Chapter Text
BBC Sherlock: The Blogger's Tale
* Prologue *
April 2036
"Glad you kept these when you moved, Sherlock." John Watson leant forward in the armchair and blew the dust off a note card he had pulled from the worn box resting in his lap. Rather than retrieve his reading glasses from his jacket pocket, he held the card at arm's length to compensate for his presbyopia. He read it silently then addressed Sherlock. "Listen. Remember this one?"
"—I remember all our cases, John," Sherlock answered pointedly resting his elbows on the small kitchen table. He had been logging statistics to the cloud for his bee hives when John posed the question, "—including the contents of the unpublished ones in your box, there."
"I haven't even said which one it is, yet….," John grinned at his lifelong friend.
"Even so, there's no need to ask," Sherlock's level voice belied the pleasure he derived when John reviewed their old cases, even the ones John had never included in his blogs.
"It's a rhetorical question, Uncle," Rosie corrected her godfather. She made her remark without looking up from her 3-D imaging tablet. "Dad's just reminiscing… trying to remember it himself."
The petite woman, an Oxford third-year, was sitting cross-legged in the stuffed armchair facing her father. The cottage sitting room was comfortable and warm, the fireplace more than compensating for the dank weather outside. A persistent thunderstorm was keeping Rosie Watson and her father from exploring the farm surrounding Sherlock's new home on the South Downs near Eastborne. They had motored down the previous evening so they could get an early start, but now she was confined on her first visit by the dreadful weather. Disappointed, Rosie had hoped to enjoy her brief visit in Sussex during Hilary term—taking a momentary breather from the rigors of her four-year Biomedical Engineering studies—to learn more about her godfather's newest obsession: bees. The grand tour was now out, but she had no trouble logging into her Oxford student account to make efficient use of her time swotting for exams. One of the benefits of being related—in a fashion—to one of the premier researchers in the United Kingdom was the certainty of having superior connectivity even in the country.
"This one was before you were born, Rosie," John's eyes crinkled with nostalgia, deepening the sixty-five-year-old's crow's-feet.
"Exactly two weeks and three days before, in actual fact; Mary was on bedrest then," Sherlock noted, proving he knew by a glance across the room which card John had drawn.
Rosie looked up at her godfather—the fit, slender man who seemed untouched by his sixty years, except for the greying temples in his slick-backed hair—and watched the interplay between the famous detective and his famous blogger. Her father's reaction was what she most enjoyed. His mixed expression of bemusement and admiration whenever Sherlock did his 'thing' never got old for Rosie.
"I suppose you can tell by comparing the card's appearance from the other fifty or so cards," John muttered, "and where this particular one was in this box?"
"You know my methods," the slight uptick of Sherlock's smile meant he, too, enjoyed John's reactions. "You wouldn't be struggling to read right now, John, had you done as I advised: undergone the simple lens implants procedure. And, just so you know, there are precisely sixty-eight cards in that box."
"Dad!" Rosie giggled. "Put your glasses on! Uncle Sherlock numbered the backs of them. If you turn it over you can see it's twenty-seven."
"Don't want the procedure," John scowled at his own gullibility and arched his brows when he saw there was a number in Sherlock's distinctive hand on the back. "Of course, you're right about Mary needing bedrest, but it was a necessary precaution." Sentiment softened his voice. "Given she was turning forty and you were her first, hers was categorized as an age-related high-risk pregnancy. Fortunately, she went full-term without complications."
"An unforgettable day, that," Sherlock nodded before turning back to his voice-responsive quantum computer to continue his data inputting.
"Unforgettable," John concurred, glancing at his lovely daughter. Her honey-colored hair, so like her mother's, shone in the flickering glow of firelight. He gave her a proud smile. "The best ever, my lamb!"
Rosie smiled back. She had heard the story multiple times. She also noted the tell-tale shine in her father's dark blue eyes. He had got so sentimental of late about the "good old days." She returned to the subject. "So, the case on that card, Dad…what is it?"
Sherlock answered her before John, "The Warburton case. It was one of two clients your father brought to my attention. Isn't that so, John?"
"Quite," John palmed his eyes, sniffed, and glanced back at the card. "It was a medical case that stumped my colleagues."
"Which is presumably why it didn't become one of your blog postings." Sherlock twisted in the spindled-backed chair to view his guests with quiet satisfaction. Having them physically present, not just as a hologram via teleconferencing, was more pleasurable than he wanted to admit. It has been quite a while since they had gathered in person. "Actually, it should be something you've encountered already in your studies, Rosie. Although quite unknown back then, the information—when it became public knowledge—changed medical procedure. It wasn't, however, the kind of mystery that would have interested our normal readership."
"I don't think I ever heard of this one." Curious now, Rosie squinted—so much like her father, it seemed to Sherlock. She closed her tablet and settled in the wing chair to enjoy the story. "Tell me about it—please."
A zig-zag bolt of lightning and an immediate thunderclap made them all jump in their seats and Sherlock instantly shut down his computer. "Well, well," he said. "Nature's having her say in the matter. I guess a story for Rosie is in order. I recall it working when you were a child to keep your mind off thunderstorms."
Rosie's laughter was reminiscent of her mother's. "I'm not a frightened child anymore, Uncle Sherlock. But I always relish hearing an adventure you shared, especially one I haven't heard before."
"How much of this case do you remember, John?" Sherlock asked as he joined them.
Rosie jumped up. "You sit here in your chair, Uncle Sherlock, and hold that thought. I'll make us tea."
John raked his hand through his silver hair as if that might help him recall the details while Rosie filled the kettle from the boiling-water tap and assembled the mugs and teabags. "I recall how the patient first presented." John continued, "and then the remarkable outcome. It became a landmark in preventing the same complications for future patients, although some details in between—like how you figured it out—might be a bit dodgy in my memory."
"No problem there, John." Sherlock settled into his armchair after tossing pillows on the floor for Rosie to sit between him and her father. "You can begin and I'll correct you—"
"Sure, like that never gets old," John groused good-naturedly.
"Oh, Dad! This will be proper fun," Rosie chirped, arriving with their steaming mugs on a tray and placing two on the side tables beside each of the old friends. She kept her own on the tray which she put on the floor near the pillows. "It'll be like old times, hearing this in your own voices."
John waited for his daughter to tuck her legs under her and get comfortable before he began.
"It really was a puzzle. Poor Colonel Warburton… his personality had drastically changed within six months. He had been in and out of medical centers for complications associated with Parkinson's and had progressed so quickly to psychological instability and depression in an otherwise fairly healthy person that his doctors were stymied."
"No, John!" Sherlock's sharp tone surprised both Watsons, but he met their startled glances with a soft expression and warm smile. "Not that way! You can't ruin this for Rosie. You're going too fast. Your daughter deserves better than a quick synopsis. Begin again. This time use that blogger's narrative style you're so well-known for."
John squinted at his friend. "I thought you didn't like how I dragged out our so-called ridiculous adventures."
"Well, time has taught me to appreciate the craft, your craft," Sherlock murmured, "and…given the duration of this spring storm," as if on cue, another loud thunderclap shook the brick-and-flint cottage, "we shall have time to savor the details."
John leant back in his soft chair and sipped his tea. His eyes grew soft with memory; he put his mug down and licked his grinning lips, pleased at Sherlock's challenge, "Okay, then. Rosie, this is the case of Colonel Warburton's Madness…"
88**88
"Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice, that of Mr Hatherley's thumb and that of Colonel Warburton's madness."
- Dr. Watson (from THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)