A Case of Identity - Chapter eighteen (18/23)
Poems
Helen Keller “What we have once enjoyed”
Canon Henry Scott-Holland “Death is nothing at all”
Quote
Robert Southey “No distance of time …”
Unknown author “There are things …”
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The next morning, waiting for Dr. Martin to join them, John sat in the consulting room next to Sherlock on the sofa and had great difficulty keeping his eyes open. The sleep deficiency of the last few nights started to add up and took its toll. He sincerely hoped that Sherlock would be able to solve the case the very same day, enabling them to return to London. John was determined to sleep at least ten hours straight. Criminals and cases could go and jump in the lake for the time being. All he longed for was uninterrupted sleep, Thai takeaway and absolute ordinariness for no less than a week. He'd even consider to actually go on the vacation Mycroft had planned for them after Christmas. There wouldn't be any takeaway nor any restaurants on the island, but he'd even consider sweet- talking Mycroft into providing them with the necessary food. He was in his good books after all. There would certainly be a lot of peaceful nothingness there. Exactly what he needed.
Even though John loved their rather eventful life, from time to time he just needed "mundane". And a morning like this showed him this need quite plainly: Sherlock was rather hyperactive again, behaving rude and arrogant, which meant he was on the edge of getting bored. However, John decided to not pay attention to him for the time being, since he was too tired to chide him for his behavior. He'd waste his breath anyway. Since the moment he recovered the blackmailing letters the day before, the developments Sherlock expected were a long time coming. He had immediately sent Greg Lestrade pictures from the letters he had taken. However he didn't hear from the detective inspector for some time. When Sherlock finally got him on the phone late in the afternoon, his nerves were strung to breaking point and he admonished him for being inaccessible. The police officer ruefully promised to contact DI Davies immediately but couldn't begin to guess about how long it might take him to persuade his colleague to get moving. There wasn't much progress on the photograph so far either. Hence, Sherlock's bad mood. The detective was in poor spirits all night and at some point John gave up on sleeping completely. Hence, John's being short of sleep.
Next to him, Sherlock was grumpy and tapped nervously on the armrest now, muttering impatiently under his breath. John let him until Sherlock went too far and John was jolly well fed up with it.
"Stop nagging!" John scolded. "I'm sure he'll come soon."
"He's an idiot!" Sherlock complained sulkily. "He won't go where I point him, regardless of whether I give him a gentle reminder or I give him a broad hint."
John frowned at him. "I can't change that and neither can you. You'll have to sit and wait."
"If he'd been here any time sooner we wouldn't have to attend this nonsense anymore," Sherlock remarked darkly.
"Sherlock, if you don't stop it immediately, I'm going to invite your brother over for Christmas," John threatened, disgruntled.
Just when Sherlock wanted to come back at John's reply, Dr. Martin entered the room.
"How are our model students this morning? Involved in a domestic quarrel, I see," Dr. Martin greeted them and took a set opposite the two friends. She looked at both men intently. "Now you're annoying each other, but how would you feel if the other was gone from your life right now?" she asked. "What would life be like for you if your partner was permanently gone from your life?"
She had touched a sore spot. "Gone" was bad already, "permanently gone" was the ultimate disaster.
Both men exchanged a knowing look.
Then, John looked squarely into her eyes; his facial muscles were tensed up. "I don't have to write a eulogy to tell you that," he uttered under his breath.
"Indeed," Sherlock agreed quietly.
She smiled, knowingly. "Of course, you can tell me about it but I want you to feel it. This is about the non-verbal expression of emotions after all. I want you to show me," she said. "Sherlock, if you'd be so kind as to leave the room and wait next door. I want both of you to write the eulogy to each other while being physically separated from each other and feeling the others' absence."
Sherlock made a sour face but stood up nevertheless. As he walked to the door, he cast a last glance towards John. Although his face gave away nothing, John took comfort from the thought that he probably felt as miserable as he felt himself. Then he was gone and John was left sitting next to an empty chair with the assignment to write Sherlock's eulogy, while Sherlock had to write his in the room next door.
John let out a sigh and shook his head. It was a great pity indeed that they didn't hear from Greg Lestrade yet. It would have been actually very convenient if DI Davies had arrested Dr. Martin before she could have forced them into this "eulogy-and-the-casket" drama. Now, he regretfully had no other option but to do as the therapist told them. He pressed his jaw together tightly and began to write, secretly bidding her good riddance.
Half an hour later, Dr. Martin left John and went over to Sherlock. She decided that it was John's turn again to start reading the eulogy and Sherlock would have to act dead. She was gone for ten minutes before she returned to the doctor. "Sherlock already made himself comfortable," she said, winking. "Shall we, John?"
Reluctantly he followed her into another room, and there, in a coffin, lay Sherlock; eyes closed and acting dead. Apparently, she thought of everything. The coffin was framed by two flower vases with large, bright-coloured bouquets and a huge candle stand, which cast a ghostly light on Sherlock's already pale face. Just when John started to feel very uncomfortable at the lugubrious sight, Dr. Martin asked John to walk over to the box, feel the impact of Sherlock's death, and recite the eulogy he wrote for him.
Feel the impact of Sherlock's death. Dr. Martin's words were echoing and re-echoing in his mind.
Sherlock's death…
John broke out in a cold sweat. Involuntarily, he clenched his fists. His heart was racing madly in his chest and he was breathing with great difficulty.
Hyperventilation, he thought, instinctively diagnosing himself.
Usually, he wasn't the type for hyperventilation. He normally was a bastion of calm in stressful situations. No, he corrected himself. In dangerous, stressful situations, he had nerves of steel. In the case of stressful, emotional happenings like this, he seemed to be nearly as useless as his friend. Of course he knew that Sherlock was alive, but it was such a horribly ironic situation that he still felt panic raising.
Idiot, he thought, angrily.
Standing in front of the coffin in which Sherlock lay pale and still, he couldn't help thinking back to the painful, disturbing events that had left a void in his life, he didn't think he would ever recover from that painful time period, only to be stunned and grateful when Sherlock returned. He still remembered every second of that fateful day. Sherlock standing on the roof, talking to him on the phone; then, throwing it aside and leaping forwards. Then, he remembered nothing, because the cyclist knocked him over on purpose (as Sherlock confessed later), followed by a blurred vision of Sherlock, laying on the pavement, smeared in blood, and his blue-grey eyes, normally burning with the fire of curiosity, gazing dead into space, glazing over. He himself touching his wrist, searching for a pulse which he knew was lacking. All the nightmares he ever had about the war in Afghanistan were nothing compared to the nightmares he had about that moment. In the months that followed he realized that a part of himself had died that day and was only resurrected when Sherlock came back. Now, he asked himself if he had already been in love with Sherlock back then, without knowing it.
