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I once wrote something about my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. If he were to return to our rooms and find Mrs Hudson and me lying with our throats cut, he would simply observe us as an exercise in deduction.
Having lived with him for some considerable time now, if anyone were to ask whether that assessment had been entirely overturned, the answer would, of course, be no. He still throws himself into the most bizarre cases with absolute fervour, showing not the slightest concern for the deceased, seeking only to reach the hidden truth. I have no intention of denying that. But there is one point—just one—where I must correct the record. If Sherlock were to return to our rooms and discover Mrs Hudson and me lying with our throats cut... yes, naturally, he would commence his usual observations and deductions on the spot. But even in the depths of his most crushing boredom, I rather suspect he wouldn't cry out "Wonderful!" and truly mean it.
Perhaps it was the unseasonably warm days we'd been having, but that morning's sudden drop in temperature had chilled Londoners to the bone—even those of us well accustomed to the cold. I was among the wretched souls who leapt from bed, unable to endure the inadequate heating any longer. Seeking warmth, I made my way downstairs through the frigid air, only to find my flatmate lounging in the sitting room—thoroughly heated, naturally—dressed in one of his well-fitted, expensive shirts. His mobile lay within easy reach of his right hand, and nearby, the morning papers were scattered across the floor, cast aside like spent casings. It was immediately apparent that London had survived the night without a single interesting crime.
"Morning, Sherlock."
I said this whilst gathering up the papers.
"Nothing to pique your interest, I take it?"
"Not necessarily. Rather intriguing article in the Daily Mail."
Sherlock replied in a languid tone from his sprawled position on the sofa, hands pressed together in that yoga-like pose of his. His gaze remained fixed on some indeterminate point on the ceiling. I settled into my chair and opened the tabloid from the pile I'd collected. In the corner of my vision, thick frost crystals were forming on the window. Relieved that it was my day off from the surgery, I skimmed over the headlines. Late-Night Hit-and-Run in Whitehall: Screams Heard at Number Ten. Even Sherlock wouldn't take on an RTA. Influenza Epidemic Looming: Vaccine Production Falls Short. Personally concerning, but hardly likely to catch his attention. Actress Championing Animal Rights Arrives in Leopard-Print Dress... Clearly not.
"This, perhaps?"
I read aloud an article that had caught my eye.
"Elderly woman found dead in Montague Street. A woman was discovered deceased in her flat in Montague Street last night. With no signs of external injury and all doors and windows locked, police are investigating on the assumption of accidental death."
"No. Genuinely just an accident. Incomplete combustion from a poorly maintained coal stove. COD: carbon monoxide poisoning. Fire Brigade dispatch logs confirm the crews used breathing apparatus—loss of a first responder to secondary exposure, apparently a concern." He gestured toward his mobile without looking up. "Fortunate the information got through when the call came in."
Carbon monoxide. Colourless, odourless, and nasty. I've seen paramedics go down trying to rescue collapsed victims. This time, at least, someone had done their job properly. ...Though the victim herself was still dead. I shrugged at the unfortunate fate of the unknown old woman.
"Let's hope that's what it was. If she'd suffocated before the poisoning took hold, that would've been truly dreadful."
Somewhat indelicate, perhaps, but that was genuinely my first thought. High concentrations of CO put you in a coma before you know what's happening. Suffocation, on the other hand—oxygen deprivation—that's a different matter entirely. You thrash about desperately seeking air, experiencing what can only be described as hellish agony. Since I'd begun accompanying my flatmate on various cases, I'd examined several strangulation victims, and every one of their faces bore expressions of profound anguish. Poisoning or suffocation—death was the same ghastly conclusion either way. But if one must reach that end, dying without awareness of one's suffering did seem... preferable... to writhing in torment until the very last. Mind you, this was all rather beside the point. The old woman had surely never imagined, not for a single moment, that she was about to die.
"—'Interesting.'"
Sherlock's sudden response made me look up. Normally, he never reacted to this sort of commentary—observations about how tragic a case was or how pitiable a victim. To him, a case was either intellectually stimulating or it wasn't; what suffering the victim had endured, what terror they had felt—matters of no consequence whatsoever. If anything, he regarded such emotions and sympathies as impediments to deduction, things to be actively avoided. And yet, just now, he had responded quite distinctly to my words. Perhaps nothing more than an offhand acknowledgement. Even so, I detected the faintest note of something... off.
As I sat there, uncertain how to respond, the discarded mobile suddenly chimed. Unlike me, Sherlock appeared to have been expecting the message; without so much as glancing at the screen, he rose and disappeared into his bedroom. Of course. No need to think about it. Coat on, off to the Yard. I hurried back to my own room, pulled on jeans and a thick jumper, then a heavy jacket for the bitter cold, before returning to the sitting room. Military training—I'm marginally faster at this sort of thing. While waiting for Sherlock, I picked up the mobile lying abandoned on the vacant sofa. On the screen glowed a brief message from Lestrade:
Suspicious elements in last night's RTA. Contact requested.
Unable to see any connection between a mere traffic accident and a consulting detective who lived for complex puzzles, I stood staring blankly at the photograph splashed across the tabloid's front page when a low voice sounded directly in my ear.
