NOMINO (R), Chapter 2
Title: NOMINO
Characters: John, Sherlock, Molly
Rating: R (warnings for character death, suicidal ideation and some violence)
Length: ~22K total
Summary: In a world where everyone is born with a name inscribed on his or her hand, finding your soulmate should be easy. And for John, it sort of is. It's what happens after he finds Sherlock that causes all the problems.
Notes: Originally posted in response to
casmomo's wonderful prompt on the meme. Click for disclaimer.
ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | ch 6 | ch 7 | ch 8 | ch 9
CHAPTER 2
John was still breathing a little hard from the stairs when Sherlock stood, snapping off the latex glove covers with a pleased little smirk on his face.
“Got anything?” the DI beside John prodded. What was his name again? John wondered.
“Not much.”
“She’s German.” John turned. It was the obnoxious forensic technician from before. “Rache. German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something-”
“Yes, thank you for your input.” Sherlock slammed the door in Anderson’s face. John tried to be shocked. He wasn’t.
“So she’s German,” the DI commented.
“Of course she’s not. She’s from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night, before returning home to Cardiff.”
“But what about the message?”
Sherlock ignored the detective. “Dr. Watson, what do you think?”
“Of the message?”
“Of the body, you’re a medical man.”
“We’ve got a whole team outside,” interrupted the DI, exasperated.
“They won’t work with me,” Sherlock returned acidly. Wonder why, John thought.
“I’m breaking every rule letting you in here-”
“Yes, because you need me.”
The detective’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yes, I do. God help me.” He turned to John, who was still looking at him for permission. “Oh go on then, help yourself.” He stomped out into the hall, leaving the door ajar behind him.
John knelt beside the body. “What am I doing here?”
“Helping me make a point,” Sherlock replied in an undertone.
“I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”
“This is more fun.”
“Fun?” John’s brows shot up his forehead. He pointed at the prone body between them. “There’s a woman lying dead.”
Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. “Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.”
John sighed and turned his attention to the woman on the floor. She was in her mid-thirties with light brown hair, not fit but not overweight. Pretty average overall. She was lying on her stomach with her arms above her head, the right palm up and the other down. The pink leather glove on her right hand had been pulled up, exposing the name printed across her palm; but the final letter of the name had been obscured, leaving only “Rache” legible. The long pink nails of the woman’s left hand were bloodied. She’d scratched part of her own name off before dying.
John leaned forward and sniffed at the woman’s mouth. The sickly scent of gastric juices stung his nostrils. “Yeah,” he said, pulling back. “Asphyxiation. Probably passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. Could’ve been a seizure. Possibly, drugs.” John glanced back. The detective inspector had reentered the room whilst he’d been bent over the body.
“You know what it was. You read the papers,” Sherlock replied in a low voice, his gaze never wavering from John’s face.
“Oh it’s one of those suicides-”
“Sherlock, two minutes,” the DI interrupted brusquely. “I need anything you’ve got.”
“Victim is in her late thirties,” Sherlock began, rising from his crouch and circling the room as though searching for something. “Professional person, going by her clothes, something in the media given the frankly alarming shade of pink, planning to stay in London for one night, obvious from the size of her suitcase.”
“Suitcase?”
“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily, she’s had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married.”
The detective crossed his arms. “For God’s sake, if you’re just making this up-”
“Her wedding ring is at least ten years old. The rest of her jewelry,” Sherlock waved a hand over the woman’s bracelet and earrings, “has been cleaned regularly but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The ring reads ‘Martin,’ so obviously she’s not married to her match. She could be having an affair with ‘Rachel,’ but the inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, meaning it’s regularly removed. She couldn’t keep up the fiction of being unmarried for long, so she has a string of lovers not just one. Simple.”
“Brilliant,” John said before he could stop himself. Sherlock gave him an odd look. “Er, sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock spoke slowly. He seemed at least as surprised at the admission as John was.
The DI coughed slightly, causing both men to turn their attention back to him. “So, on her hand-it’s ‘Rachel’.”
