Chapter Text
The shaking was the first clue. Both wrists and fingers shaking as he hunched over the coffee table, attempting to write the damn list Mycroft insisted on. His hands didn’t normally shake like that, not so soon after injecting. He really should write the list before, not after.
Sherlock slumped back on the couch, watching the strange colours swirl at the edges of his vision. The living room at 221B Baker Street was slanting sideways. Yes, obviously his purchase this evening was tainted. Stupid. He should have tested it. Testing anything from a new supplier used to be something he did as a matter of course, but not tonight. Tonight he’d been too impatient. Too tired to wait.
Of course it was all Mycroft’s fault. The previous supplier had been arrested last week, and there was little doubt his overbearing brother was involved. Always spying. Always interfering. It would serve him right if this was the end of it all.
His gaze fell on John’s chair. John’s empty chair.
“Would serve you right, too,” he mumbled. “I wouldn’t need this if you were here to distract me.”
Selfish.
“I know it’s selfish,” he said, annoyed. “I don’t care.”
He shook his head. A hand slapped his cheek. It might have been his own hand.
“Who are you even talking to? There’s no one else here.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it? As Mycroft had said, he was alone with his own worst enemy. God, he hated Mycroft sometimes. Why did he have to be right? Always right. Always. Boring.
Eyes too heavy to stay open. But even closed he could still hear Mycroft’s voice. Your own worst enemy. Your own worst enemy.
“Shut up,” he insisted, but his voice was only a whisper. He was falling asleep. A wasted opportunity.
There was no telling how much time had passed when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake.
“Holmes?”
His eyes fluttered open, body already straightening at the sound of that clipped tone. It was John. Immediate relief, followed quickly by confusion. It was John, but not his John. Although there were many similarities. Same dark blue eyes. Same worried frown.
“Did you …” Sherlock rubbed his eyes. “Did you grow that hideous moustache back?”
The frown only deepened, and John straightened up, signs of barely repressed anger already showing in his shoulders and hands.
“Holmes! Why must you do this to yourself?” He looked around. “What have you done with it?”
“Done with what?”
“Don’t play dumb, man. The cocaine!”
He was dressed strangely too. One glance up and down his friend’s body made it more than obvious that this was the Victorian John Watson. The one in his mind palace. Another glance around 221B showed Victorian-John was at home in the right setting, too. No sign of any smartphones or laptops. But he … he was out of place. He was still wearing the clothes he’d put on that evening, the incognito jeans and hoodie combination required to meet the new supplier in the tube station bathroom.
The supplier who had sold him something so tainted it now appeared he was once again at risk of being buried in his own mind palace. Not exactly how he’d planned on spending the evening.
Upon not receiving an answer, John had begun scolding him in earnest, ranting about something boring that really wasn’t worth listening to. Sherlock wondered why he hadn’t asked him anything about his appearance, which must appear strange to a man from the Victorian era. He tried to stand up, intending to distract John by making some deductions about where he’d been that evening or even changing the subject entirely to his friend’s latest writing for The Strand. But as soon as he tried, he flopped back, feeling too unsteady. Even in his mind palace, he felt unwell.
John, noticing his weakness, immediately stopped his lecture and came to sit beside him, placing himself on an angle so he could check his pulse and look at the dilation of his pupils. Once he was satisfied he wasn’t in any immediate danger, he released a long-suffering sigh and fixed him with a stare.
“Holmes,” he said, gentler now. “Why tonight?”
“Why not?”
“You have no shortage of cases,” John noted, gesturing to the stack of unopened letters on the mantelpiece.
“They’re boring.”
“You have not even read them.”
“Don’t need to. I can tell they are not worth my time from here.”
“No. Be truthful now. Please.”
There was something quite tiresome about the way this John was always trying to delve into his innermost thoughts and motivations. Or worse, try and nag him into talking about feelings.
“Very well. You have worn me down, Watson.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “The truth is I am in the middle of a case of such importance, such significance, the very future of England depends on me proving that a certain chemical substance can immeasurably improve the thought clarity of even the slowest individuals, but of course I would not ever experiment on you, so I was forced to subject myself to the whims of this miraculous new substance and so why you now find me in the state you do, but I am perfectly fine, so can I suggest you simply leave me alone?”
