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That day, when I woke, my right leg would not move.
In that first moment of consciousness, what I registered was the smell—antiseptic mingled with dry desert dust. Then came hearing: the barked orders of former colleagues directed at medics, and the agonised groans of wounded men who, like me, must have been laid out on makeshift treatment tables. Ah, so I've returned to that place. The thought had barely formed when my sluggish vision finally roused itself, and there above me was nothing more than the utterly unremarkable ceiling of my flat. In an instant, those hallucinations—so vivid only moments before—were painted over by this peaceful reality, vanishing one after another. And with them went the sensation in my right leg, dissolving like foam.
I ran my hand along the leg I could no longer feel, grasping at the tangled threads of memory. I hadn't seen that particular battlefield vision in quite some time; most likely, it was the news broadcast that had triggered it. The other day, Mrs Hudson had called me down for tea, and I recalled footage of the troops playing on the television behind her. It had been thoroughly sanitised for civilian consumption, of course—the sort of bland, inoffensive report they always put out. But for someone who had witnessed the true horror firsthand, it was more than enough to dredge up those raw, visceral images. Still, I hadn't expected this wretched PTSD to resurface. Not since meeting Sherlock. To be precise, not since that night we chased a cab through the streets from that restaurant on Northumberland Street. I'd thought myself cured. But it seems psychological wounds are not so easily erased after all. Unlike my right leg, my left shoulder—where an actual bullet had shattered bone and grazed the subclavian artery—had healed almost completely, though the scar remained. Sharp drops in barometric pressure still set it aching, but nothing I can't bear. Rather useful, actually; more accurate than the weather forecast, which makes for a poor joke at parties.
A droplet sliding down my temple alerted me to the fact that I was crying. This was properly concerning. What was happening to my body was identical to what had befallen me immediately after my return to London. Emotion had slipped its leash from rational thought and was running wild; I was overcome by a sadness I couldn't explain, couldn't contain. Since I hadn't the faintest idea why I was sad, all I could do was wait for it to subside on its own.
Through the undignified tears still streaming down my face, I found myself vaguely grateful that Sherlock wasn't in the flat. He'd left a week ago for some foreign case. He treated cases brought officially through the Yard with the same consideration as private enquiries that came through his website—the distinction between official and unofficial, between grand and trivial, mattered little to him. If a case proved sufficiently captivating, sufficiently artistic, he would spare no effort in solving it, even if it might strike outsiders as laughably petty. This latest case must have been one of those captivating ones. His own site hadn't been updated since he left, which suggested he was thoroughly absorbed.
I broke off from that train of thought, closed my eyes slowly, and drew a deep breath. My breathing eased slightly. Sherlock knew about my PTSD—knew it existed, had spotted it instantly at first glance, and had, whatever his reasoning, once cured it entirely. He wasn't the sort to be remotely fazed by a grown man weeping beside him. If anything, one look at me crying would be enough for him to deduce everything I myself didn't understand and make the symptoms vanish like a conjurer's trick. Though if I actually said that aloud, he'd doubtless snap, "I'm a consulting detective, not your therapist."
The image of his irritated face made me laugh softly through my tears. Not wanting him to see me like this—that was simply my own petty pride. Yes. Petty. I didn't want this great mind to see this pathetic version of me, helpless, capable of nothing but weeping—
My breathing had grown ragged again. I forced another deep breath. No. Viewing everything through a lens of pessimism, dragging down my own sense of worth—these were textbook symptoms of PTSD. Pride be damned; I had to get this emotional chaos under control before he returned. I reached for the towel beside me, wiped at the tears that kept spilling, and hauled my upper body upright. Using both arms and my functional left leg, I managed to shift to the edge of the bed. First things first: get dressed and contact my former therapist. I hadn't been to her practice since the symptoms had disappeared, but if I explained they'd returned, she might agree to see me.
"Fire her."
The words that echoed through my mind then were Mycroft's, spoken that day he'd examined my left hand.
"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it."
I shook my head hard, as if I could escape that voice. I couldn't deny it then, though there was no earthly reason I shouldn't have. And if someone said the same to me now, I doubted I could deny it still. Sensing that nothing good would come of staying in this bedroom, I summoned all my strength to stand—
And froze.
Or rather, I had no choice but to freeze. There was no strength whatsoever in my right leg. I couldn't stand on my own.
Two fresh tears rolled down my cheeks and fell onto my lap. It had been premature to put away my cane just because the symptoms had vanished. My mobile was on the desk, well out of reach from here; my laptop was downstairs in the sitting room. Whatever I wanted to do, in my current state, I needed—
"Help."
The word rang out in the bedroom before I'd even thought it. But I hadn't uttered a sound. And that low, measured voice was most definitely not mine.
I looked up sharply. There stood Sherlock—who was supposed to be abroad—still dressed in his coat exactly as he'd been when he left, standing just inside the doorway. For the first time in my life, I thanked God my body wasn't cooperating. If I'd had control of myself, I would surely have made the most undignified noise imaginable.