“No, she was leaving an angry note in German,” Sherlock sneered gracelessly. “Of course its Rachel. She had a suitcase with her,” he continued, his eyes jumping from corner to corner, stalking around the room, “and she must have had a phone or an organizer somewhere.”
“Why do you keep saying suitcase?” the DI asked patiently.
“Yes, now where is it, what have you done with it?”
“There was no case.”
“Say that again.”
“There wasn’t a case, there was never any suitcase.”
“SUITCASE!” Sherlock bellowed, dashing from the room and down the stairs. “Suitcase, did anyone see a suitcase?”
“Sherlock, there’s no suitcase!” The detective leaned over the banister, John stumbling to catch up in his wake. “What’s going on?”
Sherlock paused on a landing halfway down the stairs. “It’s murder. I don’t know how, but they’re killings, serial killings.” He clapped his hands together in undisguised glee. “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer, I love those, there’s always something to look forward to.” Then he disappeared down the stairs and out of sight.
The detective beside John slumped wearily against the banister. “Goddamn him,” he muttered resignedly.
“Er-” John started, unsure of what to say. He still couldn’t remember the man’s name. Had Sherlock even bothered introducing them? The DI turned to him as though surprised to find him still there. “Should I-I’ll just go, then.”
“Yeah, that’d be a good idea,” the detective said. “Thanks for your help.”
“I didn’t do anything,” John replied, because he really hadn’t. “Thanks, um…”
“Lestrade.”
“Watson. John Watson,” John said. They shook.
“Well, I’d better-” Lestrade waved a hand vaguely behind him. “Got to start looking into this Rachel person. Might be a lead.”
“Good luck.”
Lestrade nodded and turned back to the scene to consult with Anderson and some of the other technicians. John turned back to stare down at the long, long staircase. He sighed.
<><><><><>
John was sweating by the time he exited the building. His cane was slippery in his right hand, and the bandaging around his left was damp. He made his way slowly towards the police barricade, taking in the unfamiliar rows of condos. He hadn’t even noticed them on his way in with Sherlock.
“He’s gone,” one of the detectives-Sally, he remembered-said as he approached uncertainly. She didn’t look particularly welcoming.
“Who, Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yeah, he just took off, he does that.” She fiddled with her bag, not looking at him.
John shifted off his bad leg, wincing slightly. “Is he coming back?”
“Didn’t look like it.”
“Right.” John looked back at the house for a moment, then made up his mind. “D’you know where I can get a cab? It’s just,” he looked down at his damn cane for a moment, “my leg.”
Sally sighed. “Try the main road,” she said, pulling up the police tape to let him through. John was already two steps away when she continued. “But you’re not his friend.” John stopped. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?” She frowned at him with something close to pity in her eyes. He bristled.
“I’m nobody.”
“Well, here’s a bit of advice: stay away from that guy.”
“Why?”
She paused, examining him. “You know why he’s here?” She didn’t wait for a response. “He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the better. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around body, and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s a psychopath. Why do you think he wears two gloves?”
<><><><><>
Of all the places John might’ve anticipated being stripped bare-metaphorically speaking, of course-and ogled that evening, a deserted underground car park was not one of them. Nor could he have predicted that the person doing the stripping would be a tall, frightfully posh man accessorized with an umbrella. No, the umbrella was definitely unexpected.
“You’re very loyal, very quickly,” the man observed, swinging the aforementioned umbrella in an unnecessarily Freudian manner.
“No, I’m not, I’m just not…interested,” John stuttered.
“Never mind, then. I know people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that that is not going to happen.”
Those words were still ringing in John’s ears several days later, when he stepped into the glover’s shop on Balcombe Street. He selected a nice tan leather hand wrap that hugged his thumb just right, but wouldn’t interfere with daily activities. Forty pounds was a bit dear, but he thought he deserved the treat.
<><><><><>
John uncrossed his legs again. He felt twitchy, like he always did when someone was paying too much attention to him. Ella sat serenely across from him, placid and immovable as always. John wondered briefly whether therapists went through special training to be able to sit perfectly still for long periods of time.
After what seemed like eons, she broke the silence. “I read the update on your blog.”
