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Elias doesn’t normally Look beyond the bounds of the Magnus Institute for any extended period of time, only to check the street outside or probe around for more peepholes into the corners and crevices of London’s packed, drizzly streets. Maybe once or twice to see if he can reach Peter while he’s away, but the captain is smart enough to evade Elias when he wants to, with or without the help of the Lonely.
So it comes as a surprise when something catches his attention, something so faint he might have missed it had the Eye not nudged him in that particular direction on one of the rare, brighter mornings before the clouds rolled in.
Something looking in on a quite normal flat above a sandwich bar & cafe on Baker Street.
It wasn’t very clear (the eye or eyes looking in must not be very realistic) and it was enough of a hinderance that he couldn’t Know anything, but it was enough to get a look at the occupants: a nice, motherly, older lady, a greying doctor—stocky, with close-cropped hair, and a man whom Elias gathered, after peeping in a handful of times, would be quite interesting to Watch.
Built like a bean pole and pale as porcelain, the man seemed perpetually agitated, so often he paced and muttered to himself, coming close to sawing his violin in half for hours at a time, sometimes well into the night. At other times he would spend far too long lying stalk-still, eyes glazed over. Elias could practically hear his brain ticking away.
And with a bit of sleuthing of his own, he gathered that this man—apparently a “consulting detective” in his own words—and the doctor with whom he shared a flat were Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, names Elias recognized from some newspaper or other.
Yes. Yes, they would definitely be worth keeping an eye on.
——
John can’t quite pin down when first he noticed what was going on as his phone rings, waiting for the person on the other end to pick up. What would he say after so long?
It isn’t abnormal for Sherlock to spend so many hours in his room or on the couch or simply immobile, building new wings and sketching blueprints for the many and varied pathways into his mind palace, something John is sure by now, if it was made manifest, would make the Winchester House looks tame.
But slowly, Sherlock’s absence starts to worry him, starts to scare him when he’s legitimately spooked to hear something moving down the hall of their flat only to remember that yes, he does have a flatmate.
Sherlock—being human after all—had finally left the confines of his room to fetch sustenance from the kitchen, and John couldn’t help but notice a slightly fevered look to him, something strained. Hungry after so long without food, he’d thought at the time, but Sherlock had left the kitchen without eating anything. Yes, he supposes that was the first sign.
But how was John to know then? Sherlock not eating was, while unhealthy, not unexpected.
Perhaps it was the gradual decline in his appearance generally. Sherlock, whatever his faults, had always maintained his own form of organization and self-care, always kept himself in check in his own way, whatever that may be. But over the last few weeks, John swears his cheeks have grown a bit more hollow, his eyes more sunken and the bags beneath them darker.
They still glitter with energy and vigor, but a different kind than normal. It’s no longer the glee of a new and intriguing case but a temporarily-sated hunger for a new puzzle, like it’s just enough to sustain him for a while longer.
It’s strongest when they’re interviewing clients. Again, not unusual for Sherlock to press people for their stories to an uncomfortable point, but during the last large spate of interviews, John saw him pressure a young man who was going into depth about the abduction of a friend of his from right beside him on a drunken walk home close to the point of a nervous breakdown.
He’d intervened, dragging a protesting Sherlock from the room, and as the phone continues to ring, John can’t help but feel another surge of unease at the fevered, fiery look in Sherlock’s face, the look of triumph and satisfaction, of a successful hunt when he’d left him in the hall. John had brewed the poor man a cup of tea and brought him some tissues after the fact.
The incident was not, to John’s dismay, a one-off. It had only gotten worse from there, to the point where arguments had been started about it. Sherlock had been rather short-tempered as of late (as though it could get any shorter), but especially with John, which was new.
He could deal with Sherlock being brisk with clients, but it was getting out of hand now, and Sherlock would snap at him if he did so much as vaguely reference meetings in which Sherlock had pressured some poor, frightened soul for the details of some bizarre disappearance of a sibling or murder spree seemingly centered around their flat.
And that was the least of John’s worries now.
Sherlock had been getting progressively thinner and more sickly over a period of a few months, a time when he’d taken on more and more cases that he would usually drop. And yet, despite the fact that John had concluded that it was impossible for him to be sleeping for any longer than a handful of hours a night, he still remained as spry and unpredictable as ever, maybe even more so than usual.
His caseload had reached a fever pitch; so high was their stack of jobs that John could only help with around half of them, but Sherlock seemed to pay his presence or absence while out on a case no mind.