John took a deep breath and got closer to the coffin; close enough to take Sherlock's hand. He had great difficulty with the sight of his friend in a coffin. It really didn't help his nerves that Sherlock was such a good actor. He pretended to be stone-dead perfectly. A part of him wondered, how easily the mind could play tricks on you. The rest of him was just frozen in shock. If he wanted to avoid getting anywhere near a mental breakdown again, he needed something to hold onto. He already noticed a slight ache in his leg. Instinctively, he moved his thumb until he found what he was looking for - Sherlock's pulse. Steady, regular, and strong. In spite of himself, he heaved a sigh of relief. He took a deep breath and released it slowly again. Then, he summoned up his courage and began reading:
"Sherlock, you never liked to take centre stage. Well, you liked to be the centre of my attention, and you certainly liked honest compliments, but you always tried to highlight your work, which you considered as art, and wanted it to be the focus of interest. You loathed the public interest in your personal life. You wouldn't want us to dwell upon your death. You'd say that death is inevitable and that we should simply accept the fact and move on. You were always very practical in these things. However, we who are left behind, mourning you, will take this last opportunity to share our memories of you in the hope that they'll bring comfort in time. Forgive us for focusing our interest on you for the last time.
If anything, you loved your job. It truly was your vocation, your life's calling. You enjoyed yourself in the role of principal advisor. You were incredibly brilliant and keen-witted. However, your success didn't emerge out of nothing. You did not only have incomparable talent but you were a hard worker too. I could recount the many times you've shown the world that you're a great man, but you already have been a great man before we met. You stood out from the crowd. People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did - well, no, they probably won't forget about that in your case - but, above all, people will never forget how you made them feel. Therefore I will leave it to the rest to describe your greatness which was obvious and mind-blowing at all times. I will not dwell on your many well-known successes. I just want to say that you were unequivocally the greatest man of your profession. I'd rather like to dwell on your good nature which was probably as impressive as your greatness but less obvious to the public.
Not many people have the dubious honour to be mourning the same person twice in their life. I'm one of them. Once, you performed a miracle, and you changed sorrow into joy. Today, however, I have to say goodbye to you for real and I freely admit that the pain is killing me. You were my best friend. I've accompanied you on this singular, winding road of our lives gladly every day, backing you up and caring for you. It wasn't always easy but I wouldn't have missed any of it for the world.
There are so many precious moments I could tell you about. I remember the day you realized that you do care about people in general and me in particular. I remember the day you showed me that you value our friendship - you called me a friend and meant it. I remember the day you realized you were a good man and realized your place in the world, no matter how devastating the consequences had been initially. I gratefully remember every moment you've shown me the depth of your loyalty and love.
If you'd ask me about my most favourite moment I'd probably tell you about the day we met. It was our beginning, the first time that I set eyes on you and got a glimpse of your complex and most extraordinary character. Let's say it whetted my appetite. The moment was magical because it conveyed everything that would define our relationship later: your brilliance and your charm, my admiration and my acting as a counterbalance to you - our natural chemistry. I got a foretaste of what was to come. With you, a new world presented itself to me. I'll cherish every moment we've shared until the day I die, and I can only hope that you knew how special you were and always will be to me.
Funny enough, the mundane and simple things we've shared seem to be the most important and extraordinary ones in retrospection. You never ceased to amaze me. The moment I expected it the least, you'd shown me a new part of your character. Like your love for nature that suddenly emerged out of nothing. You were a great musician too. Whenever I listen to my favourite symphonies, I think about how flawless and expressively you've played them for me.
I'll miss your humour and your laughter the most. I'll miss the little gestures that showed me you cared and loved. I'll miss the moments of insecurity and vulnerability and I'll miss your unselfishness.
Now that you're gone, the ring you gave to me remains my most precious property, a physical representation of a reminder of your love. Your love made all the difference in the world. It is time to let you go now and this is really hard to do because part of me will be in love with you for the rest of my life. Let me say this again: You were the best and the wisest man and the most human human being I've ever known. It's been an honour to have been your partner and friend and although you'll be terribly missed by all of us, no one will miss you more than I do. Your absence hurts and I miss you like hell. In time, I know I will find strength in knowing that you were a true friend and soul mate who remained loyal to the end. No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded by each other's worth.
What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; All that we love deeply, becomes a part of us."
John caressed Sherlock's hand with his thumb as he recited his writings. He felt how his eyes watered against his will, and he tried to choke back his tears. He swallowed hard a few times, trying in vain to make the lump in his throat go away, but he was overcome with grief. He was back at the place where he actually experienced the loss of his partner. It was incredibly powerful. In his mind he couldn't make the film stop.
He lived through the memories and emotions of Sherlock's death again, and again and again. He was speechless with grief. Soon enough the tears involuntarily trickled down his cheeks and John was mortally embarrassed about it. Apparently, he didn't come to terms with Sherlock's faked death entirely yet. The question was why. He closed his eyes, feeling adrift. Was he still angry at his friend? He listened intently to his inner voice. The answer was no. There was no anger. He had forgiven him. He listened a little longer. Why did the whole play have such a strong effect on him?
Then, in a sort of second epiphany moment within a little more than twenty-four hours, realization hit him. It wasn't the deed that caused his emotions; it had only been the deed for a very short time after all. It wasn't the loss of what they did have, but the loss of what never would be when Sherlock died right away; the pain of a lost opportunity to tell him about his feelings for him and not being able to correct this mistake. And now John had to admit that this had been a factor in his grief before. That at least answered the question about the nature of his love for Sherlock. Slowly, he opened his eyes again.
He realized that Sherlock, being alarmed by John's unusual outburst, had abandoned the coffin and stood right in front of him now.
"John, are you all right?" he asked, concerned.
John felt awkward that it happened at all, and especially, in front of his friend who was very much alive after all, who disliked emotions and probably was convinced by now that John was emotionally unstable. For the second time in two days he wished the ground would open and swallow him up. He took a few deep breaths and tried to regain control. "I'm terribly sorry," John finally whispered sheepishly, pulling himself together. "I had a black out."
Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, shocked, looking a picture of misery himself. A moment later he came to his senses, remembering that he was supposed to support his friend emotionally, and patted John somewhat helplessly on his arm.
Apparently, he had developed an automatic program for emotional support, John thought, smiling sadly in spite of himself.
"I am sorry," Sherlock said awkwardly with a look of guilt on his face. He obviously was struck deeply by this.
"It has nothing to do with…the Fall," John said vaguely. He couldn't explain himself right now but he knew that he had to get this straight right away. He didn't want Sherlock to be tormented by doubt. "I meant what I said. You're forgiven."
Sherlock looked at him, worried. "But sometimes it still hurts?" he wanted to know, recalling the conversation they had with Dr. Stevens.
"Yes, something like that," John answered evasively. "It's more about myself."
"You're not going to tell me," Sherlock stated, a flash of hurt crossing his face.
"Not right now," he replied. "I need time."
A few times Sherlock opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then he closed it again, apparently having second thoughts. He obviously had trouble accepting John's refusal to let him know his secret, but he swallowed his curiosity and respected John's wishes, not inquiring any further.
John felt sorry for him. He didn't mean to hurt his friend. "I promise I'll tell you in time," he added, putting emphasis to his words by embracing his friend tightly. "First, I need to sort this out on my own." Internally he sighed. It shouldn't be so hard to say "I love you" for real, he thought, distressed.
Dr. Martin had no idea what was going on but used the emotional moment to let them change the roles.
John slowly disengaged himself from Sherlock's arms, squeezed his arm one more time reassuringly, and reluctantly went to climb into the coffin.
As soon as he lay down, John closed his eyes and kept them tight shut. He was still in a complete turmoil from the emotional exposure he experienced a few moments before. He'd rather write love letters to his friend on a daily basis than ever writing a eulogy again. Aside from this very obvious fact, the idea of lying in a coffin was absolutely creepy and he felt extremely uncomfortable. John didn't suffer from claustrophobia but the experience of lying in the coffin was eerie and nightmarish enough to give him second thoughts on the matter. The very smell of wood and lace alone, stuffy and dusty, filled him with nausea. However, his attention soon was otherwise occupied. Now, he nearly was sorry that he couldn't see a thing because a remarkable audio play presented itself to him as Sherlock approached the oaken box. Since Dr. Martin wasn't far away and insisted on John pretending to be dead properly, he didn't dare to cheat, peeking.
"There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go.
You were one of them, John.
It's difficult to describe your many personal attributes. The first thing people got to know about you was your great kind-heartedness. The doctor in you was always present, and a good doctor you were: always ready to help other people, being kind and caring for others. You were patient and friendly, and spoke encouraging words to your patients as well as to your friends. We've had many arguments in our life but your words were always well-meant and never judging.
You also were an adventurous man. Again and again, you showed me the soldier in you: your fast determination, bravery, integrity and courage. I could always rely on you. You once told me that you thought of me as a hero. I responded with heroes don't exist. I'm willing to admit that life corrected me. You certainly were one of them for I recall the many times you saved me and not just my life.
You paid me the great compliment of becoming my friend and my partner. You were so easy to be with, making me laugh. You challenged me to change my attitude towards people. I'm thankful for your endless support and faithful belief in me, for the endless times we've celebrated our successes, for trying to understand my problems and helping me, to accept my defeats. Your love for me was unconditional. I never thanked you for the sacrifices you made for my sake and for every day that I gave you a reason to leave but you didn't. I'm thanking you now for all the things you did and I'm hoping that you knew all along, how much you meant to me. You were the most extraordinary ordinary man I ever met and what I feel for you I will never feel for another human being.
You wouldn't want us to make a fuss about your departure and you'd say instead, "Eat some good food, have a few drinks on me, share the good memories, laugh a lot and then go home again, live your life to the fullest. Miss me, but let me go. I had my fill".
I will try my best to respect your wishes and to do as you suggested: I will dearly miss you, my friend, but I'll try to let you go.
Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way you always used, put no difference into your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow, laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we always enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effort, without the ghost of a shadow in it. Life means all that it ever meant, it is the same as it ever was. There is absolute unbroken continuity. What is death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you for an interval, somewhere very near. Just around the corner. All is well. Nothing is past; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"
It was a nice eulogy, as far as a eulogy could be nice at all. Sherlock made every effort to express his grief and John would have liked it as a eulogy for his actual funeral. However, Sherlock's feelings actually showed more in his manner than in his words. John could sense that he was agitated and this time, it wasn't caused by boredom or impatience. While John had relived Sherlock's death, for Sherlock it was the first time to be confronted with the possibility of John's death. Seeing your friend in a coffin certainly did strange things to you. Knowing that death was inevitable was something completely different than experiencing it.
Halfway through the eulogy Sherlock started stroking John's hair and kept doing so until he finished. If he didn't know better, he'd say that, oddly enough, Sherlock was affected emotionally. His voice wasn't as firm and steady as it used to be. He spoke with a breathy voice and swallowed hard a few times, before also hemming once or twice. Although, unlike John, he was a master in choking emotions, even Sherlock had to acknowledge that he wasn't above them in the end. Throughout their friendship he fought more against needing John, than John fought against needing Sherlock, because it would inevitably lead to his emotional vulnerability.
At some point, Sherlock reconciled himself to it and more or less accepted his re-emerging array of emotions. He referred to it as one of the "John only"-things. However, in the course of time, it started to involve more people than John alone, John had realized, satisfied. Even though John wasn't able to see Sherlock's facial expressions or body language, he could tell that his friend struggled to retain his composure.
Then, Dr. Martin asked John to leave the coffin again and waved them into two chairs which were standing next to the coffin. Unfortunately they didn't leave the room. The presence of the creepy oaken box seemed to be a vital point in discussing the experienced feelings.
"How do you feel now?" Dr. Martin asked them expectantly.
"I'd rather be in the coffin than reading the eulogy," John answered and addressed Sherlock, "but I know that my death would be…" John searched for the right word. Devastating? Disastrous? Catastrophic? He thought it best to choose words that stood close to Sherlock himself, in order to not freak him out. Touchy-feely talk needed to be introduced to Sherlock very carefully and in well dosed portions, after all.
"… inconvenient for you. I think it might be better if I'll try to outlive you and recite your eulogy after all," John continued.
"That wasn't what I meant, John. How are you feeling?" Dr. Martin inquired firmly, leaving Sherlock no room for a reply.