John shifted in his seat. “Yeah?”
“It was very interesting,” she said, flipping a page in her notebook and glancing down at the writing.
John leaned forward surreptitiously, but she had it angled away from him. Damn.
“Your flatmate in particular seems…unusual.”
Yet another trait that therapists seemed to have drilled into them: the art of the understatement. “You could say that, yeah. Others might call him a smarmy git.” Like John had just that morning, upon discovering a pair of moldering kidneys in the brisker.
Ella fixed him with a gimlet eye, then flipped another page in her notebook. “You seem to like him.” The tone of her voice suggested that John’s taste in acquaintances was suspect.
“It’s not-I don’t know if I like him, per se. He’s just…” John trailed off, fumbling for words. What was Sherlock exactly? Brilliant? Mad? Irritating? My match, but John would never in a million years say that out loud. “He’s fascinating,” he concluded a bit lamely.
“Yes, you mentioned that.” Ella gave John another hard look. “You also called him ‘not safe.’” She closed the notebook, settling it on her lap in a way that clearly said, okay now we’re getting down to business. John instinctively straightened in his chair. “John. I know that you’re intrigued by this man, but I cannot hide my concern from you. Chasing after killers? Getting involved in unauthorized criminal investigations? This-”
“The police came to him,” John corrected with some heat. Ella’s eyes narrowed at the interruption.
“As I was saying. This is not going to help you adjust to civilian life. It will just be putting off the inevitable.”
The inevitable what? John felt his ears flush with anger. Before Sherlock, he’d been hiding in his bedsit, staring at the sandy décor and thinking circular thoughts about the illegal Sig Sauer P226 semi in his desk drawer. Before Sherlock, he could barely get to the bathroom without his cane. His hands clenched unconsciously into fists, so that the new leather around his left hand crinkled stiffly. Maybe Mycroft was right.
“I’ve already moved in with him,” he said finally, when he was sure he had himself under control.
Ella was unfazed. “I know,” she replied. They glared at each other for a few seconds-well, John glared, Ella watched calmly-before she continued. “Maybe you could tell me what you find fascinating about him. So I can understand a little better.”
John settled back into his chair. What the hell, he might as well give it a go. “I don’t know, really. He’s clever, really clever, but he has the strangest interests. I mean, he doesn’t know who our prime minister is, but he can identify different bath tile manufacturers by the distribution of mica in the paint.” John felt himself begin to grin, caught Ella’s eye, and forced himself back into a frown quickly. “He can be a pain in the arse at times, but who doesn’t have a few bad habits? Overall, I’m just happy to find a flatmate who can live with me.”
Ella arched an eyebrow encouragingly, but didn’t say anything. John sighed. “What else…I guess it’s a bit weird that he always wears his gloves around the flat, but then we don’t know each other that well. I wear my wrap at home too. But he wears two of them. Bit old-fashioned, don’t you think?”
“Why do you think he wears two gloves?”
John licked his lips. He knew what he thought, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell Ella just now. She seemed to read his reticence, and she leaned forward, elbows braced against her knees. After nearly three quarters of an hour of motionlessness, the movement was jolting. “John. I know we don’t have the best relationship, but I hope you can trust me with this. Nothing will leave this room. It’s a safe place for you to air your thoughts and ideas. I won’t judge you."
Of course you will, the cynical part of John hissed, but he ignored it for the moment. The truth was, he really did want to talk to someone about this, especially a mental health expert…just not necessarily Ella. He wanted to know what a medical professional would make of Sherlock. He couldn’t trust his own opinion-even he had to admit, his objectivity was compromised. But the very idea of Sherlock reclining on a shrink’s couch, spilling his guts to a therapist was laughable. Ella’s indirect opinion was as close as he was going to get.
"He says he's a sociopath," John mumbled at last. He stared down at his gloved left hand, waiting.
"And sociopaths don't have names," Ella concluded. “So he wears gloves to cover the lack.”
"But I don't think he really is!" John burst out. "A sociopath, I mean. I think he just says that."
"Why do you think that, John?"