John was already shaking his head. “Such falsehoods do not become you, Holmes.”
“Really? I rather think they amuse you.”
“I am very far from amused right now.”
“Well, that’s hardly my fault. I did try.”
“One last chance, Holmes. Tell me the truth.”
“Or what?”
“Or I will ensure you regret your behaviour.”
For a second, Sherlock assumed he meant he was going to tell Mycroft, but then, as he recalled, Mycroft wasn’t particularly physically active in this world. No chance of him showing up at the flat on a search for his stash. The other option was that John would leave the flat and not speak to him for days. Undesirable. At least this John was here. If he wasn’t insisting on talking about such a boring subject, he would even be enjoying his company.
“It’s really not that complicated, Watson, even for you. I simply required some … distraction.”
“From what, pray tell?”
“From you and your endless questions.”
“I wasn’t here,” John said, his own tone rising in response to the rudeness. “I was out seeing to my professional duties.”
“Exactly, Watson. I knew you would find your way there eventually. So let’s talk about something more interesting.” He attempted to stand up again, but John reached out, pushing him back down.
“No. We are talking about your drug use, Holmes.”
“What more could you possibly have to say about it?”
John made a shrugging gesture with his gloved hands, turning away from him. He’d removed his hat and scarf, but must have been interrupted before the gloves. Possibly by the sight of him.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said softly. “Perhaps talking is not what you need on this occasion. We are both men of action, after all.”
“I think I would rather go back to sleep,” Sherlock said, leaning back and covering his eyes with his bent arm. Waking up in reality rather than his mind palace would be ideal, seeing as this John was not going to provide any entertainment. “Do try and be quiet. Please.”
It was quiet now in the flat, apart from the crackle of the fire and the odd noise of a passing carriage outside. But another noise intruded, one that immediately set a mental warning alarm blaring. John had picked up the riding crop from the desk and tapped it once against the palm of his hand. That sound of it cutting through the air carried an ominous promise that Sherlock couldn’t quite define. As soon as he removed the arm from his eyes to determine what exactly his friend was intending to do with such an object, he found that same arm firmly grasped and then used to unceremoniously pull his upper body over John’s lap.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock protested, attempting to brace himself against the sofa cushion. But he was held firmly about the waist and shifted closer to John and further forward.
“Come now, Holmes, surely you’ve found yourself in this position before?”
“Never. Our relationship isn’t normally so … tactile.”
“Well, let me demonstrate what its purpose is.”
His friend brought the riding crop down with a swift crack, right across the seat of his jeans, now positioned over his right thigh. It was nowhere near his full strength, considering he wasn’t using his dominant arm, but enough to result in a burning sting that was really very unpleasant.
“Are you quite mad?” Sherlock asked, attempting to squirm sideways. This only resulted in another blow, landing slightly below where the first had struck.
“Keep still, please, Holmes. This is for your own good.”
“My own good?!”
Another whack, this one aimed lower and harder. The sting was really nothing to scoff at. How could pain feel so real inside his own head?
“Yes. If you will not listen to words, perhaps you will listen to this.”
He aimed higher for the fourth stroke, crossing over slightly where one of the earlier ones still stung. The jerk away in response was involuntary and resulted in John holding him more firmly with his other arm. Was this some kind of bizarre Victorian practice he was only subconsciously aware of? Flatmates spanking each other when they felt the need? Perhaps this is what people did before they could visit their local underground dungeon.
“Are you enjoying this, Watson?” he enquired, annoyed at the hitch in his voice in the wake of another painful stroke. “Because I am not.”
That made John at least pause. “I assure you, I am not either.” Sherlock could tell from his tone he had one eyebrow raised.
“Then what is the point?!”
“No one has ever corrected you in this fashion? I suppose that should surprise me but it really doesn’t. In fact, it may just explain many things.”
“What things?”
“Why you seem incapable of regulating your own behaviour.”
“Who says I want to regulate it?” Sherlock said, slumping against the seat of the sofa. He wanted to reach back to rub at the sort spots but couldn’t summon the energy.
“If you truly had no shame over your behaviour, you would not attempt to hide it from me. You would not lie about it. And your subconscious mind would not imagine me doing this in response.”
