder.
"Well that was interesting," Dr. Shapiro said flatly, his expression considerably cooler than before. "But next time, son, you can always just Google me. I won't mind. No shame in joining the 21st century."
John tried to make things right. He promised he would read the article, and he promised to email Dr. Shapiro immediately with his opinion. Then he extended his hand and, as warmly as he could, thanked the man for all the work he'd done with recovering soldiers. And when they went their separate ways, Dr. Shapiro to mingle and John to get a drink, John knew things were a little better between them. Only, he still felt like a complete arse.
It was mid-morning when Sherlock got a call from Lestrade saying that, if Sherlock were interested, he could use his help on a case. But, there was one restriction: Sherlock could not visit the scene. Instead, Lestrade would email the schematics, a residential apartment building from which someone had either jumped or been pushed.
Sherlock, of course, protested. He wanted to visit the location, collect his own data, and get his own impression of the circumstances surrounding the event. But Lestrade said that would be impossible. Sherlock's outburst the day before had so thoroughly demoralized the members of his team that Lestrade thought they needed some time to regain their confidence, well away from Sherlock's acerbic tongue. Sherlock protested. Lestrade stood firm. In the end, though frustrated and angry that his work had to be compromised by other people's ineptitude and fragile egos, Sherlock realized that Lestrade would not budge. Grudgingly, he accepted his terms.
Sherlock paced restlessly around the living room while he waited for the email, pausing every minute or so to peer at the screen of his laptop before resuming his march. Johnny, perched on his chair, watched Sherlock's movements with interest, his tail flicking back and forth in sympathetic anticipation. The email's arrival was announced by a small "ding". Much to Sherlock's amusement, at that same moment, the small cat started to purr.
The diagram of the tragic scene showed a four story building with north facing windows. The windows of the occupants who had admitted to being home at the time of the murder were colored red. The windows of the two people who claimed to have seen the body fall were also marked, indicated as Witness One and Witness two. The witnesses' statements were there as well as a description of the victim. All in all, Sherlock thought the email looked a little thin.
Witness One, a 55-year-old retired bricklayer living on the fourth floor, had reported that his windows had been open that day and that he'd heard the victim scream as he flew past. Although he'd been quite upset, he'd had the presence of mind to check his watch before calling the police-it had said 5:15 PM. The time corresponded with the timestamp on the call.
Witness number two, a 37-year-old schoolteacher home sick with the flu, lived on the second floor. In her statement she said that, by mere coincidence, she had been looking out the window when she thought she saw a body fall past. She knew she was feverish and had believed that what she'd seen had been a hallucination. Alarmed, she'd immediately taken some paracetamol and gone straight to bed. Only when the police knocked on her door about an hour later had she learned about the tragedy. As sick as she had been, this witness had been able to recall that one of her favorite television programs had been on when the body flew past her window. That placed the incident somewhere between 4:30 and 5:00 PM.
Lestrade's description of the victim was annoyingly brief. His name was Devin Burns, he was 46 years old, and he'd lived alone in an apartment on the third floor. Devin was supposed to have been at the office that day where he worked as an insurance claims adjuster. Devin's boss said that Devin always worked until 6:00, never went home for lunch, and never left the office unless it was to investigate a claim. Devin's office mates had said that he was a nice guy, shy and a bit of a workaholic. Nobody knew much about his social life outside of work. As far as anyone knew, the guy had no enemies and was not depressed.
Neither Witness One nor Witness Two admitted to having known the victim beyond the occasional exchange of pleasantries on the lift. Also, neither witness could find anyone to corroborate their version of events or even their whereabouts that day. While other tenants of the building had been at home, none had seen either the victim or the two witnesses.
Sherlock paced as he thought aloud. Johnny, eyes bright, seemed to hang on every word.
"So, because of the time difference, one of them is lying, obviously. And because someone is lying, it is likely we're dealing with a murder, not a suicide. All we need is the motive."
Sherlock rubbed his hands together and smirked gleefully before plopping himself down on the couch and assuming his "thinking position": knees tucked up under his chin, hands pressed together before his lips, eyes closed. Johnny remained on his chair and assumed his "thinking position" which involved languidly but thoroughly licking himself.
After an hour's thought, Sherlock opened his eyes and proclaimed, "It's no use. I need more data. If Lestrade would only let me talk to the witnesses, I'm sure I could make 'em sing." (Sherlock had recently been watching old gangster movies with John and, when it suited him, enjoyed peppering his speech with a bit of the colorful 1930s lingo.)
Johnny, as if sensing his input was needed, stretched himself, leapt off the chair, sauntered purposefully across the room, and jumped onto Sherlock's open laptop. Sherlock must have found these antics helpful because immediately he had an idea. Eyes wide and face beaming, Sherlock scooped up the helpful little cat and briefly considered kissing its nose in gratitude. But, remembering all that recent and very personal grooming, he prudently decided to bestow a few strokes under the chin instead.