John recognized defeat. His anger was written large in his face. "It hurts, okay? It hurts like hell. I lost him once and I don't want to lose him again. He…," …means everything to me, John internally screamed to her face but settled for something less obvious,"…has become indispensable."
"Better," Dr. Martin retorted. She wasn't really content with how things were going. Maybe she realized by now that her "model students" wouldn't end up pouring out their hearts to one another in an emotional outburst.
"And what about you, Sherlock?" she asked.
Sherlock's breath caught.
John watched him closely, now that he was able to do so again. Sherlock was ostensibly calm and unaffected by the situation; he fixed his gaze on a spot behind Dr. Martin and was over conscientiously trying to look neither at the coffin nor at John. To John it was blatantly obvious that Sherlock was struggling, torn between the need of expressing that John's death didn't leave him cold, for John's sake and the sake of their friendship, and maintaining his composure, for his own sake. It was a rare sight: Sherlock Holmes was fighting with himself. And that was probably the hardest struggle yet, much harder than fighting his enemies, much harder even than fighting Moriarty.
"Sherlock?" she repeated his name vigorously.
He slowly released the breath he held. "Your death would be very… inconvenient indeed." When he finally cast a glance at John, the expression of his face was haunted. He didn't need to say anything at all. John understood him all too well. It was a real soul deep hurt. The pain got inside you and ripped you apart.
"Inconvenient? Oh for God's sake, tell me how you feel?" Dr. Martin asked again, impatiently.
Eventually Sherlock turned his head and met her eyes. "Lonely," Sherlock said quietly with a hint of sadness in his voice, finally submitting himself. "I was alone again."
She watched him intently. "Your need for him is great," the counselor suggested.
A long silence ensued.
Sherlock examined her for a moment, then, he bent forward, his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands as if in prayer, and looked at her steadfast. "John always supports me, watches out for me and cares for me. He loves me without reservation and is most loyal and faithful regardless of my many faults. He is my everything, my only love. Of course my need for him is great," he replied in a most casual tone as if recounting one of his deductions.
"Then his death would cause you to feel …?" Dr. Martin dared him.
"…uncomfortable?" John suggested quickly. He had been completely unprepared for Sherlock's answer who suddenly spoke in a language that was much closer to John's character than to his own. He decided that Sherlock already had an overdose on emotions for the present day.
"…devastated?" the counselor suggested for her part.
"Words fail me," Sherlock replied. "The extent of my feelings is beyond description."
"Do you…," Dr. Martin began to go into Sherlock's remark, when the door suddenly flew open with a loud crash, and a group of ten policemen dashed into the room like a bull in a china shop.
"You can't go in …," the little secretary of Dr. Martin murmured helplessly, jogging on behind them. Apparently she had tried in vain to prevent them from interrupting the session.
The ferret like figure of DI Davies was the last one to arrive in the doorway. "Dr. Elizabeth Martin?" he asked, not deigning to look at Sherlock or John.
"Yes," Dr. Martin answered. "What's all this then?" she asked, gesturing towards the group of police officers. "I'm in the middle of a therapy session."
Finally, Davies took notice of the two men and raised an eyebrow. However he didn't comment on the therapy remark from Dr. Martin and turned his attention back to her. "I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Samantha and Thomas Smith and committing financial fraud. You don't have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence."
"What?" Dr. Martin asked surprised.
Instead of receiving an answer, two officers handcuffed her and led her away. John was able to hear her volley of expletives for several minutes before her voice finally faded away.
"You're arresting her on charge of murder?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. "You must be joking!" he exclaimed.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade kindly informed me about the evidence you've serendipitously found. I'm much obliged to you," he pretended.
"The evidence only proves that she is involved in deceptive business practice and provides fuel for further investigations on the financial matter," Sherlock retorted. "Why suspecting her on murder so suddenly? Where's your evidence?"
"She obviously had a motive. The Smiths blackmailed her. And unless you can produce conclusive evidence for your hypothesis that someone else murdered them, she's under arrest," the detective inspector answered with a sardonic smile and looked at him with feign interest.
"I don't have conclusive evidence …," Sherlock admitted through gritted teeth.
"I thought as much," DI Davies continued sweetly.
"…yet," Sherlock added in a determined tone.
"Let me give you a word of advice, Holmes. Rejoice over David Jones' release from prison and leave it to me to solve this case. You were coincidentally right in this case and you've helped the Trevor gentleman, but now it's time for you to bow out of it. I don't need or want your help."
At this level of impertinence John was temporarily at a loss for words and even Sherlock didn't know what to say for a moment. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's tenacity, Davies would still suspect David Jones and have no idea about the involvement of Dr. Martin.
"Don't let me keep you," Sherlock finally said with feigned friendliness. "As I said before: You shall work your method, and I shall work mine."
The detective inspector glowered at him, holding his gaze. "Be warned, smart arse! Don't get in my way!" Davies replied at last and left without so much as a backward glance, following after his suspect. The rest of his men left for the office area to search it again.
"Stubborn git!" John eventually exclaimed, scandalized, when they were all alone again. "What a nerve!"
Sherlock cocked his head. He smiled genuinely at the look of surprise on John's face. "Come, come, John. Don't mind him! His idiocy is beyond description," he consoled him. "In the end he will have to realize his mistake!"
"He will not be easily convinced," John replied doubtfully.
"No," Sherlock said, "but I will pile up fact above fact upon him until he will be forced to adopt my view. It's merely a matter of time."
He examined the face of his friend closely. Although Sherlock created the impression to be above such things, John knew that DI Davies' words offended Sherlock's pride. Davies humiliated him. If anything, Sherlock would only step up efforts and do everything in his power to bring down the murderer, to belie Davies words. For a moment Sherlock stared into the distance. His face had gone dark and a sardonic smile played on his lips. The emotional turmoil from before was forgotten.
"I'm standing fast," Sherlock remarked darkly. "He that will not hear must feel."
Davies made a mistake indeed, John thought. He would have to learn the hard way to acknowledge Sherlock as his superior. John really wouldn't like to be in his shoes right now.
"Come along, John. Back to Baker Street. We've got plenty of work to do!" Sherlock said and clasped John on the back. "Let's teach him a lesson he won't forget!"
Back to Baker Street. What promised hours of peaceful sleep before, seemed to promise more sleepless hours now - and another week of pretence. After four days of hard work and three weeks of emotions running high, they were back to square one.
It would turn out, however, that sleep deficiency would not be John's only problem.