Sherlock opened his eyes, staring at the sofa fabric in confusion. “What?”
“I told you. I’m a storyteller … I know when I’m in one.”
This was, without any competition, the most insane drug trip he’d ever experienced. What on earth was in that stuff? In response to a very tired groan that slipped unbidden from his mouth, John rubbed his back with the hand that wasn’t holding the riding crop.
“Seeing as this is all quite new to you, let me explain how it works. I have no desire at all to cause you pain.”
“Really? Because you were doing a good job of it a moment ago.”
“I also have no desire to see you cause yourself pain. This behaviour, this … abuse of your own body through these vile substances … this is causing you pain, Holmes. More than that, it is making you ashamed of yourself. You insist otherwise, but we both know the truth.”
Sherlock sighed. “I think I preferred it when you were hitting me.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get back to that soon enough.”
The words made him wince.
“Clearly, you lack the motivation to resist. So I will provide some. This punishment may be painful, but it is only temporary. Next time you are tempted to indulge your habit, I want you to remember this, and then resolve to hold yourself to a higher standard. Am I understood?”
Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to answer, and the lack of response resulted in a sharp flick of the crop low on his bottom.
“Holmes?”
“Yes, yes, we’re clear! Just … just get it over with, then.”
He hid his face in his arms, attempting to remind himself he’d endured far more painful experiences at the hands of brutal people who did not care for him like John did. But perhaps that was what made this all feel far worse. Despite all his smart remarks, he did care deeply what John thought of him. Disappointing him was a pain quite different from the one about to be meted out on his backside with the riding crop, but no less of a sting.
As if privy to this thought, John rubbed his back again and spoke gently. “I know it hurts. I want you to think about what you did to require this.”
It was a nice idea, but when he raised the riding crop and began spanking him in earnest, there was no thought in his head but the burning sting being methodically applied to every centimetre of his bottom, at the hands of someone whose marksmanship was usually an asset to him. It was all he could do not to cry out.
After he silently endured a good twelve strokes, gripping fists of the upholstery in a vain attempt to channel pain away from his backside, John paused to speak.
“How are you feeling?”
“Wonderful,” Sherlock said in the most sarcastic tone he could manage. His trembling voice ruined the effect, however. Damn it.
“Should I continue? Or would you like to tell me the truth about why you were taking this poison tonight.”
“Oh, John.”
“Sherlock.”
The sound of his first name in this John’s mouth was too much right now. The wave of emotion made him shudder, and he pressed his face further into the sofa fabric. He didn’t have the strength to suppress it.
In response, there was a gentle hand squeeze on his shoulder, and John spoke again.
“There is no cause to be ashamed of having emotions. You don’t need to pretend with me.”
“You wouldn’t understand.” The cushion muffled the words, but John could apparently still make it out.
“Try me.”
“It’s about … the other you. In the other place.”
“Ah. The smart one?”
Despite the lingering soreness, the words did make him smile. “Yes.”
“What has he done, this other me?”
“It’s what he hasn’t done.” Sherlock took a slow breath, squirming slightly to try and ease the sting. “He hasn’t … he hasn’t moved back to Baker Street. It’s been over a year since she died, and he’s always over here anyway. So why? Why hasn’t he?”
“Perhaps he is waiting for your invitation.”
“How do you know I haven’t already invited him?”
“Just a deduction,” John said, shifting his hand to his back. “Based on my rather thorough knowledge of our usual reticence when it comes to the task of communicating important feelings to each other.”
Sherlock put his face back into the sofa cushion. “I can’t. Not while I’m still … “ He made a vague gesture towards the living room at large. “He won’t want to risk his daughter being exposed to that. Of course I would never … I would never compromise her safety.”
“So. If I may summarise. You want your Watson to make his address 221B once again. But your abuse of drugs is an obstacle that you can’t seem to overcome. Hence why we are having this rather pointed conversation. Have I understood correctly, Holmes?”
“Yes,” Sherlock sighed. “But,” he added, after a few seconds of silence. “It is only controlled, occasional usage to enhance my thought processes. Not abuse. Not addiction.”
“Is that really a point you wish to argue while you are in this position?”
“There is no argument. I am merely stating a—OW!”
That, and the following strokes, were definitely applied with a little more force that made quite the impression on an already sore surface.
