Chapter Text
BBC Sherlock: The Blogger's Tale
**Epilogue**
"You do that every time, John!" Sherlock objected when they had finished exchanging details about the case. "You've made me look…over dramatic."
"Well, you have to admit, your exit was quite theatrical," John chuckled at the memory.
"Not so!" Sherlock pushed back in his winged chair and shook his head. "I was forced to make quick work of that favor of yours because there were other more pressing concerns—."
"Stop arguing, you two," Rosie's giggles interrupted their banter.
John and Sherlock blinked in synchronized surprise and glanced at the young woman. Lost in their recollections from two decades ago, both men had forgotten she was there or that they were in Sherlock's Sussex cottage and not back in Baker Street.
Rosie had been listening intently with a smile on her face. She was sprawled over the floor pillows on her stomach, with her head cradled in her hands braced on her elbows, and swinging her crossed ankles in the air.
"Still, that's the way I remember it," John replied, unwilling to cede his point to Sherlock. He gave his daughter a lopsided smile and continued, "Before I followed you out of the hospital room, Warburton detained me to ask, 'Is he always like that'?"
"Wait, Dad!" Rosie lifted her head and straightened her elbows in a cobra pose. "Mike Stamford said something like that when you first met Uncle Sherlock to talk about a flatshare, right?"
John threw his daughter an amused look. "It's a question I've heard often over the years, but no, Rosie. Mike's was a statement, not a question. He claimed he answered the look of surprise on my face. Now that was also an unforgettable moment," he snickered behind a sentimental grin.
Rosie beamed at both men for the affection she observed between them.
John glanced at the index card in his lap. "I can always count on your ironclad memory, Sherlock, for the smallest details."
Sherlock grunted in agreement, "Of course. The benefits of an ordered Mind Palace."
"Still, it was brilliant how you deduced the case. Extraordinary, under the circumstances and given the little you had to go on."
A scant smile flickered on Sherlock's face at John's praise. "I merely followed the facts. The colonel was suffering from metallosis. I deduced his elevated cobalt levels were not due to his drinking habits or someone's betrayal in an attempt to poison him. So it followed: he was being poisoned by his implant. In truth, it was his trust that had been betrayed, by both the manufacturer's failure in authenticating the data and the regulatory policy that approved the innovation before it had been properly tested for human use. In the presence of persistently elevated metal ion levels and symptoms consistent with metal toxicity and after a chelation course—as you recommended—reduced the heightened cobalt-chromium levels in his blood, the revision hip replacement was necessary."
"Sherlock was absolutely right, Rosie, about, the metal-on-metal implant," John sipped absentmindedly at his tea and frowned. It had long gone cold during his recounting of the case. He placed the half-empty cup on the side table before continuing. "When the colonel's orthopedic surgeon went in to revise the hip with a plastic socket and a ceramic head, he found a virtual crankcase of metal sludge. The critical ligaments—you know them, Rosie, as the hip capsule that holds a hip in place—had virtually liquefied."
"Dreadful, I'm sure!" Rosie sat up and fluffed the pillows. "I've read those studies. So, Dad?" Rosie shifted to sit cross-legged, "How did the colonel fare after the hip replacement?"
"That's what so miraculous! Within a month, Warburton had an incredible recovery. His psychological symptoms abated completely along with his hearing loss, visual impairment, and the sorted neurologic symptoms. He was very lucky. Sherlock saved his life!"
"Your father is heavy on the praise today," Sherlock remarked neutrally, although his eyes shone with satisfaction, "but to the logician, all things should be seen exactly as they are. I am being neither vain nor modest in saying it had been expected of me to solve the puzzle and so I fulfilled that obligation."
"As you've probably read in your researches, Rosie," her father continued, "patients who were never properly diagnosed died from the toxicity their doctors couldn't explain. Sherlock solved Colonel Warburton's madness within thirty minutes. The more I remember it, the more amazing it was. In hindsight, I'm sorry I didn't post it on the blog!"
"Shortly after that, John, you had more important responsibilities in your life," Sherlock nodded at Rosie and gave his goddaughter a wink that raised a reciprocal wink in her twinkling blue eyes.
