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When I’m busy with an experiment, or focusing on something important, it’s usually easy to ignore insignificant distractions around me, such as John’s comings and goings around the flat.
However, it had lately become harder and harder to ignore certain little behavioural ticks he was developing.
Tapping legs, fingers drumming the table.
Systematic folding and destruction of paper wrappings and labels.
Unconscious visual fixation on public displays of affection.
All textbook symptoms of sexual frustration.
There’s also the increased frequency of masturbation in the shower, proving he still hasn’t realised just how thin the walls in the house are (I consider the data on frequency and average time to orgasm, stored in a spreadsheet on my computer, to be a fair compensation in exchange for my tolerance of these proclivities).
I would have said something, normally. I usually never bother to censor myself with people. Sometimes they react violently to this but John is very accepting - it’s one of many things that make him so extraordinary. He understands how useless social conventions and behavioural norms are to a brilliant mind like mine. It’s also one of the many reasons why he’s such an invaluable companion on cases, and an acceptable flatmate at home.
Even John has limits, however. And one of the things he has shown little tolerance for are comments on his personal sex life.
Past deductions of this topic have been met with anger. Also embarrassment. This is despite the fact that he is the one who chooses to indulge in such idiotic distractions such as flirting and dating. Yet, he never complains when I interrupt his romantic engagements.
I’ve come to the conclusion that John is probably aware of how ridiculous his behaviour is, and would just rather stay in his bubble of denial. People do that a lot.
I’m not an inconsiderate flatmate, and having observed this, I decide to him the favour of not saying anything at all in reaction to his present behaviour.
But the more I say nothing, the harder it becomes to ignore.
Why does it bother me so much? His romantic entanglements are usually deathly boring and mundane. They fly under my radar as easily as I ignore radio advertisements or people telling me information I already know.
Still. Silence is my resolve. The last thing I want is John taking out his frustration on me. (Or perhaps should I provoke it, and get the argument over and done with?)
At this very moment, John is applying a very thorough method of torture to an unfortunate paper label of a jam pot. After folding it both ways eight times, then into an accordion shape (also both ways), he’s begun tearing it up in little squares of paper, one by one. The order in which he tore them up is seemingly random. I can’t help but stare as I try to make out a pattern. Sixty-four individual squares. In two days, that will be the number of days since his last sexual encounter. I can see that number, in my head, and all the little strings of further deductions it leads to. Why has it been so long? How badly is John craving sex right now? Has he tried obtaining new dates and been spurned? If not, why not?
I have to shut down these mental pathways that led towards parts of my brain I have no wish to look into. Desperate, I tighten my grip on the Daily Mail and furiously scan the local news for something, anything. Train accident. Cheating wife. Stabbing.
John clears his throat. Is he actually going to say something? I studiously avoid eye contact.
“You know, Sherlock...”
Burnt down kebab place. Skiing accident. Flooding. Anything.
Wait. Skiing accident.
It’s the photo. A Snapchat of the deceased with her husband, with a mountain panorama in the background. She took the photo, then minutes later, lost control of her skis. Fell over the cliff, death on impact. Known dangerous area, but still popular with experienced skiers.
In other words, the perfect place for a disguised accident.
Ignoring the journalist’s waste of printed space on exploiting the sentimental value of the “tragic accident”, I focus on the important clues. Obvious discrepancy between the cost and expense of the skiing holiday and the working class background of her family. Exclusive resort. Top brand skiing jacket. Custom-made skis. And very interestingly, Cartier earrings from this year’s collection. None of which could have been paid by her husband’s humble teacher’s salary.
In another century, I might have been at a loss to discover the identity of the couple’s mysterious benefactor without interviewing close family and friends. Thankfully, people plaster their whole lives on Facebook nowadays. It’s easy enough to establish a timeline that points straight to the presence of an ex-lover who had been unceremoniously dumped not six months prior to the marriage.
An ex-lover who just happens to be the head of their own travel agency.