“Please! I told you the truth!” Sherlock insisted.
“You wish this to end?” He added another stroke to emphasise the question.
“Yes!”
“Then I have a proposal for you,” he said, stilling his arm.
Sherlock remained silent, knowing it would likely be something he really didn’t want to do.
“You are going to dispose of every last ounce of whatever drug you have in your possession. As soon as you can. Then you will be honest with your Watson and tell him what’s been troubling you. If he cares for you even a tenth of what I do, I believe you will find his response reassuring.”
Sherlock clenched his fingers around the sofa cushion again, but this time, it had nothing to do with the fresh sting emanating from his posterior.
“Well, Holmes? Will you agree to my terms?”
“What’s the other option?”
John merely raised the crop wielding arm in response, and Sherlock hastily backtracked.
“Very well, I agree!”
“Then I believe we are done here.” He dropped the riding crop on the floor, and hearing the thunk as it made contact was the sweetest sound Sherlock had heard all night. John slid an arm under his chest, his strength easily supporting him as he guided him back into a sitting position beside him, causing a sharp intake of breath. Really, sitting was not the brightest idea right now. Then, to Sherlock’s astonishment, his friend wrapped both arms around him, pulling him into a very tight embrace. It was only on a rare occasion the twenty-first century John would be comfortable with such physical displays of affection.
“Don’t you ever poison yourself like that again,” John said, his voice trembling with emotion.
“Why are you upset?” Sherlock asked. “You’re not the one who has just been … been … whatever that was.”
John guided him back from the hug but still held him by the upper arms so he could meet his eyes. “Because I care about you, and I didn’t enjoy having to cause you pain. Does somewhere in that vastly superior mind of yours understand that fact, Holmes? That your friends care about you?”
Sherlock sighed, feeling his head start to hurt, not to mention the pain still burning away across his backside. He didn’t have the energy to make sense of this right now. John pulled him back into the embrace, and he slumped his head on John’s shoulder, silently appreciating the gesture, even if he couldn’t fully comprehend it. After a moment of John silently rubbing his back, his friend helped him lie back on the sofa, placing him on his side, so it didn’t make the sting any worse.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Too tired for tea,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes.
“You rest then. I’ll watch over you.”
He could feel a pillow sliding under his head. A blanket was soon added across his shoulders, and it felt nice. Nice to be taken care of like this, although he’d never admit that out loud. The last thing he remembered feeling before drifting off was John’s hand on his shoulder, saying something about staying close by. Yes, he should stay. He should always stay.
****
Brakes squealing. A raw, painful sound in his ears. The car had been moving too fast, and a taxi had pulled out. Crash barely averted. Typical morning sounds of Baker Street.
Judging by the light level detectable through his closed eyelids, it was early. Probably just after seven. Too early. He should sleep more.
But he was cold. And his head hurt. And his body hurt. And he felt like a wilted vegetable left on the floor of the supermarket, stepped on repeatedly, just waiting to be swept away by a damp mop and …
Sherlock sat up, staring around in a dazed fashion. Data instantly began streaming into his thoughts. His laptop sat on the desk. So, he was back in the present. His hands moved down his stiff spine, down below the back pockets of his jeans. There was no pain there. Ironically, one of the few places that didn’t hurt.
He really needed a shower.
As he passed the kitchen table, he stretched out a hand to grab the bag holding the remains of last night’s ill-considered purchase. He’d need to find a new hiding place of course. Mycroft knew about the secret wall compartment in the cupboard.
A shower did a world of good for washing away the last of his disorientation over the experience of the night before. He was fine now. He would remain clean for a few days to let it wear off. An analysis on the remaining substance would be a wise precaution as well and also on anything new he happened to purchase. He shouldn’t have acted so impatiently last night. Stupid.
He’d certainly paid a price for that. Memories of his experience in the mind palace streamed through his thoughts, far too detailed and fresh to be dismissed as a mere dream, no matter how he tried. Clearly his subconscious was trying to communicate something, but it would require some serious thinking to untangle that bizarre sequence of events. It was a three-patch puzzle, or at the very least, a cup of tea.
It was still far too early by the time he sat down with said tea and his laptop, but he couldn’t sleep now. There were new emails from potential clients and from Lestrade, but he couldn't be bothered with all that. Not now.