"I can see how it would've been so baffling at the time," Rosie reflected, "especially when people trusted that their new-and-improved medical implants, whether a pacemaker or joint, had undergone appropriate testing before going on the market for medical procedures."
"That's right, Rosie!" John was taking great pride in his daughter's biomedical engineering astuteness and her ability to participate fully in the conversation. "Now it's in all the medical journals. Back then, no one else was talking about it."
"Quite. Warburton's case was possibly one of the first reports regarding cobalt toxicity," Sherlock added. "Other cases followed shortly after and I can only suppose the publication of his case gave other stymied physicians an explanation that fit their own patients' symptomology. It was perplexing for so long because, initially, the neurologic manifestations seemed unrelated to the hip replacement. The two-year lapse between implant surgery and symptoms made it difficult to connect—although neurologic impairments appeared in less than two years for the more athletic patients like the colonel."
"The implant's break-down was accelerated by Warburton's rigorous activity," John explained, "and brought those symptoms on much sooner. Apparently, not every patient with that alloy composition experienced this wear issue, but there were enough to merit its recall."
"Lots to learn!" Rosie noted as she rose to her feet to collect their tea cups. "I remember reading that regulatory policies weren't strict enough, allowing for loopholes...so these products could bypass costly testing." She paused in thought at the kitchen sink. "How did you put it in your story? The manufacturer needed to demonstrate its new innovation was 'substantially equivalent' to another device already approved. It's a shame, really. It was a cost-saving measure that ended costing lives."
"Indeed, and this daisy-chain of 'presumed' approvals from one generation of devices to another was at fault." Sherlock now stood to stretch his legs and arms. "An innovative device got approved on the basis of being 'substantially equivalent' to a previous medical device that had been approved because it was substantially equivalent to an earlier medical device that had also been approved, and so on, and so on. You see the problem? As if derivative design conferred some sacrosanct imprimatur," he snorted with contempt. "Taking short cuts without scientific verification to prove they were actually equivalent was the greatest error."
"And there ends the tale. The Case of Colonel Warburton's Madness was a perfect title," John exhaled a self-satisfied laugh. "Number twenty-seven of our unpublished cases," he held up the card for one last, nostalgic look before sorting through the others in the box on his lap to re-file it. "Huh? What's this? There's no twenty-six or twenty-eight?" He continued flipping through case cards. "And this card has both the numbers twenty-nine and thirty on it. What? There doesn't seem to be a numerical order to these others …." He scowled in frustration. "What kind of mad filing system is this, Sherlock?"
"After all these years, John," Sherlock teased and rounded John's chair to look over his shoulder, "I expected you to be more attuned to my methods."
Rosie's eyes widened. "Oh! Of course," she cried in delight from the kitchen. "Brilliant! That's how you instantly knew it was the cobalt toxicity case!"
"What is it?" John looked up at the smirking Sherlock, not following his daughter's epiphany. "Sherlock, explain please?"
"And deprive your daughter of sharing her discovery? You must think me heartless, John."
"Okay, will someone explain it to me?" John grinned in mock indignation, accustomed to their levity at his expense.
"Oh, Dad! It's basic chemistry," Rosie joined Sherlock behind John's chair and wrapped her arms around her father's neck. "Cobalt," she pecked a kiss on his bristly cheek, "is the chemical element with the symbol Co and atomic number—."
—Twenty-seven!" John smacked his forehead in sudden enlightenment.
"You see. You are on sparkling form!" she cheered him with another hug and a kiss to the top of his head before she straightened again.
"Ha! Yes, of course! What person in their right mind would sort cases by anything other than the Periodic Table?" John whinged, waving the card above his head. "Dates, the alphabet, even a numbers sequence? No, they're too ordinary! But atomic numbers, that makes perfect sense!"
"Now, now, Dad," Rosie put a consoling arm about his shoulders as she settled on his chair's arm. "Uncle Sherlock's hint helped me figure it out …." Her father's furrowed forehead was a clue he wasn't appeased. Still, it tickled her to see his overreaction to his genius friend's coding system. Rather than laugh in her father's face, she hopped off the chair arm and coughed softly to hide her giggles.