"Of course. That insurance adjuster was a workaholic. His recent history is probably spelled out in his company's computer records. I'll just help myself to a look, and if I don't find anything, we'll move on to the dame. Femme fatales come in all guises, you know. Even teachers. Even calicos, my little Casanova."
With a grave tilt of his head, Sherlock indicated the window near the fire escape, the one he'd left cracked as an experiment to see whether Johnny would take himself on "stakeouts", only to discover Johnny's two main passions; small game trophy hunting and "visiting" with lady cats. Sherlock's firm tone had demanded contrition, but instead the cheeky little feline responded by elevating his tail to display his impressive "goods" and meowing in a decidedly lascivious tone. It was if Johnny were saying, "I am what I am, Sherlock. Take me or leave me, but I can't change, not even for you." Sherlock reflexively rolled his eyes in disgust but couldn't help smiling with affection all the same. Somehow at that moment Sherlock came to realize that, when it came to this wee cat and its amorous behavior, it really was all fine.
Hacking into the insurance company records proved difficult but not impossible. By the end of the day, Sherlock had what he needed to establish a motive for murder. He printed out the incriminating evidence and prepared to leave for the Met.
Sensing his work was done, Johnny departed for Sherlock's bedroom. An accumulation of tawny fur on the end of the duvet indicated that the little fellow liked to sleep at the foot of Sherlock's bed when Sherlock was out. He'd chosen this spot, Sherlock reasoned, because it was soft and because Johnny, an earthy sort of fellow, liked that it smelled of Sherlock, esteemed provider of food and affection.
"We'll celebrate with dinner when I return," Sherlock called out before closing the door to the flat behind him. He would have to remember to pick some more of that arugula Johnny liked from the pot in front of the French restaurant. Although he told himself it was for the cat, Sherlock had actually become quite fond of his sardines, milk, and arugula meals. The taste combination suited him and he didn't suffer from the dreaded post-repast lethargy which dulled his mental abilities. And the company was nice too.
When Sherlock walked into his office, Lestrade looked wary, as if he'd just admitted a wasp or a porcupine. But it took only seconds to see that he needn't have worried. Yes, Sherlock was still Sherlock. He was arrogant, he was brilliant, and he was dramatic, but he wasn't like he'd been the other day. He wasn't the viciously critical malcontent who had torn Lestrade's staff to shreds because of some unnamed bee in his bonnet. In fact, that afternoon Sherlock seemed strangely at peace with the universe. This was most perplexing as Lestrade couldn't remember Sherlock ever being anywhere near this reasonable or well-behaved without John by his side.
As if cued by Lestrade's thoughts, Anderson, a first class git and a second class medical examiner, waltzed through the door. He seemed surprised to see Sherlock there, but quickly found his composure and launched into his usually litany of snide remarks aimed at his perceived rival.
"So, Sherlock, I see you're working without your pet again. Based on what happened yesterday, I'm surprised you're even allowed in the building. Think you can hold that arrogant tongue of yours without him holding your leash? (Anderson had an annoying way of bungling the simplest of metaphors.) Where is Johnny Boy anyway?"
To Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock completely ignored Anderson's provocation. Instead of devastating him with a cutting remark or an embarrassingly accurate description of some hidden debauchery, Sherlock simply answered his question, blandly and perfunctorily as if he'd been asked the time.
"Oh, he's at home, curled up at the foot of my bed."
Anderson, jaw dropped and eyebrows arched to the heavens, looked at Lestrade for some acknowledgement that he'd heard it too. He got none, only an "Off you go, Anderson. Not your case. Not your business."
Anderson left, his face almost vibrating with evil glee, to find a receptive ear for his gossip. Lestrade shot Sherlock a look of concern, but Sherlock dismissed Anderson and the whole interruption as unimportant with a casual wave of his hand and got on with briefing Lestrade on his findings as if nothing had passed. For his part, Lestrade found it hard to focus as he was still agog Sherlock hadn't risen to the bait. And there was that weird bit about John being curled up at the foot of Sherlock's bed. That too.
As it turned out, Sherlock explained, the case was quite simple. The motive for the murder was one of the most common, to cover up a previous crime.
By looking at the insurance company's files, Sherlock had found that Devin, by chance, had come across the twelve year old disability claim filed by his neighbor, the retired brick layer. Sherlock reasoned that Devin had known that the bricklayer was not at all disabled in the way described in the claim. Then, perhaps out of some misplaced sense of neighborliness, Devin had made the mistake of going to the bricklayer's apartment to let the man explain himself before alerting his company to the fraud. Clearly Devin had not been convinced, and the older (and not at all disabled) man had managed to push him out of the fourth story window as a way of shutting him up. Devin's death was the only way to be sure his fraud would not be discovered.
The time difference was simply due to the fact that the bricklayer had waited some time to calm down before phoning the police. He had no idea that there had been another witness who would place the event earlier. "Simple," Sherlock concluded in his usual fashion, but Lestrade could not help but think that, for the first time, Sherlock has used that word not as an in-your-face reminder of his superiority, but rather as a kind of punctuation mark signaling the closing of his case.