Initially, John had attempted to do his own digging, keeping as close a watch as he could on Sherlock’s food and drink intake to see if whatever this was might be food-based. Surely Sherlock might have noticed if it was, but nothing came of that lead that John could diagnose as some kind of medical problem.
It hadn’t been drugs, John is sure of that. It’s become less and less of a surprise to see Sherlock leave and return the next day, presumably having spent the night out on a case, and he’s capitalized on these times to search every square inch of 221B for any kind of stimulant or ingredients to produce one, but nothing has turned up.
He’d hypothesized that it might be a mental ailment rather than a physical one, and thus out of his jurisdiction, but he knew that Sherlock would refuse that kind of evaluation, so he ended up turning to Mycroft of all people.
But he was of no help, and it wasn’t the eldest Holmes’ lack of an explanation that scared him, but his reaction upon seeing his little brother: legitimate fear. Fear not of his brother, but of whatever he couldn’t explain away as Sherlock being Sherlock. And John might have snapped and forced him to go see another doctor or a psychiatrist had it not been for one of their most recent cases.
Well, it wasn’t really their case, seeing as the client had fled the room. John can’t blame the poor lady, because Sherlock had not only deduced the make and era of the train she took to get to Baker Street, (something John had seen him do before since Sherlock had a habit of checking and memorizing the train schedules) but the car she’d sat in and the exact placement and direction of her seat in the car as well as her annoyance with a fussing baby and his tired mother sitting three rows behind her.
John had watched the color drain from he face so quickly he feared she might faint before fleeing. They’d gotten into a shouting match afterwards, John asking how the hell he knew that and he distinctly remembers a wide-eyed look of confusion on Sherlock’s face, and his quiet mumbling of ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know’ over and over again until Ms. Hudson broke them up.
There was no logical way for him to know that.
No way.
It had happened twice more in the following week, Sherlock just knowing things about people. John wouldn’t be on the phone if it was this bad. Not with someone with whom he’d so long ago lost contact.
“Hello?”
John can’t help but stall for a moment, then clear his throat. He wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t absolutely have to.
“Am I speaking to Martin Blackwood?”
“Yes, this is he, and who am I speaking to?”
“Hi Martin, it’s me, John Watson. From Oakhollow School. We chatted during lunch break sometimes….?”
“Oh, John! Hi! Uh, wow. This is unexpected. Wait a minute, you’ve been in the news lately, right?”
A pregnant pause, and then:
“Any particular reason for calling after so long? Not that I expected you to or anything I just-It’s just a bit out of the blue is all.”
It’s John turn to pause and organize his thoughts now. How in the world do you tell a distant acquaintance that your flat mate might be telepathic?
“Uh…you work at the Magnus Instutute now, yeah?”
“Yep.”
“Uhm. Hm. Okay, can I…schedule an appointment or something? Is that what you guys do? I just…I need to talk to someone—I guess, preferably you, if you can—about something and I’m all out of logical leads. I really don’t know where to go and it’s starting to really get to me.”
“Yes, just head down to the institute building, it’s in Chelsea near the Thames. It looks old and fancy and victorian and if that isn’t specific enough, there’s a big fat eye near the roof. Trust me, you’ll know it when you see it, it gives everyone the willies.”
“Okay, thanks Martin. Oh, uh, any specific time?”
“Sure, uh, let’s say midday of Wednesday next week? I think it would be better to use my lunch break, just trust me.”
“Okay. See you.”
John breathes a heavy, heavy sigh. Sherlock shuffled into the room, ever more emaciated. Wednesday better get here, and quick.
———•———
Elias Watches the two men disembark from their cab with mounting interest as though he himself is sitting in the pediment under that darkened gable facing the street. It’s quite a nice view, especially early in the morning when it’s not dreadfully rainy.
The Holmes man seems unwilling to be here, but given what Elias has gathered from the past few weeks, he’s right on time. A handful of pigeons scatter into the greying sky as Dr. Watson practically drags his protesting companion by the ear towards the institute doors. It’s right on the hour.
———
Martin mentioned that he might run a bit on the later side, but not, to John’s delight, by much, since he emerges a bit breathless from a stairwell in an out-of-sight corner of the lobby, extending a hand in greeting.
He shakes the round-faced man’s hand with enthusiasm, but Sherlock, as to be expected, does not. He’s behaved like a petulant child all the way here and looks to be in no mood to speak to anyone except John, if only to complain. Martin looks as though he doesn’t quite know how to react to Sherlock Holmes , so John quashes the silence drawing out ever longer as the freckled man debates whether or not to extend his hand by calling to attention the reason for their meeting.