"If one wished to kill a target without arousing suspicion of murder, what would be the ideal method?"
"...Kill someone without it looking like murder? Tricky."
When I turned, Sherlock was grinning, the corners of his mouth turned upward in evident delight.
"Traffic accident."
Several hours later, we were in a laboratory at Bart's. After meeting Lestrade's team at the Yard and hearing the details, Sherlock had proceeded to the scene, industriously collecting tiny fragments. Eventually, having issued several typically outlandish instructions to Lestrade's people, he brought me here. To analyse the fragments. Obviously.
"Paint chips from a vehicle's surface. Motor vehicles have multiple layers—rust inhibitor, primer, basecoat, clearcoat—applied in succession. Colours. Layer patterns. All differ depending on manufacturer, model, year of production."
"A fingerprint of the car, as it were."
Before Sherlock sat a microscope connected to a camera, alongside a display showing numerous vehicles. The microscope images revealed something resembling colourful geological strata, apparently comparable against reference materials displaying the corresponding make and model. I leant against a shelf behind him, trying not to disturb his work, watching the rapidly changing vehicle images and the back of his head as he continued.
"More than a fingerprint. Model identification yields the owner's age, sex, financial situation, family composition, actual vehicle usage. Stolen vehicle? Still provides useful data on the thief's psychological profile."
"Oh, come on. Even you can't get all that from a paint chip."
The words left my mouth and I knew—immediately—that I'd stepped on a landmine. He positively loathed having his deductions dismissed as guesswork or intuition. Every deduction he made was founded on observation, experience, rigorous logic. But sometimes—even I found—the leaps were simply too extraordinary to credit on first hearing. To Sherlock, though, such reactions were decidedly unwelcome. Indeed, he had actually stopped his comparison work to direct a rather menacing look my way, radiating silent intimidation.
"This fragment. Rover Mini, nineteen-sixties manufacture. Owner: male. Dexterous. Reasonably advanced automotive repair skills—hobbyist level, not professional. Financial situation poor until recently. Sudden improvement in the past few years."
With that, Sherlock fixed me with a glare. Right. I know. You want me to ask.
"Er... how exactly did you deduce all that?"
"Repair work visible in the separation area. Considered the possibility of overhaul at point of second-hand sale. Excluded—clearly amateur work. Most likely the owner's own handiwork."
"And the recent improvement in finances?"
"Professional bodywork over the amateur repairs. Such work is expensive. Prohibitively so. Sometimes more economical to purchase a new domestic vehicle outright. Yet the owner commissioned professional correction of the amateur work. Suggests sudden financial improvement. Additionally—continued use of this cramped classic rather than replacement indicates exceptional attachment to the vehicle. Such tendencies more common in men. —Other fragments require explanation?"
"No... that's quite enough. I apologise for doubting you."
My frank apology appeared to restore a measure of calm. That said, his irritation at having his abilities questioned hadn't entirely dissipated; from his back, now turned to resume work, I felt unmistakable pressure—as though my presence were no longer quite tolerable. I was wondering how to repair this atmosphere—my own doing, admittedly—when it seemed the gods decided not to abandon me.
"Hello, Sherlock. Um, someone's just been brought in who matches the criteria you mentioned earlier..."
The laboratory door swung open. There, half-concealing herself behind it and wearing a slightly awkward smile, stood Bart's morgue attendant. Molly Hooper.
"Eighty-six years old, lived alone. Died in an accident last night."
"Accident?"
It was I, not Sherlock, who interrupted as she unzipped the body bag. She looked back with mild surprise at being addressed by me—and yes, perfectly obvious that to her, I was merely Sherlock's appendage.
"Er? Yes. While she was sleeping, the stove she was using... apparently incomplete combustion, and the cause of death was carbon mono—"
"John. Look."
Sherlock cut her off. But unlike my interruption—at least directed to her as a question—he was speaking entirely to me, ignoring her existence completely. Which made matters rather worse. Feeling somewhat apologetic towards Molly, still standing there nonplussed, I moved to Sherlock's side.
"What do you think?"
"...CO poisoning, as she said. Good colour to her face and body—haemoglobin binding with carbon monoxide. Under the nails, clean. No scratches around the throat or anywhere else suggesting she struggled. No indication of suffocation or conscious distress."
"Victim didn't realise she was being poisoned. Died in her sleep?"
"Yes. At the very least, no suffering, no sense of danger. Even awake, CO symptoms are difficult to recognise. People die without ever sensing the danger. Happens all the time."
"—'Interesting.'"
After a brief silence, Sherlock's murmured word stirred in me the same unease I had felt that morning. Molly, too, looked back with evident discomfort—though in her case, she seemed simply at a loss, having taken the word at face value. I found myself unable to look away from Sherlock, standing there gazing down at the corpse with a face devoid of expression, despite having just uttered the word "interesting."
"Sherlock. Might I ask something?"
He'd lost interest in the body, apparently—returned to the laboratory without fuss. I called out to him.
"The old woman in Montague Street—any connection to the RTA the Yard asked you about?"
"None."