"It does make perfect sense, John, if you think about it," Sherlock reasoned, "just as it does for Case of the Coiner's Cuff. That card is dually marked with the atomic numbers for copper, twenty-nine, and zinc, thirty—the filings I found in the seam of his cuffs—but not all our unpublished cases are identified by atomic number, John. Take for example the one about the Abernetty family."
"Come again. Which one?" John's face was the picture-perfect expression of bewilderment.
"The Abernetty family," Sherlock repeated patiently. "You will see I had marked that one with 20°C, the temperature at which butter softens. It's clearly a reference to my observation of the depth to which the parsley had sunk into the butter on a hot day."
"Oh my God," John swiveled in his armchair toward his daughter in an appeal for his sanity. "Don't tell me you understand this system, then?"
Rosie shrugged, straight faced, knowing better than to get between their two points of view.
"Sherlock, you are indeed the most idiosyncratic human being I have ever had the privilege of knowing!" John groaned, recognizing how ridiculous he was to argue with Sherlock's massive intellect and doing his best to mask his amusement.
"Why, thank you, John."
"By ordinary standards, I know I'm not a stupid man," John sulked behind a comic wink at Rosie as he replaced the Warburton's Madness card in the box next to the Coiner's Cuff and closed the lid, "but I am an idiot when it comes to fathoming that extraordinary brain of yours. And a lifetime of always being steps behind does wear one out."
"Don't despair, John," Sherlock lightly clapped his friend on the shoulder, while behind John's back, sharing a mischievous, arched eyebrow with his goddaughter. "You're never too far behind. Although it's true your methodical plodding can exasperate, at times, it has more often served to ignite my thought processes like a match to a fuse."
"Just so you know…," John again twisted in the arm chair feigning a long-suffering frown at his daughter and friend. "If I play the halfwit, it's to make you look clever. Such has been my humble role in our alliance."
At her father's snarky comeback, Rosie burst into unbridled merriment. Her contagious cackle quickly drew out John's hearty laugh while Sherlock's puckish grin broadened into a genuine smile.
As satisfied as the retired consulting detective had become with his solitary life, an unexpected and unbidden thought surfaced. I've missed this! He savored it briefly before shoving it farther into a special room in his Mind Palace.
John dabbed tears of mirth from his eyes. "Well, this was a splendid way to spend a rainy day in the country,"
"It's not rainy now. Observe, John." Sherlock motioned toward the windows buttered by welcome sunshine. "The storm's passed. Shall we all venture outside?"
"Yes!" Rosie grabbed her coat and pulled on her trainers. "Can't wait to see these famous hives of yours! Should I suspect a book about bees is in your writing future, Uncle Sherlock?"
"Not an apiphobe, I see," Sherlock murmured with approval.
"Afraid of bees? Why should I be?" She buttoned her coat and reached for the doorknob. "It's not like I'm allergic."
"They are fascinating creatures, but afraid or not, you must respect them, Rosie," Sherlock warned. "The last thing you want to do is put a hive's inhabitants on the defensive. Right after a thunderstorm isn't the optimum time to approach them—more bees are in the hive with the express purpose of defending themselves. We'll wait until the bees are less excitable. They'll be buzzing about soon enough once the sun is shining and warms the day a bit. In the meanwhile, there's more to enjoy on this farm than just the bees."
"Rosie, your uncle's the expert, now. Best to heed what he says."
She smiled fondly at words she had heard in many permutations since childhood. "I'll stay away from the hives and out of mischief, I promise." She opened the door wide and let the ozone-scented air and yellow brilliance flood the room. Silhouetted in the doorway, she urged the two men impatiently, "Don't tarry, then. I'll wait outside," and shut the door behind her.
Traces of petrichor lingered in the air. Both men savored the scent, but the room seemed suddenly dark. Sherlock stared at the closed door where the girl stood just outside. "Charming. Insightful. A product of extraordinary parenting." He looked down at John. "And how unlike us she is."
"Good thing," John flashed him a grin. "Don't know if I could've handled any inherited Morstan or Watson nasty traits in her—much less influences of your Holmes eccentricities—and have kept my wits intact."