“So, is this like an interview or something?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, right this way please.”
He turns and leads them through the gothic, church-like lobby and down the staircase he entered from. It is long and quite dizzying, spiraling downwards in a circle just tight enough to endure a feeling of claustrophobia.
Soon, the cramped stairwell opens up to yet another vast, dingy, dry room full of massive cobwebbed shelves and boxes upon boxes of all sizes, makes, and models, in which are stored any number of discarded, aging manila folders. They pass any number of rows—John has lost count—some of which are missed to make space for a desk and chair again little red with files before reaching a centerpiece or sorts, a circular tile design on the floor.
Martin pauses for a moment, then makes a left and continues through the maze. John keeps a carful eye on Sherlock, but he needn’t bother: he seems altogether pacified by the presence of so much knowledge, of so many potential mysteries in one place, enraptured by the age and endless rows. Martin pipes up as they reach their destination.
“Sorry to take you the long way ‘round. It’s in here.”
He gestures to a plain door into a small room with a table and two chairs, and then:
“Do I need to get another chair…? I can do that if you—“
“No, no, it’s fine. Sherlock—“
But Sherlock shows no signs of wanting to wander off. In fact, he seems glued to the spot, entirely invested in the box of files he’s picking through. John looks at Martin as if to ask if that’s fine, but the man waves him off, beckoning to the door.
They each take their place at the table after the door shuts and Martin fumbles with something on the tabletop.
“You use tape recorders?”
“Oh, yeah, my boss wants us to use them to record statements.”
Martin shrugs it off, hitting record, and the machine whirs and clicks into life.
“Okay…Statement of John Watson, regarding…?”
John sighs, collecting each and every wild thought and theory that has plagued him for the past months.
“…the behavior of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Statement taken directly from subject. Audio recording by Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”
And John just…talks.
Talk and talks and talk and talks until his mouth is dry about everything, about Sherlock’s typical atypical behavior, about how this might not have been so far out of his normal range had it not been for him just up and knowing things he bloody well shouldn’t, about how he’s an army doctor with the highest qualifications, thank you very much, and he should be able to figure out what’s wrong and if he can’t Sherlock’s brother should know, but they just.
Can’t.
There is no logical explanation for everything that has happened, for Sherlock’s survival off of so little food, of his hunger for new cases multiplying tenfold, there is nothing that makes this make sense.
And then he’s out of breath after so many, many minutes of talking and raving and ranting and John is just so very, very lost.
“I just…I want my Sherlock back, as stubborn and churlish as he is, I—I need him to be as normal as normal is for him and this isn’t it. It’s wrong and I hate it. I want him back.”
Martin pats his hand gently, looking on with sympathy in his face.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, thank you Martin. That would be excellent.”
“Oh, uh, statement ends, end recording.”
Martin pushes one of the tape recorder’s many buttons and beckons for John to stand, leading him out to find Sherlock still glued to the spot with a mess of folders strew about him, something that, given the state of the archive, took John quite a few moments to really notice as out of place.
It made him truly uneasy how quickly Sherlock’s eyes flicked across the page, how bright they were in contrast to such dark circles beneath them. He looks pasty in the yellow-green underground of this place. Plaid and sickly, yet still obsessive, in a sort of madness brought on by fever. He rests a hand on top of Sherlock’s to get his attention, taking note of the fact that his skin isn’t any warmer than it should be, nor on his forehead.
Only when John shakes him by the shoulder does Sherlock looks up from the file, apparently in a daze. And then he wheels and nearly runs off through the winding maze of shelves and dust, and John is hot on his heels, shouting after him as he whips ‘round corners until—
John spots Martin on the opposite end of the row they’ve stopped at, not bearing tea but being dragged bodily along by a thin, haggard, greying man with pink scars that dotted a dark face. They looked almost like constellations, all clustered across his arms and whatever skin was exposed. They were mesmerizing, and John can barely hear him demand who they are, but he answers nonetheless.
He can’t not stare into grey-green eyes and feel the world around him dim somewhat.
John cannot notice the intensity with which Sherlock and this stranger lock eyes.
And the Eye locks onto them, finds them, binds them to each other and itself and it drinks. It feasts, it’s appetite as voracious as ever and only temporarily sated by the incoming rush of Know and See and Information and Answers and Stories.
Elias Bouchard, sitting comfortable and cozy in his office high above, looks down from an eye hidden out of sight and smiles a crooked, rosebud smile.