John struggled to marshal his thoughts. Why indeed? There wasn't any evidence to the contrary--Sherlock's behavior, thus far, was certainly textbook personality disorder. There were the gloves, the secrecy, the difficulty understanding emotions...the events of the past week had driven the point home time and time again.
“We found Rachel, but she’s dead.”
“Excellent! Where when and why? There has to be a connection!” Sherlock’s nose was barely ten centimeters from Lestrade’s face, his eyes blown wide with excitement. John’s shock at the discovery of Sherlock’s “recreational” history lessened significantly.
“Well I doubt it, given she’s been dead for thirty seven years, technically she was never alive.” Sherlock jerked back. “Rachel Ewart, Jennifer Wilson’s match, was still born.”
Sherlock’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “No. No, that’s not right. Why would she do that, why?”
“Why would she think of her match in her last moments, yeah sociopath,” Anderson called snarkily from the kitchen.
Sherlock rounded on him. “She didn’t just think of her match. She scratched her name off with her fingernails. She was dying, it took effort, it would have hurt.” He clenched his fist, swinging it as he paced the room in a frenzy of frustration.
John licked his lips, forcing his sluggish mind to reconsider the facts. “We know they take the pills themselves. Maybe he talks to them, maybe he used the death of her match somehow.”
“But that was ages ago!” Sherlock exclaimed, turning back to him and Lestrade. “Why would she still be upset?”
The flat fell silent. Sherlock blinked at John. “Not good?” he asked tentatively.
Bit not good, yeah, John thought. At the time, everything had been overshadowed by Sherlock’s genius: the discovery of the suitcase, the realization that “Rache” was a password, the trace on the phone…but in the cold light of day, the excitement dissipated and John couldn’t make himself forget the bewilderment in Sherlock’s eyes when faced with the tragedy of losing a match. All John was left with was a deep sense of wrongness, like the diagnosis just couldn't be right.
The silence lengthened. "You know,” Ella spoke gently, “it's alright if the reason is simply that you don't want him to be."
But it wasn't alright. Because wanting something doesn’t make it true.
NEXT >>
Characters: John, Sherlock, Molly
Rating: R (warnings for character death, suicidal ideation and some violence)
Length: ~22K total
Summary: In a world where everyone is born with a name inscribed on his or her hand, finding your soulmate should be easy. And for John, it sort of is. It's what happens after he finds Sherlock that causes all the problems.
Notes: Originally posted in response to
casmomo's wonderful prompt on the meme. Click for disclaimer.
ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | ch 6 | ch 7 | ch 8 | ch 9
CHAPTER 2
John was still breathing a little hard from the stairs when Sherlock stood, snapping off the latex glove covers with a pleased little smirk on his face.
“Got anything?” the DI beside John prodded. What was his name again? John wondered.
“Not much.”
“She’s German.” John turned. It was the obnoxious forensic technician from before. “Rache. German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something-”
“Yes, thank you for your input.” Sherlock slammed the door in Anderson’s face. John tried to be shocked. He wasn’t.
“So she’s German,” the DI commented.
“Of course she’s not. She’s from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night, before returning home to Cardiff.”
“But what about the message?”
Sherlock ignored the detective. “Dr. Watson, what do you think?”
“Of the message?”
“Of the body, you’re a medical man.”
“We’ve got a whole team outside,” interrupted the DI, exasperated.
“They won’t work with me,” Sherlock returned acidly. Wonder why, John thought.
“I’m breaking every rule letting you in here-”
“Yes, because you need me.”
The detective’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yes, I do. God help me.” He turned to John, who was still looking at him for permission. “Oh go on then, help yourself.” He stomped out into the hall, leaving the door ajar behind him.
John knelt beside the body. “What am I doing here?”
“Helping me make a point,” Sherlock replied in an undertone.
“I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”
“This is more fun.”
“Fun?” John’s brows shot up his forehead. He pointed at the prone body between them. “There’s a woman lying dead.”
Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. “Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.”