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Helen Keller “What we have once enjoyed”
Canon Henry Scott-Holland “Death is nothing at all”
Quote
Robert Southey “No distance of time …”
Unknown author “There are things …”
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Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 part one Chapter 15 part two Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23
The next morning, waiting for Dr. Martin to join them, John sat in the consulting room next to Sherlock on the sofa and had great difficulty keeping his eyes open. The sleep deficiency of the last few nights started to add up and took its toll. He sincerely hoped that Sherlock would be able to solve the case the very same day, enabling them to return to London. John was determined to sleep at least ten hours straight. Criminals and cases could go and jump in the lake for the time being. All he longed for was uninterrupted sleep, Thai takeaway and absolute ordinariness for no less than a week. He'd even consider to actually go on the vacation Mycroft had planned for them after Christmas. There wouldn't be any takeaway nor any restaurants on the island, but he'd even consider sweet- talking Mycroft into providing them with the necessary food. He was in his good books after all. There would certainly be a lot of peaceful nothingness there. Exactly what he needed.
Even though John loved their rather eventful life, from time to time he just needed "mundane". And a morning like this showed him this need quite plainly: Sherlock was rather hyperactive again, behaving rude and arrogant, which meant he was on the edge of getting bored. However, John decided to not pay attention to him for the time being, since he was too tired to chide him for his behavior. He'd waste his breath anyway. Since the moment he recovered the blackmailing letters the day before, the developments Sherlock expected were a long time coming. He had immediately sent Greg Lestrade pictures from the letters he had taken. However he didn't hear from the detective inspector for some time. When Sherlock finally got him on the phone late in the afternoon, his nerves were strung to breaking point and he admonished him for being inaccessible. The police officer ruefully promised to contact DI Davies immediately but couldn't begin to guess about how long it might take him to persuade his colleague to get moving. There wasn't much progress on the photograph so far either. Hence, Sherlock's bad mood. The detective was in poor spirits all night and at some point John gave up on sleeping completely. Hence, John's being short of sleep.
Next to him, Sherlock was grumpy and tapped nervously on the armrest now, muttering impatiently under his breath. John let him until Sherlock went too far and John was jolly well fed up with it.
"Stop nagging!" John scolded. "I'm sure he'll come soon."
"He's an idiot!" Sherlock complained sulkily. "He won't go where I point him, regardless of whether I give him a gentle reminder or I give him a broad hint."
John frowned at him. "I can't change that and neither can you. You'll have to sit and wait."
"If he'd been here any time sooner we wouldn't have to attend this nonsense anymore," Sherlock remarked darkly.
"Sherlock, if you don't stop it immediately, I'm going to invite your brother over for Christmas," John threatened, disgruntled.
Just when Sherlock wanted to come back at John's reply, Dr. Martin entered the room.
"How are our model students this morning? Involved in a domestic quarrel, I see," Dr. Martin greeted them and took a set opposite the two friends. She looked at both men intently. "Now you're annoying each other, but how would you feel if the other was gone from your life right now?" she asked. "What would life be like for you if your partner was permanently gone from your life?"
She had touched a sore spot. "Gone" was bad already, "permanently gone" was the ultimate disaster.
Both men exchanged a knowing look.
Then, John looked squarely into her eyes; his facial muscles were tensed up. "I don't have to write a eulogy to tell you that," he uttered under his breath.
"Indeed," Sherlock agreed quietly.
She smiled, knowingly. "Of course, you can tell me about it but I want you to feel it. This is about the non-verbal expression of emotions after all. I want you to show me," she said. "Sherlock, if you'd be so kind as to leave the room and wait next door. I want both of you to write the eulogy to each other while being physically separated from each other and feeling the others' absence."
Sherlock made a sour face but stood up nevertheless. As he walked to the door, he cast a last glance towards John. Although his face gave away nothing, John took comfort from the thought that he probably felt as miserable as he felt himself. Then he was gone and John was left sitting next to an empty chair with the assignment to write Sherlock's eulogy, while Sherlock had to write his in the room next door.
John let out a sigh and shook his head. It was a great pity indeed that they didn't hear from Greg Lestrade yet. It would have been actually very convenient if DI Davies had arrested Dr. Martin before she could have forced them into this "eulogy-and-the-casket" drama. Now, he regretfully had no other option but to do as the therapist told them. He pressed his jaw together tightly and began to write, secretly bidding her good riddance.
Half an hour later, Dr. Martin left John and went over to Sherlock. She decided that it was John's turn again to start reading the eulogy and Sherlock would have to act dead. She was gone for ten minutes before she returned to the doctor. "Sherlock already made himself comfortable," she said, winking. "Shall we, John?"
Reluctantly he followed her into another room, and there, in a coffin, lay Sherlock; eyes closed and acting dead. Apparently, she thought of everything. The coffin was framed by two flower vases with large, bright-coloured bouquets and a huge candle stand, which cast a ghostly light on Sherlock's already pale face. Just when John started to feel very uncomfortable at the lugubrious sight, Dr. Martin asked John to walk over to the box, feel the impact of Sherlock's death, and recite the eulogy he wrote for him.
Feel the impact of Sherlock's death. Dr. Martin's words were echoing and re-echoing in his mind.
Sherlock's death…
John broke out in a cold sweat. Involuntarily, he clenched his fists. His heart was racing madly in his chest and he was breathing with great difficulty.
Hyperventilation, he thought, instinctively diagnosing himself.
Usually, he wasn't the type for hyperventilation. He normally was a bastion of calm in stressful situations. No, he corrected himself. In dangerous, stressful situations, he had nerves of steel. In the case of stressful, emotional happenings like this, he seemed to be nearly as useless as his friend. Of course he knew that Sherlock was alive, but it was such a horribly ironic situation that he still felt panic raising.
Idiot, he thought, angrily.
Standing in front of the coffin in which Sherlock lay pale and still, he couldn't help thinking back to the painful, disturbing events that had left a void in his life, he didn't think he would ever recover from that painful time period, only to be stunned and grateful when Sherlock returned. He still remembered every second of that fateful day. Sherlock standing on the roof, talking to him on the phone; then, throwing it aside and leaping forwards. Then, he remembered nothing, because the cyclist knocked him over on purpose (as Sherlock confessed later), followed by a blurred vision of Sherlock, laying on the pavement, smeared in blood, and his blue-grey eyes, normally burning with the fire of curiosity, gazing dead into space, glazing over. He himself touching his wrist, searching for a pulse which he knew was lacking. All the nightmares he ever had about the war in Afghanistan were nothing compared to the nightmares he had about that moment. In the months that followed he realized that a part of himself had died that day and was only resurrected when Sherlock came back. Now, he asked himself if he had already been in love with Sherlock back then, without knowing it.