Sherlock grunted his agreement and offered a hand to his older friend. "Best not keep her waiting—she got that trait from both of us."
Accepting, John pulled to his feet and shook out his legs to unkink the mild arthritis in his knees. "Been sitting too long. Not good. You know what they always say, sitting is the new smoking?"
"They've been saying that for nigh on twenty-five years," Sherlock countered before switching off the gas fireplace with his voice command,"Fireplace off."
John silently marveled at the high-tech, 'smart' conveniences Sherlock had installed in his country home. "Well, it's true." John sighed and wandered through the sitting room. He glanced at the bookcases, the lab equipment; the music stand with a handwritten composition in progress while the violin rested below in its open case, comparing the greater differences of Sherlock's tidy cottage décor with his memories of the topsy-turvy bachelor comfort of Baker Street.
"Nice touch." John pointed to the mail impaled by a familiar penknife in the rustic mantel. "Enjoying retirement?"
"Living the life of a hermit as you can see." Sherlock swept one arm wide in an exaggerated gesture too grand for the cozy cottage.
"Works for you, then?" John turned and focused on his friend. Concern and curiosity were mixed in his expression.
Sherlock met John's penetrating scrutiny before he dropped his gaze to his feet as if to fetch his answer.
Understanding Sherlock's evasiveness, John waited in silence. Expressing sentiments would always be difficult for the both of them, but whenever Sherlock let his closest friend into his private space of thoughts and feelings—which was the intention of John's question—it was typically done with great restraint.
"The bees give me new gangs to study much like I had with the criminal elements of London," Sherlock smiled at his analogy. "Lots of interests to keep my mind sharp and my body physically active."
"Good," John approved. "She's right, you know…?" He tilted his head toward the door indicating Rosie. "Writing. About the bees. Something to occupy your leisured ease, you think?"
"The fruit of pensive nights and laborious days," Sherlock nodded in agreement, looking warmly back at his friend. "And you, John? You look well. Retirement good?"
"Well," John bobbed his head and shrugged, "It's only been a few months. Still getting used to it, but fine, yes. No undue exertions to speak of."
"You're happy with that?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"Of course. Of course. At my age…who wouldn't be?" John insisted, "Enough peace and quiet to last a lifetime."
Sherlock's scrutiny intensified, but his voice remained neutral, "No more adventures in your future, then?"
John paused, not liking the implication in Sherlock's question, "Well, not perilous ones…. Some travel plans abroad, perhaps—"
"—boring," Sherlock interrupted.
John shook his head, evading Sherlock's hawklike stare. "You know what I mean,..."
Sherlock waited. When their gazes met again, he was disturbed by the uncharacteristic resignation in John's eyes.
"The truth is, Sherlock, our thrilling adventures served us both quite well. You thrived on the challenges, I on the causes. I like to think, together, we made this world a better place. But now, I'm reminded that I need to come to terms with my limitations."
"Reminded by whom?" Sherlock scoffed, and fixed John with a look of frustration. "Your London lot are idiots, all of them, and you are, too, if you let these 'friends' persuade you otherwise...Look outward for possibilities, John, not inward at limitations!" Abruptly, he tightened his focus as the thought struck him, "Are you unwell?"
The sincere worry in Sherlock's voice caught John by surprise. "What? No. No. Not that. My health's good. I'm still keeping fit, but the knees and the old shoulder injury act up more now and sometimes my endurance; well it's not what it used to…." he trailed off annoyed at himself; his excuses made him sound old and used up.
They stood facing each other for a moment: Sherlock considered his friend; John waited as if at attention. This moment seemed so familiar.
"Care to test your limitations?" Sherlock gestured toward the great outdoors of his small farm.
"Oh, God. Yes!" John blurted out in relief, and they grabbed their jackets.
First to the door, Sherlock opened it and followed John out into the bright sunshine. With one hand shielding his eyes, Sherlock reached back for the doorknob. "What do you think, John, for the title of my book: A Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen ?"
"Why just a book, Sherlock? How about a blog, or whatever they call them these days?" John asked. "It would be my privilege to help..."
The door shut behind them.
**888**
An End With New Beginnings