John sighed and turned his attention to the woman on the floor. She was in her mid-thirties with light brown hair, not fit but not overweight. Pretty average overall. She was lying on her stomach with her arms above her head, the right palm up and the other down. The pink leather glove on her right hand had been pulled up, exposing the name printed across her palm; but the final letter of the name had been obscured, leaving only “Rache” legible. The long pink nails of the woman’s left hand were bloodied. She’d scratched part of her own name off before dying.
John leaned forward and sniffed at the woman’s mouth. The sickly scent of gastric juices stung his nostrils. “Yeah,” he said, pulling back. “Asphyxiation. Probably passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. Could’ve been a seizure. Possibly, drugs.” John glanced back. The detective inspector had reentered the room whilst he’d been bent over the body.
“You know what it was. You read the papers,” Sherlock replied in a low voice, his gaze never wavering from John’s face.
“Oh it’s one of those suicides-”
“Sherlock, two minutes,” the DI interrupted brusquely. “I need anything you’ve got.”
“Victim is in her late thirties,” Sherlock began, rising from his crouch and circling the room as though searching for something. “Professional person, going by her clothes, something in the media given the frankly alarming shade of pink, planning to stay in London for one night, obvious from the size of her suitcase.”
“Suitcase?”
“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily, she’s had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married.”
The detective crossed his arms. “For God’s sake, if you’re just making this up-”
“Her wedding ring is at least ten years old. The rest of her jewelry,” Sherlock waved a hand over the woman’s bracelet and earrings, “has been cleaned regularly but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The ring reads ‘Martin,’ so obviously she’s not married to her match. She could be having an affair with ‘Rachel,’ but the inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, meaning it’s regularly removed. She couldn’t keep up the fiction of being unmarried for long, so she has a string of lovers not just one. Simple.”
“Brilliant,” John said before he could stop himself. Sherlock gave him an odd look. “Er, sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock spoke slowly. He seemed at least as surprised at the admission as John was.
The DI coughed slightly, causing both men to turn their attention back to him. “So, on her hand-it’s ‘Rachel’.”
“No, she was leaving an angry note in German,” Sherlock sneered gracelessly. “Of course its Rachel. She had a suitcase with her,” he continued, his eyes jumping from corner to corner, stalking around the room, “and she must have had a phone or an organizer somewhere.”
“Why do you keep saying suitcase?” the DI asked patiently.
“Yes, now where is it, what have you done with it?”
“There was no case.”
“Say that again.”
“There wasn’t a case, there was never any suitcase.”
“SUITCASE!” Sherlock bellowed, dashing from the room and down the stairs. “Suitcase, did anyone see a suitcase?”
“Sherlock, there’s no suitcase!” The detective leaned over the banister, John stumbling to catch up in his wake. “What’s going on?”
Sherlock paused on a landing halfway down the stairs. “It’s murder. I don’t know how, but they’re killings, serial killings.” He clapped his hands together in undisguised glee. “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer, I love those, there’s always something to look forward to.” Then he disappeared down the stairs and out of sight.
The detective beside John slumped wearily against the banister. “Goddamn him,” he muttered resignedly.
“Er-” John started, unsure of what to say. He still couldn’t remember the man’s name. Had Sherlock even bothered introducing them? The DI turned to him as though surprised to find him still there. “Should I-I’ll just go, then.”
“Yeah, that’d be a good idea,” the detective said. “Thanks for your help.”
“I didn’t do anything,” John replied, because he really hadn’t. “Thanks, um…”
“Lestrade.”
“Watson. John Watson,” John said. They shook.
“Well, I’d better-” Lestrade waved a hand vaguely behind him. “Got to start looking into this Rachel person. Might be a lead.”
“Good luck.”
Lestrade nodded and turned back to the scene to consult with Anderson and some of the other technicians. John turned back to stare down at the long, long staircase. He sighed.
<><><><><>
John was sweating by the time he exited the building. His cane was slippery in his right hand, and the bandaging around his left was damp. He made his way slowly towards the police barricade, taking in the unfamiliar rows of condos. He hadn’t even noticed them on his way in with Sherlock.
“He’s gone,” one of the detectives-Sally, he remembered-said as he approached uncertainly. She didn’t look particularly welcoming.