John took a deep breath and got closer to the coffin; close enough to take Sherlock's hand. He had great difficulty with the sight of his friend in a coffin. It really didn't help his nerves that Sherlock was such a good actor. He pretended to be stone-dead perfectly. A part of him wondered, how easily the mind could play tricks on you. The rest of him was just frozen in shock. If he wanted to avoid getting anywhere near a mental breakdown again, he needed something to hold onto. He already noticed a slight ache in his leg. Instinctively, he moved his thumb until he found what he was looking for - Sherlock's pulse. Steady, regular, and strong. In spite of himself, he heaved a sigh of relief. He took a deep breath and released it slowly again. Then, he summoned up his courage and began reading:
"Sherlock, you never liked to take centre stage. Well, you liked to be the centre of my attention, and you certainly liked honest compliments, but you always tried to highlight your work, which you considered as art, and wanted it to be the focus of interest. You loathed the public interest in your personal life. You wouldn't want us to dwell upon your death. You'd say that death is inevitable and that we should simply accept the fact and move on. You were always very practical in these things. However, we who are left behind, mourning you, will take this last opportunity to share our memories of you in the hope that they'll bring comfort in time. Forgive us for focusing our interest on you for the last time.
If anything, you loved your job. It truly was your vocation, your life's calling. You enjoyed yourself in the role of principal advisor. You were incredibly brilliant and keen-witted. However, your success didn't emerge out of nothing. You did not only have incomparable talent but you were a hard worker too. I could recount the many times you've shown the world that you're a great man, but you already have been a great man before we met. You stood out from the crowd. People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did - well, no, they probably won't forget about that in your case - but, above all, people will never forget how you made them feel. Therefore I will leave it to the rest to describe your greatness which was obvious and mind-blowing at all times. I will not dwell on your many well-known successes. I just want to say that you were unequivocally the greatest man of your profession. I'd rather like to dwell on your good nature which was probably as impressive as your greatness but less obvious to the public.
Not many people have the dubious honour to be mourning the same person twice in their life. I'm one of them. Once, you performed a miracle, and you changed sorrow into joy. Today, however, I have to say goodbye to you for real and I freely admit that the pain is killing me. You were my best friend. I've accompanied you on this singular, winding road of our lives gladly every day, backing you up and caring for you. It wasn't always easy but I wouldn't have missed any of it for the world.
There are so many precious moments I could tell you about. I remember the day you realized that you do care about people in general and me in particular. I remember the day you showed me that you value our friendship - you called me a friend and meant it. I remember the day you realized you were a good man and realized your place in the world, no matter how devastating the consequences had been initially. I gratefully remember every moment you've shown me the depth of your loyalty and love.
If you'd ask me about my most favourite moment I'd probably tell you about the day we met. It was our beginning, the first time that I set eyes on you and got a glimpse of your complex and most extraordinary character. Let's say it whetted my appetite. The moment was magical because it conveyed everything that would define our relationship later: your brilliance and your charm, my admiration and my acting as a counterbalance to you - our natural chemistry. I got a foretaste of what was to come. With you, a new world presented itself to me. I'll cherish every moment we've shared until the day I die, and I can only hope that you knew how special you were and always will be to me.
Funny enough, the mundane and simple things we've shared seem to be the most important and extraordinary ones in retrospection. You never ceased to amaze me. The moment I expected it the least, you'd shown me a new part of your character. Like your love for nature that suddenly emerged out of nothing. You were a great musician too. Whenever I listen to my favourite symphonies, I think about how flawless and expressively you've played them for me.
I'll miss your humour and your laughter the most. I'll miss the little gestures that showed me you cared and loved. I'll miss the moments of insecurity and vulnerability and I'll miss your unselfishness.
Now that you're gone, the ring you gave to me remains my most precious property, a physical representation of a reminder of your love. Your love made all the difference in the world. It is time to let you go now and this is really hard to do because part of me will be in love with you for the rest of my life. Let me say this again: You were the best and the wisest man and the most human human being I've ever known. It's been an honour to have been your partner and friend and although you'll be terribly missed by all of us, no one will miss you more than I do. Your absence hurts and I miss you like hell. In time, I know I will find strength in knowing that you were a true friend and soul mate who remained loyal to the end. No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded by each other's worth.
What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; All that we love deeply, becomes a part of us."
John caressed Sherlock's hand with his thumb as he recited his writings. He felt how his eyes watered against his will, and he tried to choke back his tears. He swallowed hard a few times, trying in vain to make the lump in his throat go away, but he was overcome with grief. He was back at the place where he actually experienced the loss of his partner. It was incredibly powerful. In his mind he couldn't make the film stop.
He lived through the memories and emotions of Sherlock's death again, and again and again. He was speechless with grief. Soon enough the tears involuntarily trickled down his cheeks and John was mortally embarrassed about it. Apparently, he didn't come to terms with Sherlock's faked death entirely yet. The question was why. He closed his eyes, feeling adrift. Was he still angry at his friend? He listened intently to his inner voice. The answer was no. There was no anger. He had forgiven him. He listened a little longer. Why did the whole play have such a strong effect on him?
Then, in a sort of second epiphany moment within a little more than twenty-four hours, realization hit him. It wasn't the deed that caused his emotions; it had only been the deed for a very short time after all. It wasn't the loss of what they did have, but the loss of what never would be when Sherlock died right away; the pain of a lost opportunity to tell him about his feelings for him and not being able to correct this mistake. And now John had to admit that this had been a factor in his grief before. That at least answered the question about the nature of his love for Sherlock. Slowly, he opened his eyes again.
He realized that Sherlock, being alarmed by John's unusual outburst, had abandoned the coffin and stood right in front of him now.
"John, are you all right?" he asked, concerned.
John felt awkward that it happened at all, and especially, in front of his friend who was very much alive after all, who disliked emotions and probably was convinced by now that John was emotionally unstable. For the second time in two days he wished the ground would open and swallow him up. He took a few deep breaths and tried to regain control. "I'm terribly sorry," John finally whispered sheepishly, pulling himself together. "I had a black out."
Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, shocked, looking a picture of misery himself. A moment later he came to his senses, remembering that he was supposed to support his friend emotionally, and patted John somewhat helplessly on his arm.
Apparently, he had developed an automatic program for emotional support, John thought, smiling sadly in spite of himself.
"I am sorry," Sherlock said awkwardly with a look of guilt on his face. He obviously was struck deeply by this.
"It has nothing to do with…the Fall," John said vaguely. He couldn't explain himself right now but he knew that he had to get this straight right away. He didn't want Sherlock to be tormented by doubt. "I meant what I said. You're forgiven."
Sherlock looked at him, worried. "But sometimes it still hurts?" he wanted to know, recalling the conversation they had with Dr. Stevens.
"Yes, something like that," John answered evasively. "It's more about myself."
"You're not going to tell me," Sherlock stated, a flash of hurt crossing his face.
"Not right now," he replied. "I need time."
A few times Sherlock opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then he closed it again, apparently having second thoughts. He obviously had trouble accepting John's refusal to let him know his secret, but he swallowed his curiosity and respected John's wishes, not inquiring any further.
John felt sorry for him. He didn't mean to hurt his friend. "I promise I'll tell you in time," he added, putting emphasis to his words by embracing his friend tightly. "First, I need to sort this out on my own." Internally he sighed. It shouldn't be so hard to say "I love you" for real, he thought, distressed.
Dr. Martin had no idea what was going on but used the emotional moment to let them change the roles.
John slowly disengaged himself from Sherlock's arms, squeezed his arm one more time reassuringly, and reluctantly went to climb into the coffin.
As soon as he lay down, John closed his eyes and kept them tight shut. He was still in a complete turmoil from the emotional exposure he experienced a few moments before. He'd rather write love letters to his friend on a daily basis than ever writing a eulogy again. Aside from this very obvious fact, the idea of lying in a coffin was absolutely creepy and he felt extremely uncomfortable. John didn't suffer from claustrophobia but the experience of lying in the coffin was eerie and nightmarish enough to give him second thoughts on the matter. The very smell of wood and lace alone, stuffy and dusty, filled him with nausea. However, his attention soon was otherwise occupied. Now, he nearly was sorry that he couldn't see a thing because a remarkable audio play presented itself to him as Sherlock approached the oaken box. Since Dr. Martin wasn't far away and insisted on John pretending to be dead properly, he didn't dare to cheat, peeking.
"There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go.
You were one of them, John.
It's difficult to describe your many personal attributes. The first thing people got to know about you was your great kind-heartedness. The doctor in you was always present, and a good doctor you were: always ready to help other people, being kind and caring for others. You were patient and friendly, and spoke encouraging words to your patients as well as to your friends. We've had many arguments in our life but your words were always well-meant and never judging.
You also were an adventurous man. Again and again, you showed me the soldier in you: your fast determination, bravery, integrity and courage. I could always rely on you. You once told me that you thought of me as a hero. I responded with heroes don't exist. I'm willing to admit that life corrected me. You certainly were one of them for I recall the many times you saved me and not just my life.
You paid me the great compliment of becoming my friend and my partner. You were so easy to be with, making me laugh. You challenged me to change my attitude towards people. I'm thankful for your endless support and faithful belief in me, for the endless times we've celebrated our successes, for trying to understand my problems and helping me, to accept my defeats. Your love for me was unconditional. I never thanked you for the sacrifices you made for my sake and for every day that I gave you a reason to leave but you didn't. I'm thanking you now for all the things you did and I'm hoping that you knew all along, how much you meant to me. You were the most extraordinary ordinary man I ever met and what I feel for you I will never feel for another human being.
You wouldn't want us to make a fuss about your departure and you'd say instead, "Eat some good food, have a few drinks on me, share the good memories, laugh a lot and then go home again, live your life to the fullest. Miss me, but let me go. I had my fill".
I will try my best to respect your wishes and to do as you suggested: I will dearly miss you, my friend, but I'll try to let you go.
Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way you always used, put no difference into your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow, laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we always enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effort, without the ghost of a shadow in it. Life means all that it ever meant, it is the same as it ever was. There is absolute unbroken continuity. What is death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you for an interval, somewhere very near. Just around the corner. All is well. Nothing is past; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"
It was a nice eulogy, as far as a eulogy could be nice at all. Sherlock made every effort to express his grief and John would have liked it as a eulogy for his actual funeral. However, Sherlock's feelings actually showed more in his manner than in his words. John could sense that he was agitated and this time, it wasn't caused by boredom or impatience. While John had relived Sherlock's death, for Sherlock it was the first time to be confronted with the possibility of John's death. Seeing your friend in a coffin certainly did strange things to you. Knowing that death was inevitable was something completely different than experiencing it.
Halfway through the eulogy Sherlock started stroking John's hair and kept doing so until he finished. If he didn't know better, he'd say that, oddly enough, Sherlock was affected emotionally. His voice wasn't as firm and steady as it used to be. He spoke with a breathy voice and swallowed hard a few times, before also hemming once or twice. Although, unlike John, he was a master in choking emotions, even Sherlock had to acknowledge that he wasn't above them in the end. Throughout their friendship he fought more against needing John, than John fought against needing Sherlock, because it would inevitably lead to his emotional vulnerability.
At some point, Sherlock reconciled himself to it and more or less accepted his re-emerging array of emotions. He referred to it as one of the "John only"-things. However, in the course of time, it started to involve more people than John alone, John had realized, satisfied. Even though John wasn't able to see Sherlock's facial expressions or body language, he could tell that his friend struggled to retain his composure.
Then, Dr. Martin asked John to leave the coffin again and waved them into two chairs which were standing next to the coffin. Unfortunately they didn't leave the room. The presence of the creepy oaken box seemed to be a vital point in discussing the experienced feelings.
"How do you feel now?" Dr. Martin asked them expectantly.
"I'd rather be in the coffin than reading the eulogy," John answered and addressed Sherlock, "but I know that my death would be…" John searched for the right word. Devastating? Disastrous? Catastrophic? He thought it best to choose words that stood close to Sherlock himself, in order to not freak him out. Touchy-feely talk needed to be introduced to Sherlock very carefully and in well dosed portions, after all.
"… inconvenient for you. I think it might be better if I'll try to outlive you and recite your eulogy after all," John continued.
"That wasn't what I meant, John. How are you feeling?" Dr. Martin inquired firmly, leaving Sherlock no room for a reply.