His first search, a simple query about causes of dreams about being spanked, yielded entirely unsatisfactory results. Really, didn’t people have anything better to do with their small, slow minds than fill the internet with all this endless content about sex? Didn’t they ever get bored with it all? He was bored already and he’d only been browsing for a minute.
His experience in the mind palace was nothing so basic. Given his proximity to John’s lap while all this had taken place, he would have been aware if either of them had found the experience arousing. No, this was something else.
Excluding the erotic from his search began to produce better data. Screeds and screeds of it, racing past the screen like his thoughts. Recreating childhood experiences? He could immediately rule that out. He certainly had a list of things his parents should answer for, but that wasn’t one of them. And the very idea of Mycroft laying a finger on him was ridiculous. His brother preferred psychological manipulation in all areas of life.
Taking pleasure from pain? That was not as easy to immediately dismiss. He hadn’t enjoyed the experience in his mind palace, but yet his subconscious had produced it. So on some level did he actually want to be hurt? By John in particular? This one took more thought, but he soon had to move it to the same discarded theories pile as the childhood experiences. If it was that, he’d have imagined John punching him or strangling him, or even shooting him. Victorian-John had gone out of his way to reassure him during the experience, even to the point of embracing him afterwards. He made a particular point of emphasising how much he cared about him.
The next suggestion was some theory proposed about a desire for emotional release for some deep-seated guilt issue. Emotions. The grit on the lens. Such irrational things were beneath him. Especially as the person proposing this on a forum post followed it up with their account of being spanked by a resident attic ghost after they’d come home intoxicated from Friday night work drinks.
Reading that somewhat lengthy description was interrupted by the sound of John’s unmistakable tread on the stairs. Sherlock slammed the laptop lid down just as his friend arrived in the room, Rosie expertly balanced on his hip, duffel bag in his free hand. He smiled in a way that warmed the whole room.
“Sherlock, there is nothing you could possibly be looking at that would shock me,” he said, setting Rosie down. She called out, “Sherk!” and began trotting towards him in her ungainly toddler fashion.
“Hello, Watson,” he said, standing and reaching down to scoop her up in one arm. “How’s your talking coming along?”
She babbled away with half-formed words, no doubt telling him how brilliant he was, just like her father. Then she began pawing at the collar of his shirt.
“She’s well and truly got the hang of ‘I’m hungry’ and ‘want food’,” John said. “I’m sure Sherlock will be next.”
“And then she can start on the periodic table,” Sherlock said, pointing John towards the recently made pot of tea. “Isn’t that right? Hydrogen. Hy-dro-gen.”
John was soon sitting in his armchair, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of tea, while Rosie crawled and trotted about the floor, making noises over anything she found of particular interest.
Sherlock tore his gaze away from her and scanned John, feeling like he was missing something obvious here. The scan only revealed irrelevant information about John’s breakfast and morning exercise habits. John, always sensitive to his analysis, furrowed his brow, causing Sherlock to save time and resort to a question. “Why are you here so early?”
John's features smoothed into a smile at that, and his eyes dropped back to the paper. “It’s my day off. I normally come over early on my day off. You’re just not normally awake.”
“Oh. Of course.”
John glanced over him then, doing his own lesser version of a deductive scan. “Were you up all night?”
“No.”
“Greg texted me about some case. He said you hadn’t replied to his text or email. I told him you probably weren’t awake yet.”
“Of course I’m awake. I just had more interesting things to do than read his trivia. It’s probably a three at most.”
“Something about four office workers all poisoned with the same unidentified substance. I thought you liked poison.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. Then he obliged by reopening the laptop and finding the email. Perhaps it might be a five or even a six.
In the old days, he’d have simply gone immediately down to the police station and assessed the case directly from the source, but he wanted to give John time to finish his tea. And perhaps he enjoyed just sitting here for once, basking in the familiarity of John’s peaceful presence. Lestrade’s case was indeed interesting, but not urgent. He occupied himself reading other new cases in his inbox and quickly deleting the boring ones. It wasn’t long before Mrs Hudson came up with a plate of snacks for Rosie, and he and John benefitted from the leftovers.