I look up the address of the agency. Perfect. In two minutes, a suspicious skiing accident (no more than a two) has gone up to a definite six. I’m grabbing my coat when something breaks through the momentum.
“- Sherlock. SHERLOCK.”
Oh. John had been talking. About something. Face and hands say he was expecting a reply. Relaxed posture means it was nothing immediately urgent.
“Case, John! Come on!”
John would always follow.
---
I spend the cab ride looking up more details about the ex-lover online. We walk into the agency and I can feel John buzzing with questions behind me. I enjoy having John like this - alert, attentive, wholly engaged in the case and in me, ready to deal with anything unexpected. It is said that the frailty of genius is that it needs an audience, and I admit I am at my best when John is by my side.
I can see him taking in the surroundings, scanning the insides of the agency with the force of old military habits. The office is decorated with a certain flair, avoiding splashy and tacky brochure stands. The walls have giant photo frames of alluring holiday photos featuring handsome well-dressed smiling couples instead.
“Welcome, gentlemen! How can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to the owner, please.”
“Oh.” The girl’s initial confidence seems to deflate instantly upon mention of her boss. “Is something the matter?”
In those situations, experience has shown me that empathy and consideration for other people’s sensibilities is a complete waste of time.
“That is something for me to discuss with your superiors. Take me to their office. Now!”
“Sherlock!” John reproaches softly. I look back at him. Too much? No. John doesn’t look outraged, just slightly exasperated.
We are saved from further conversation with the now-trembling assistant when the person in question walks in.
“Well, I say! Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in my very agency! Lydia, you silly goose, you should have come fetch me straight away. Off you pop, I’ll take care of these gentlemen. I do insist on the best for such important clients.”
In ten seconds, the owner - dressed in a sharp suit and hair impeccably brushed back - has shooed off the girl, rounded us up, and sat us down at the desk in her office.
“Hold my calls, Claire.” The secretary nods deferentially. Appraising the contents of her desk, I feel a smile paint itself on my face.
“Faye Owens. Pleasure to meet you. I’ve read so much about you. Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?”
“We’d like to book a holiday.”
“Of course. We have large range of tailor-made holiday packages to cater to our client’s every desire. Can I ask what destination you had in mind?”
“Something in the mountains. We’re rather fond of the snow.” In my peripheral vision, I see John gives me a confused glance but kept my eyes on Ms Owens and continue. “We like a nice view. Something spectacular. Rather like this one.” I point to the framed photo on her desk. John frowns in recognition.
“Hang on. Isn’t that the photo from the paper?”
Ms Owens’ smooth, shark-like smile drops instantly. If I hadn’t been watching closely, I would have missed the slight widening of her eyes and bobbing of her throat, indicating panicked surprise, before she composes herself and bows her head in an admirable display of insincere grieving.
Oh, she’s good.
“Yes,” she admits. “I do believe they’ve put it in the papers now. A dear friend of mine, on her honeymoon, and then…” She takes a deep breath. “She was a good skier. They’re still not sure what happened. Her husband says she just lost control…” She takes a shuddering breath and covers her mouth. Is that… a smile? “I’m sorry. It’s still very recent.”
“No, no, it’s me,” John apologises. Clearly he is buying into the whole grieving act. I decide not to blame him - it's very convincing to anyone but the most observant person. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Oh, you couldn’t have known,” Owens waves away his concern, in a show of pained bravery. “Are… are you two gentlemen here to investigate? Do you think you might find out what really happened?”
Before John can reply and completely blow our cover, I take the lead.
“I’m afraid not, Ms Owens. In fact, we’re here because we’re getting married in a month, but we’ve been so busy, we completely forgot to book our honeymoon.”
To punctuate this declaration, I confidently take John’s hand, lace my fingers in his, and drop it on the desk.
It takes every bit of my self-control not to look at John’s face, which is probably comically frozen in an expression of shock. I can feel the tension in his fingers as I maintain a steady eye contact with our suspect, who seems just a surprised as John. It takes her a whole four seconds before she gathers herself together and closes her mouth.