John recognized defeat. His anger was written large in his face. "It hurts, okay? It hurts like hell. I lost him once and I don't want to lose him again. He…," …means everything to me, John internally screamed to her face but settled for something less obvious,"…has become indispensable."
"Better," Dr. Martin retorted. She wasn't really content with how things were going. Maybe she realized by now that her "model students" wouldn't end up pouring out their hearts to one another in an emotional outburst.
"And what about you, Sherlock?" she asked.
Sherlock's breath caught.
John watched him closely, now that he was able to do so again. Sherlock was ostensibly calm and unaffected by the situation; he fixed his gaze on a spot behind Dr. Martin and was over conscientiously trying to look neither at the coffin nor at John. To John it was blatantly obvious that Sherlock was struggling, torn between the need of expressing that John's death didn't leave him cold, for John's sake and the sake of their friendship, and maintaining his composure, for his own sake. It was a rare sight: Sherlock Holmes was fighting with himself. And that was probably the hardest struggle yet, much harder than fighting his enemies, much harder even than fighting Moriarty.
"Sherlock?" she repeated his name vigorously.
He slowly released the breath he held. "Your death would be very… inconvenient indeed." When he finally cast a glance at John, the expression of his face was haunted. He didn't need to say anything at all. John understood him all too well. It was a real soul deep hurt. The pain got inside you and ripped you apart.
"Inconvenient? Oh for God's sake, tell me how you feel?" Dr. Martin asked again, impatiently.
Eventually Sherlock turned his head and met her eyes. "Lonely," Sherlock said quietly with a hint of sadness in his voice, finally submitting himself. "I was alone again."
She watched him intently. "Your need for him is great," the counselor suggested.
A long silence ensued.
Sherlock examined her for a moment, then, he bent forward, his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands as if in prayer, and looked at her steadfast. "John always supports me, watches out for me and cares for me. He loves me without reservation and is most loyal and faithful regardless of my many faults. He is my everything, my only love. Of course my need for him is great," he replied in a most casual tone as if recounting one of his deductions.
"Then his death would cause you to feel …?" Dr. Martin dared him.
"…uncomfortable?" John suggested quickly. He had been completely unprepared for Sherlock's answer who suddenly spoke in a language that was much closer to John's character than to his own. He decided that Sherlock already had an overdose on emotions for the present day.
"…devastated?" the counselor suggested for her part.
"Words fail me," Sherlock replied. "The extent of my feelings is beyond description."
"Do you…," Dr. Martin began to go into Sherlock's remark, when the door suddenly flew open with a loud crash, and a group of ten policemen dashed into the room like a bull in a china shop.
"You can't go in …," the little secretary of Dr. Martin murmured helplessly, jogging on behind them. Apparently she had tried in vain to prevent them from interrupting the session.
The ferret like figure of DI Davies was the last one to arrive in the doorway. "Dr. Elizabeth Martin?" he asked, not deigning to look at Sherlock or John.
"Yes," Dr. Martin answered. "What's all this then?" she asked, gesturing towards the group of police officers. "I'm in the middle of a therapy session."
Finally, Davies took notice of the two men and raised an eyebrow. However he didn't comment on the therapy remark from Dr. Martin and turned his attention back to her. "I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Samantha and Thomas Smith and committing financial fraud. You don't have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence."
"What?" Dr. Martin asked surprised.
Instead of receiving an answer, two officers handcuffed her and led her away. John was able to hear her volley of expletives for several minutes before her voice finally faded away.
"You're arresting her on charge of murder?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. "You must be joking!" he exclaimed.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade kindly informed me about the evidence you've serendipitously found. I'm much obliged to you," he pretended.
"The evidence only proves that she is involved in deceptive business practice and provides fuel for further investigations on the financial matter," Sherlock retorted. "Why suspecting her on murder so suddenly? Where's your evidence?"
"She obviously had a motive. The Smiths blackmailed her. And unless you can produce conclusive evidence for your hypothesis that someone else murdered them, she's under arrest," the detective inspector answered with a sardonic smile and looked at him with feign interest.
"I don't have conclusive evidence …," Sherlock admitted through gritted teeth.
"I thought as much," DI Davies continued sweetly.
"…yet," Sherlock added in a determined tone.
"Let me give you a word of advice, Holmes. Rejoice over David Jones' release from prison and leave it to me to solve this case. You were coincidentally right in this case and you've helped the Trevor gentleman, but now it's time for you to bow out of it. I don't need or want your help."
At this level of impertinence John was temporarily at a loss for words and even Sherlock didn't know what to say for a moment. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's tenacity, Davies would still suspect David Jones and have no idea about the involvement of Dr. Martin.
"Don't let me keep you," Sherlock finally said with feigned friendliness. "As I said before: You shall work your method, and I shall work mine."
The detective inspector glowered at him, holding his gaze. "Be warned, smart arse! Don't get in my way!" Davies replied at last and left without so much as a backward glance, following after his suspect. The rest of his men left for the office area to search it again.
"Stubborn git!" John eventually exclaimed, scandalized, when they were all alone again. "What a nerve!"
Sherlock cocked his head. He smiled genuinely at the look of surprise on John's face. "Come, come, John. Don't mind him! His idiocy is beyond description," he consoled him. "In the end he will have to realize his mistake!"
"He will not be easily convinced," John replied doubtfully.
"No," Sherlock said, "but I will pile up fact above fact upon him until he will be forced to adopt my view. It's merely a matter of time."
He examined the face of his friend closely. Although Sherlock created the impression to be above such things, John knew that DI Davies' words offended Sherlock's pride. Davies humiliated him. If anything, Sherlock would only step up efforts and do everything in his power to bring down the murderer, to belie Davies words. For a moment Sherlock stared into the distance. His face had gone dark and a sardonic smile played on his lips. The emotional turmoil from before was forgotten.
"I'm standing fast," Sherlock remarked darkly. "He that will not hear must feel."
Davies made a mistake indeed, John thought. He would have to learn the hard way to acknowledge Sherlock as his superior. John really wouldn't like to be in his shoes right now.
"Come along, John. Back to Baker Street. We've got plenty of work to do!" Sherlock said and clasped John on the back. "Let's teach him a lesson he won't forget!"
Back to Baker Street. What promised hours of peaceful sleep before, seemed to promise more sleepless hours now - and another week of pretence. After four days of hard work and three weeks of emotions running high, they were back to square one.
It would turn out, however, that sleep deficiency would not be John's only problem.
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