"How—you're—abroad—"
"Yes. A rather involved affair." Sherlock answered with perfect composure despite my total incoherence. "There were several points of interest, but I'd ask you not to write about this one on your blog. I shan't be posting about it either. A private matter concerning a certain prominent lady, with implications for a certain royal household."
I was so utterly bewildered that I found myself nodding before I'd properly processed his words. Perhaps extreme confusion tips over into a kind of calm. Or perhaps the emotional turmoil meeting an equal measure of cognitive chaos had somehow cancelled itself out and restored equilibrium? A hypothesis that would likely earn me a scolding from any genuine psychiatrist. In any case, I gave a firm nod to show I understood.
"...Right. Fine. I won't say a word about it."
"Thank you."
This wasn't the first time he'd asked me to keep something under wraps. My blog had become something of a record of his strange cases, but exposing anyone's private life like some tawdry gossip rag wasn't my purpose—nor my inclination. That was why, even in my current muddled state, I could answer quickly.
Yes. And besides, that wasn't the point.
"Look, Sherlock. That isn't what I was trying to ask. I understand that this case involving the lady's private affairs has concluded and you've returned to London. That much is abundantly clear—you're standing right in front of me. What I'm trying to ask is why you're in my bedroom." I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. "It's seven in the morning."
The clock showed quarter past seven. Even if he'd taken an early flight back, this was usually when he'd still be asleep. For that matter, I'd normally be asleep too, even if my habits were marginally more regular than his. And to make matters worse, I'd just been caught in a rather humiliating state—but ah, well. Never mind that now.
"A different case. A woman's body has been found."
Sherlock answered tersely, showing not the slightest interest in my inner turmoil.
"East of Russell Square. Down a narrow lane off Great Ormond Street, there's a flat that a Mrs Warren lets to a lodger named Fairdale Hobbs. The body was discovered in the basement laundry room. Hobbs himself found it. The only keys to the laundry room are held by Mrs Warren and Hobbs. Incidentally, the landlady has been in the Lake District with friends for several days now."
"Then isn't this Hobbs fellow the obvious culprit?"
"The Yard reached that conclusion three hours ago. But that isn't the point."
"Meaning there's something peculiar about the case beyond the body itself?"
At my question, he gave me that characteristic expression—a smile with only one corner of his lips lifted.
"Precisely. An exceedingly peculiar case. The woman's body was found in the centre of a cramped basement room, and yet—" His eyes gleamed. "Massive blunt force trauma. The thoracic cage pulverised. As though crushed by something immense—yet no corresponding impact crater on the surroundings."
A jolt ran through me—something electric along my spine.
"...Is that even possible?"
"It is demonstrably possible. Or rather, it has demonstrably occurred. I'll state this upfront: nothing was found in that basement save the fixed washing unit and the woman's body. The unit is bolted to the floor with no indication of having been displaced; whatever crushed her was clearly a separate object entirely. Yet this massive object is nowhere to be found. The basement door is a standard size—not appreciably different from this bedroom door—and being underground, there are no windows. Transporting an object of sufficient mass to pulverise a human torso would have been physically impossible. Naturally, the ceiling shows nothing anomalous either. The circumstances as described constitute an extraordinarily abnormal scenario. And the Yard have realised that Hobbs's testimony alone cannot begin to account for the totality of the evidence. So this morning, when I landed at City Airport, Lestrade made contact."
Sherlock pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against, crossed to where I sat, and dropped to one knee before me. Placing his hand on my knee, he fixed me with that peculiar, luminous gaze.
"John. I need you for this case."
Sherlock said.
"I have constructed three potential scenarios as to how the body was destroyed and deposited there. But they remain conjecture. Hypothesis without foundation. We need data. Data! Data! Data! I cannot make bricks without clay! On my way back to the flat, I reviewed the crime scene report and the preliminary post-mortem findings. But several elements refuse to cohere. The ghastly tableau that filled that laundry room. The bizarre phenomena shrouding the entire case—we cannot permit them to cloud our analysis. We must isolate only the decisive information that precipitated those circumstances. And we must accomplish this while Lestrade restrains those incompetent forensics officers from contaminating a delicate scene with their blundering."
Sherlock rose smoothly, brushing the dust from his knee. And then he looked down at me with precisely the same expression he'd worn the very first time we went to a crime scene together—the murder of Jennifer Wilson, which at the time was believed to be another in a string of suicides. "Want to see some more?" he'd asked, with exactly this look.
"I've got a cab waiting outside. Can you be ready in five minutes?"
A breath of laughter escaped me—or perhaps it was a sob of relief.
"Oh, God, yes."
Even as I answered, I was standing.
Yes. Standing with no difficulty whatsoever. My right knee bent when I willed it to; I could feel the touch of my own hand when I tapped it. As though that paralysis moments ago had been nothing but a dream. Sherlock laughed at my dumbfounded expression.
"Excellent! Then it seems I shan't have to carry you after all."
He smirked, spinning on his heel toward the door.