“Who, Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yeah, he just took off, he does that.” She fiddled with her bag, not looking at him.
John shifted off his bad leg, wincing slightly. “Is he coming back?”
“Didn’t look like it.”
“Right.” John looked back at the house for a moment, then made up his mind. “D’you know where I can get a cab? It’s just,” he looked down at his damn cane for a moment, “my leg.”
Sally sighed. “Try the main road,” she said, pulling up the police tape to let him through. John was already two steps away when she continued. “But you’re not his friend.” John stopped. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?” She frowned at him with something close to pity in her eyes. He bristled.
“I’m nobody.”
“Well, here’s a bit of advice: stay away from that guy.”
“Why?”
She paused, examining him. “You know why he’s here?” She didn’t wait for a response. “He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the better. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around body, and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s a psychopath. Why do you think he wears two gloves?”
<><><><><>
Of all the places John might’ve anticipated being stripped bare-metaphorically speaking, of course-and ogled that evening, a deserted underground car park was not one of them. Nor could he have predicted that the person doing the stripping would be a tall, frightfully posh man accessorized with an umbrella. No, the umbrella was definitely unexpected.
“You’re very loyal, very quickly,” the man observed, swinging the aforementioned umbrella in an unnecessarily Freudian manner.
“No, I’m not, I’m just not…interested,” John stuttered.
“Never mind, then. I know people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that that is not going to happen.”
Those words were still ringing in John’s ears several days later, when he stepped into the glover’s shop on Balcombe Street. He selected a nice tan leather hand wrap that hugged his thumb just right, but wouldn’t interfere with daily activities. Forty pounds was a bit dear, but he thought he deserved the treat.
<><><><><>
John uncrossed his legs again. He felt twitchy, like he always did when someone was paying too much attention to him. Ella sat serenely across from him, placid and immovable as always. John wondered briefly whether therapists went through special training to be able to sit perfectly still for long periods of time.
After what seemed like eons, she broke the silence. “I read the update on your blog.”
John shifted in his seat. “Yeah?”
“It was very interesting,” she said, flipping a page in her notebook and glancing down at the writing.
John leaned forward surreptitiously, but she had it angled away from him. Damn.
“Your flatmate in particular seems…unusual.”
Yet another trait that therapists seemed to have drilled into them: the art of the understatement. “You could say that, yeah. Others might call him a smarmy git.” Like John had just that morning, upon discovering a pair of moldering kidneys in the brisker.
Ella fixed him with a gimlet eye, then flipped another page in her notebook. “You seem to like him.” The tone of her voice suggested that John’s taste in acquaintances was suspect.
“It’s not-I don’t know if I like him, per se. He’s just…” John trailed off, fumbling for words. What was Sherlock exactly? Brilliant? Mad? Irritating? My match, but John would never in a million years say that out loud. “He’s fascinating,” he concluded a bit lamely.
“Yes, you mentioned that.” Ella gave John another hard look. “You also called him ‘not safe.’” She closed the notebook, settling it on her lap in a way that clearly said, okay now we’re getting down to business. John instinctively straightened in his chair. “John. I know that you’re intrigued by this man, but I cannot hide my concern from you. Chasing after killers? Getting involved in unauthorized criminal investigations? This-”
“The police came to him,” John corrected with some heat. Ella’s eyes narrowed at the interruption.
“As I was saying. This is not going to help you adjust to civilian life. It will just be putting off the inevitable.”
The inevitable what? John felt his ears flush with anger. Before Sherlock, he’d been hiding in his bedsit, staring at the sandy décor and thinking circular thoughts about the illegal Sig Sauer P226 semi in his desk drawer. Before Sherlock, he could barely get to the bathroom without his cane. His hands clenched unconsciously into fists, so that the new leather around his left hand crinkled stiffly. Maybe Mycroft was right.
“I’ve already moved in with him,” he said finally, when he was sure he had himself under control.
Ella was unfazed. “I know,” she replied. They glared at each other for a few seconds-well, John glared, Ella watched calmly-before she continued. “Maybe you could tell me what you find fascinating about him. So I can understand a little better.”