Seeing my furrowed brow, Sherlock added quietly, "Curious. But separate from the Whitehall matter."
"Before Baker Street, I lived in Montague Street."
"You don't mean... you knew her?"
When I asked, Sherlock's gaze wandered for a moment, as though uncertain how to answer. Odd, you might think—a man who readily pronounces on everything from a stranger's daily habits to the proclivities of their previous night's companion. But the vocabulary in that formidable brain is, in certain respects, remarkably narrow. On rare occasions, one observes him searching for the right word. This was one of them. Rather unusually for mid-case, he looked up from the microscope and turned those pale eyes toward me.
"That old woman operated a small antiquarian bookshop until at least three years ago. Visited twice. Collecting papers on modern Russian art. Researching Igor Maslennikov—Soviet-era film director. Materials needed to verify my thesis had been loaned to an American university. Unavailable. Librarian suggested an antiquarian bookshop in Montague Place. Russian woman. Might have relevant materials. Her shop."
To my mind, that rather counted as knowing her. But my flatmate—experience of human connection decidedly limited—had evidently been unable to make that determination. In fairness, few people remember the proprietor of a shop they visited a few years ago. Perhaps "knew" was questionable. Seeing me nod, Sherlock continued in a composed voice.
"First time I entered, a postal carrier was just leaving. The proprietor appeared to be pondering a letter she'd just received. Letter from a son she'd disowned. Most likely asking for money. Deduced from an old family photograph on the counter, circumstances of an elderly woman running a shop alone. Correct."
"Correct? Surely you didn't—"
"Advised her, on the spot, to reconsider sending money to her son."
I put my head in my hands. Private family troubles suddenly exposed by a complete stranger—and then unsolicited advice on top of it. What must she have felt? I tried to imagine it from the perspective of an undistinguished, discharged soldier. Couldn't have been pleasant. Whatever Sherlock made of my reaction, he paused briefly before continuing in his usual matter-of-fact tone.
"She seemed startled. Said nothing. Simply began serving me. Returned a few weeks later when the ordered materials arrived. She offered Russian tea. Well-used tea set from behind the counter. Not a particularly eager saleswoman—evidently took tea with customers during business hours. I happened to be that day's companion."
"You actually stayed for tea?"
This unexpected recollection contained yet another unexpected turn. Sherlock's sociability is—how to put it—extremely fluid. During an investigation, if he thinks evidence might be gleaned, he'll flash a charming smile at a passer-by without hesitation. Any other time? Mrs Hudson and that inscrutable brother of his are probably the only people who can address him without resistance. I speak to him when necessary, of course, but I do rather wish he'd spare me the brusque manner. Given all this, I simply couldn't picture him taking tea peacefully with a shopkeeper in some ordinary bookshop with no case involved—even though he'd just told me it had happened.
"No reason to refuse. Materials I'd acquired were familiar—summaries already in the British Library database. No urgency in translating. For someone wanting precise provenance, her offer was beneficial."
"What did you talk about?"
"Primarily, the materials. Years of dealing with scholars and students in that area—academically relevant information in perfect order." A pause. "She also chided me when she saw me licking jam off the spoon whilst drinking my tea. 'There is no need for an Englishman to imitate such things,' she said. Heavy accent. She herself stirred the jam into her cup—proper aristocratic manner. Her mother was most likely émigré nobility. Old habits of refinement, even running a modest shop."
Sherlock paused again.
"End of conversation, she said: 'I sent the money to my son, you know.'"
"What did you say?"
"'I see.' Nothing more."
His voice remained as curt as it must have been at the time.
"Thanked her for the tea. Left. Never returned. No reason to. Never saw her about the neighbourhood. The morgue just now—third time. Opportunity to meet her alive in this world now lost forever."
Sherlock gave a theatrical shrug, then returned his attention to the microscope and the display of countless vehicles. As for me—I had at last found a clear answer to the subtle unease I'd felt since morning, and I stood there simply dazed by the realisation.
Yes. Sherlock was mourning the old woman with whom he had, just once, shared tea.
Mourning, I say—though not in the literal sense of lamenting or grieving. That calm gaze he'd directed at the body in the morgue seemed the very opposite of "mourning."
Yet it was not so. On some plane utterly beyond ordinary comprehension—beyond mine, certainly—Sherlock had felt something at the death of this old woman with whom he'd shared the briefest of connections. Had some reaction to the fact that she'd slipped away in her sleep, without suffering. Granted, the only response recognisable in human language was "interesting"—but to Sherlock, that word almost certainly held a different meaning than it did for Molly or for me. Must have been the same that morning, when he'd responded to my observation. My sense of something being amiss—that was what it had been.
On impulse, I decided that once the present case was concluded, I'd make him tea. Russian tea, naturally. With jam. Sherlock would no doubt continue licking the jam off the spoon in the common fashion, so I'd follow the tolerant old woman's example and stir mine in. Perhaps it would bring her to his mind. Or perhaps, like the heliocentric model, he'd have deleted her entirely and recall nothing at all. Either way, he wouldn't indulge in the sort of sentimental mood people like us might feel.
But I found I was quite all right with that—so agreeable, in fact, was my mood at that moment.