As the morning stretched on, he amused John by solving the cases his friend would read out, and then refusing to take them on, as they were ‘too obvious’. There was one that might have been interesting, but it was too rare just to enjoy a morning like this to give it up now. Plenty of time to leave the flat tomorrow.
But all this was interrupted when Rosie ran the width of the floor, stopping in a standing position beside her father’s knee and handing him a piece of paper she’d been scribbling on with a crayon found under the coffee table.
“Oh, you’ve drawn me a picture, sweetheart,” he said, turning it over to see her rough scribble. “That’s so clever. Daddy’s clever girl.”
He turned it around to show Sherlock, and then his happy expression melted away. He peered closer at the writing on the back, and Sherlock realised all too late what it was. Why hadn’t he thrown that list away? Stupid.
“Sherlock … does this …” He focused on him intently, and there was something about his serious expression that gave him unpleasant memories of his experience in the mind palace.
“Are you using again?!”
“Really, John, you miss even the most glaringly obvious facts. That list is from a year ago. Look at the fading on the corner of the paper. Look at the dust pattern. Look at the degradation of the ink in the pen.”
John stared at him for a moment longer, and it took all Sherlock’s considerable willpower to keep a straight face. Then he looked down at the paper again and put it to one side.
“So you’re clean then?”
“Of course I am. I haven’t even had a cigarette in months.”
Rosie chose that moment to fall back on the floor and promptly burst into tears.
“Ah, is it that time, is it?” John said, reaching down to pick her up with one arm, and his other reaching for the nappy bag. He looked at Sherlock. “How clean is the bathroom? Toxic waste dump or barely passable?”
“Just avoid the bath.”
John gave a slight smile. “If it’s too bad, you know I’m going to be using your bed for this, so it’s in your best interests.”
“Go ahead. There’s a gas mask in my cupboard if you need it.”
“I think I’m good.”
As soon as the bathroom door closed, Sherlock walked around the room twice, making certain he hadn’t overlooked any other clues. John had accepted his explanation for the paper, but he might not be so accepting if he found anything else.
After two, three circuits of the room, he flopped down on the sofa. Something about the view of the room brought forth more memories … and painful sensations … from the strange mind palace trip. He’d said something. Made some promise to Victorian-John. Stupid. It wasn’t even real.
It was time he left the flat. They could take Rosie out and go somewhere for lunch. Then go and see Lestrade. Anything.
John was amenable to this idea, and the rest of the afternoon passed in a fairly typical way for the three of them. There were no shortage of willing babysitters for Rosie at Scotland Yard and enough to keep him reasonably occupied in this poison case too. He deduced it was a taste for a particular brand of biscuit the victims had in common, and Lestrade arranged to have some of the poison samples delivered to the flat for his analysis. It was only when they were leaving, with a now tired Rosie settled in John’s arms, that Lestrade said something that made Sherlock roll his eyes.
“Are you all right, Sherlock?”
“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just … seem a little quiet, that’s all. Not your usual sunny self. You didn’t even argue with Sally.”
“Would you like me to go back and correct that mistake?” he suggested, glancing at the Detective Inspector beside him.
“Not at all. But … if there’s something on your mind, you know I’m always here.”
“There is always something on my mind, unlike the rest of you,” Sherlock said, looking away.
“Of course,” he said, with a half smile. “Good night, then. Thanks for your help today.”
Sherlock turned his collar up and swept away, wondering what exactly Lestrade had meant by ‘seeming a little quiet’. John hadn’t noticed anything.
“I better get this one home,” John said, as a cab pulled up. “She’s had a busy day.”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, placing a hand on Rosie’s back to say goodbye. “I’ll get the next one.”
“You sure?”
Why did people say things like that? He was always sure. John took one look at his expression and nodded. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, John.”
As the cab pulled away, taking John with it, his thoughts drifted in a direction that served no useful purpose. Yes, there was a cot for Rosie at 221B. John was there often enough, so it made sense for there to be some allowance made for her needs. He could have suggested Rosie sleep there tonight so they could go out for dinner and continue discussing the case. But if John wanted to do any of those things he would have suggested it himself.
The Work was all that mattered. Tonight, he would start his analysis and identify this mysterious poison, which may give clues as to its likely origin. But now … now he needed to go somewhere away from the lonely living room in Baker Street and simply think.