Their meeting ended with Lestrade thanking Sherlock for his efforts and assuring him that, if something came up, he would not hesitate to enlist his help. Furthermore, Lestrade let Sherlock know that he would have no problem with Sherlock visiting crime scenes if he wished. John, too, Lestrade added, hoping that Sherlock would clarify what he'd said earlier about the doctor's whereabouts. But Sherlock added nothing, and Lestrade was left scratching his head, wondering as to whether Sherlock had been serious or whether he'd suddenly developed a very odd sense of humour. The man was impossible to read, so only time would tell.
The bar at the Wilton was elegant, not a bit like the comfortable neighborhood pubs John preferred, but it was close by, so it would do. Still stinging from his embarrassing encounter with Dr. Shapiro, John ordered a whiskey. It was 2:15 PM, too early to be drinking, especially on an empty stomach, but John didn't feel like eating: he felt like forgetting. Usually John was too busy, either working for Sherlock, or worrying about Sherlock, or being amazed or irritated by Sherlock, to have time for rubbish like self-pity. But Sherlock wasn't there, so John decided to make alcohol his distraction; a poor substitute but it would have to do.
John rarely drank much these days, and when he did it was no more than a pint or two at home after a long day at work or while watching football match at the pub. He was on his second round when a lovely blonde, 5 ft 11 and all curves, sat down next to him and flashed one of those warm smiles that, coming from a beautiful woman, made John forget his troubles far more quickly than Glenlivet. John introduced himself and bought her a drink. She liked her gin and tonic with lots of ice.
Rhonda was her name, Rhonda Jackson, and she was as warm and sunny as the state of Florida from which she hailed. Rhonda was a pediatric cardiologist and was attending the conference as well. She had seen John's talk and, with honeyed tones and batting eyes, asked if he would tell her more about what it was like to serve as a doctor in Afghanistan.
"Tell me, Dr. Watson," she said, leaning in close, "how did you make it through that horror? I mean, was there someone waiting for you at home, someone you could think about in your times of need?"
Rhonda reached out and laid her hand lightly on John's arm as she spoke. (Oh, how he loved when women did that!) Her eyes were wide with concern and she nodded in sympathy as he describe what he knew were routine situations. But that afternoon, looking into that eager face, fuchsia mouth and large sky-blue eyes, John found himself romanticizing and aggrandizing events, just a tad, so as not to disappoint his audience.
An hour had passed and they were on their fourth round. Maybe it was because her drinks were half ice, or maybe it was because she'd eaten lunch, but Rhonda was not nearly as plastered as John. While he wasn't quite slurring his words, John found that certain letters were definitely getting harder to say. It was also becoming more and more difficult to keep eye-contact. Rhonda was rather tall, and twice John (mortified) had caught himself talking to her chest which sat prominently, voluptuously at eye-level. But Rhonda, gracious creature that she was, didn't seem to mind. She was in the middle of telling a heart-warming story about some operations she had performed, life-saving heart surgeries, while on a mission in Ethiopia, when John began to lose the thread of her narrative. At one point Rhonda paused to ask John a question. Maybe it was because of the noise (the bar was getting crowded) or maybe it was because John was a bit drunk, but he had only been able to catch a few phrases. He tried to figure out what she had asked him, but all he had to work with was "come look", "up in my room", and "my fanny". A sober John knew to ask for further clarification before jumping to conclusions. A drunk John just liked to jump.
"I'm sorry?" John asked, his face lighting up with amusement and disbelief.
Rhonda explained that she had some photos of these precious children, the one's whose lives she'd saved in Ethiopia, in her fanny pack up in her room. As inebriated as he was, John took a long moment to process this.
Then, with a howl of laughter and a playful slap on her thigh he yelled over the din, "Oh, thank goodness. That makes far more sense. I thought you wanted me to go up to your room and look at your VA-GI-..."
The slap she gave him was so hard John was sure that everyone in the building must have felt it. Either that or, perhaps, John had overestimated the ambient noise of the bar, because all thirty odd patrons, most wearing nametags like his, stopped talking, turned their way, and gaped.
"Not good," thought John, tipsily. Or maybe he'd said it aloud. He wasn't sure.
Frantically he searched the crowd for an English face, whatever the hell that might be. The odds were slim that anyone there could corroborate the existence of the English slang term "fanny" (the source of his confusion) and, thus, prove the innocence of his uncharacteristically vulgar remark. Really, it had just been a colossal cross-cultural misunderstanding, but John knew that, without backup, any attempt at an explanation, especially in his current state, would most likely make things worse. Alas, he came up empty. So, with as much dignity as he could muster, John hopped down from his bar stool, bid Rhonda's chest a fond farewell and made his way, slowly and steadily, through the lobby and out onto the street where he hailed a cab. The only thought that cheered him that afternoon was that, as badly as his day had turned out, what with making an arse of himself, twice, poor abandoned Sherlock's day had probably been worse.
Chapter 4: Fine Alone, Better Together
Chapter 2: A New Flatmate
Chapter 1: On His Own