“Right, yes - of course. And may I offer my congratulations to you gentlemen.”
To my utter surprise, John recovers from his shock and springs into action. He clears his throat.
“Thank you. Of course, there’s nothing to say we can’t investigate on the side. It wouldn’t be our honeymoon if there wasn’t a little bit of detecting in it.”
I dare break eye contact to glance at John, giving him my trademark smile usually reserved for people who I can impress into giving me something. For once, shamming isn’t hard at all. He looks back, and a heart-stopping grin forms on his face. He gives my hand a squeeze. Something very strange happens to my gut, as if it had been flipped upside down.
No, no. Can’t let myself be distracted by John’s brilliant ability to not only play along with a decidedly unconventional interrogation strategy, but to trick the suspect into thinking our questions are a well-intentioned attempt to help a grieving friend and not an interrogation.
The proud smile on my face is probably only 15% fake. This is, after all, for a case.
Thankfully, the sappy lovebirds routines is convincing enough. Owens squirms, wanting to change the subject, but obviously stuck now that social conventions dictate she should be overjoyed at our offer to help.
This is going to be incredibly fun.
---
As we exit the agency, John is still smiling. I add it to the catalogue of facial expressions in John’s room in my mind palace. Like the most important and intimate things in life, it goes in the sock drawer. This one is a breathless smile as if he’s just won a gold medal for a marathon.
“That was incredible,” he chuckles, and I feel the gravity in my stomach falter again. “How on Earth did you know she’d tampered with the skis?”
“Custom brand. It was easy for her to get the craftsman to add an aluminium core. Then, once the girl posted the Snapchat online, confirming her location, Owens only had to remotely activate the magnetic field in the anti-erosion barriers to pull the girl towards the cliff. No detectable sign of sabotage, and she’d be hundreds of miles away with a perfect alibi.”
John shakes his head, as if he almost didn’t believe it was possible. “That’s amazing.”
Of course. John lives for these cases, and the adrenaline fix they bring him. I always enjoy the feedback he provides. But this time, it feels a little hollow.
“I guess we should call Lestrade and let him know.”
I nod absently. John moves his hand to reach his phone. That’s when I notice that our hands are still linked together. There is a pause that can only be described as awkward, as we both take a second to process this information.
I decide I don’t want to let go first. John’s hand in mine feels warm and solid. His skin is slightly dry from doing the washing up this morning. If I move my thumb just slightly, I can detect his pulse, which is steady but slightly elevated. I turn it slightly to look at it. The tan from his time abroad is almost completely gone, but his skin is still naturally a pale warm gold. His fingernails are slightly square, freshly cut from yesterday.
Five seconds have gone by since John noticed we were still holding hands. He has not yet made any attempt to break contact; instead he seems equally fascinated by the sight of our fingers locked together.
The expression on his face is something new, that I haven’t catalogued before. Surprised, fascinated, incredulous? There’s also a slight furrowing of his eyebrows that could be confusion or embarrassment.
I can hear a small part of my brain yelling at me to let go, that I am causing John discomfort, that he is now confused because the case is over and there’s no need to keep pretending.
Thankfully I have, over years of practice, learned to ignore that voice, in favour of the scientific spirit that dictates I do nothing to influence the outcome of the experiment, and wait to see how John reacts.
I expect an outburst. A flutter of blushing, stuttering confusion, and a loud reaffirmation of his heterosexuality.
Instead, John - the absolute miracle of a human being that he is - scoffs lightly, shrugs, and says, “I don’t mind.”
I have no more stomach. All my internal organs have disappeared, which maybe explains why I suddenly feel incredibly light, as if I might float away from the pavement - if it weren’t for John’s hand grounding me with a gentle squeeze.
“Neither do I,” I reply as casually as possible. But John is not an idiot. I think the absolutely stupid smile plastered on my face is now 0% fake.
I find myself not caring at all.