John settled back into his chair. What the hell, he might as well give it a go. “I don’t know, really. He’s clever, really clever, but he has the strangest interests. I mean, he doesn’t know who our prime minister is, but he can identify different bath tile manufacturers by the distribution of mica in the paint.” John felt himself begin to grin, caught Ella’s eye, and forced himself back into a frown quickly. “He can be a pain in the arse at times, but who doesn’t have a few bad habits? Overall, I’m just happy to find a flatmate who can live with me.”
Ella arched an eyebrow encouragingly, but didn’t say anything. John sighed. “What else…I guess it’s a bit weird that he always wears his gloves around the flat, but then we don’t know each other that well. I wear my wrap at home too. But he wears two of them. Bit old-fashioned, don’t you think?”
“Why do you think he wears two gloves?”
John licked his lips. He knew what he thought, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell Ella just now. She seemed to read his reticence, and she leaned forward, elbows braced against her knees. After nearly three quarters of an hour of motionlessness, the movement was jolting. “John. I know we don’t have the best relationship, but I hope you can trust me with this. Nothing will leave this room. It’s a safe place for you to air your thoughts and ideas. I won’t judge you."
Of course you will, the cynical part of John hissed, but he ignored it for the moment. The truth was, he really did want to talk to someone about this, especially a mental health expert…just not necessarily Ella. He wanted to know what a medical professional would make of Sherlock. He couldn’t trust his own opinion-even he had to admit, his objectivity was compromised. But the very idea of Sherlock reclining on a shrink’s couch, spilling his guts to a therapist was laughable. Ella’s indirect opinion was as close as he was going to get.
"He says he's a sociopath," John mumbled at last. He stared down at his gloved left hand, waiting.
"And sociopaths don't have names," Ella concluded. “So he wears gloves to cover the lack.”
"But I don't think he really is!" John burst out. "A sociopath, I mean. I think he just says that."
"Why do you think that, John?"
John struggled to marshal his thoughts. Why indeed? There wasn't any evidence to the contrary--Sherlock's behavior, thus far, was certainly textbook personality disorder. There were the gloves, the secrecy, the difficulty understanding emotions...the events of the past week had driven the point home time and time again.
“We found Rachel, but she’s dead.”
“Excellent! Where when and why? There has to be a connection!” Sherlock’s nose was barely ten centimeters from Lestrade’s face, his eyes blown wide with excitement. John’s shock at the discovery of Sherlock’s “recreational” history lessened significantly.
“Well I doubt it, given she’s been dead for thirty seven years, technically she was never alive.” Sherlock jerked back. “Rachel Ewart, Jennifer Wilson’s match, was still born.”
Sherlock’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “No. No, that’s not right. Why would she do that, why?”
“Why would she think of her match in her last moments, yeah sociopath,” Anderson called snarkily from the kitchen.
Sherlock rounded on him. “She didn’t just think of her match. She scratched her name off with her fingernails. She was dying, it took effort, it would have hurt.” He clenched his fist, swinging it as he paced the room in a frenzy of frustration.
John licked his lips, forcing his sluggish mind to reconsider the facts. “We know they take the pills themselves. Maybe he talks to them, maybe he used the death of her match somehow.”
“But that was ages ago!” Sherlock exclaimed, turning back to him and Lestrade. “Why would she still be upset?”
The flat fell silent. Sherlock blinked at John. “Not good?” he asked tentatively.
Bit not good, yeah, John thought. At the time, everything had been overshadowed by Sherlock’s genius: the discovery of the suitcase, the realization that “Rache” was a password, the trace on the phone…but in the cold light of day, the excitement dissipated and John couldn’t make himself forget the bewilderment in Sherlock’s eyes when faced with the tragedy of losing a match. All John was left with was a deep sense of wrongness, like the diagnosis just couldn't be right.
The silence lengthened. "You know,” Ella spoke gently, “it's alright if the reason is simply that you don't want him to be."
But it wasn't alright. Because wanting something doesn’t make it true.
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