Part 33 - The Science of Deduction
Apr. 5th, 2013 02:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
soledad_writes posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
13th_sherlockby Soledad
EPISODE 03 – A STUDY IN PINK
Author’s note: As you can see from the descriptions, I go with some of the unaired pilot’s visuals. That will change, eventually, as the story progresses. The news article is from “A Study in Pink”, of course.
PART 31 – THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION
After Mrs Hudson had gone to the kitchen to make him tea, John picked up The Times she’d left behind and scanned the article she’d been referring to. The headline said: Fourth Poisoned Offer Found!, and it featured a large photo of some blonde woman and next to it a much smaller one of the detective from before, identifying him as DI Lestrade.
His interest piqued, John started reading the article
The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night in a building site in Greater London, it said. Preliminary investigation suggests that she was poisoned; more than that, she presumably took the poison voluntarily. The police can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson, who went missing on October 12, and James Phillimore, a young student found dead in a sports centre on November 26. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The ongoing investigation is led by DI Lestrade, who’s assured the press that all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions.
“Reasonable precautions, my arse,” John muttered. The detective who’d just visited to fetch his new flatmate had clearly been out of his depth and very obviously clueless about the whole case.
He went on to read the next article – the statement of Sir Jeffrey’s wife.
My husband was a happy man who lived life to the full, Margaret Patterson declared. He loved his family and his work – and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him.
“Yeah, and he probably cheated on you with his secretary, too,” John muttered.
Well, this was interesting stuff, for sure. Four related cases of mysterious poisoning: a rich businessman, some snotty kid on his way to sport, the actual Junior Minister for Transport – and now a fifth one? What happened to this city while he’d been in Afghanistan?
“A lot of things; most of them hopelessly boring,” the deep voice of his new flatmate said. Looking up, John saw him standing in the living room door, watching him with that frighteningly intensity again. “You’re a doctor,” he then said. “I fact, you’re an Army doctor.”
It wasn’t really a question, but John got to his feet nonetheless and turned to Sherlock who came back into the room again. “Yes.”
“Any good?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.
Anger flared up in John. How did the man <>i>dare to question his professional excellence as a doctor? He’d got medals for outstanding service, dammit!
“Very good,” he snapped. No use for false modesty here.
“Seen a lot of injuries, then?” Sherlock continued, still scrutinising him with that unnerving gaze. “Violent deaths.”
“Hmmm, yes,” John said noncommittally, wishing that the other man would finally get to the point.
“Bit of trouble, too, I bet,” Sherlock murmured in a low, almost seductive voice, and the memories slammed back into John’s mind like a sledgehammer.
The merciless heat of the desert sun… the scent of sweat, blood, weapon’s oil and burnt human flesh… the rush of adrenaline through his veins as he ran through the hail of bullets in a desperate effort to save lives, his own and those of his fallen comrades… the moans and cries of the wounded while he was operating on them in the middle of nowhere… the searing pain of the bullet tearing through his shoulder…
“Of course, yes,” he replied quietly, fighting the sudden nausea. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.
So why did he have the feeling that he’d never be so alive again, even if he lived to be a hundred years old?
“Want to see some more?” Sherlock’s voice was low, barely audible, but John could suddenly feel the excitement rush through his body again – a feeling he hadn’t realised how much he was missing ever since his return.
“Oh God, yes!” he said fervently.
“Come on then,” Sherlock spun on his heels and stormed out of the room and down the stairs, without checking if John would follow him. Which he did, of course, limping after his flatmate as fast as his bad leg allowed.
“Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” he called out to their landlady who was standing near the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll skip the tea. Off out!”
“Both of you?” she asked in understandable confusion.
Sherlock had almost reached the front door by then, but at that he turned and strode back to her.
“There’s no point sitting at home when finally something halfway interesting happens,” he declared, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her noisily on the cheek,
“Look at you, all happy!” she said reprovingly. “It’s not decent!” She couldn’t help but smile, though, as he headed for the front door again.
“Who cares about decent?” Sherlock called back over his shoulder. “The game, Mrs Hudson, the game is on!” With that, he walked out onto the street to hail an approaching black cab. “Taxi!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the following thirty minutes they were sitting in the cab, on their way to Brixton, and John listened in open-mouthed awe to his new flatmate who led him through a long, interlinked chain of brilliant deductions. Explaining how he’d read John’s career and living conditions from his haircut and his stance (=military), from his brief conversation with Mike Stamford he’d overheard (=medical training at Bart’s), from the suntan that didn’t go beyond neck and wrist (=long time abroad but not sunbathing) and from his psychosomatic limp (=wounded in action), and how he’d come to the final deduction: Afghanistan or Iraq.
He loudly clicked the ‘k’ sound at the end of the final word, which made John giggle nervously.
“You said I had a therapist,” he then said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp – of course you’ve got a therapist,” he said. “Then there’s your brother.”
“My brother, right,” John repeated, suppressing a grin as Sherlock launched another brilliant string of deductions, all based on his phone. Rattling down unerringly why it had to be a gift from a family member – a sibling, more accurately – who’d got it from a wife. Why it had to be a recent gift, how the marriage had to be in trouble and how it had to be Harry who’d left Clara, not the other way round. He even correctly deduced that Harry was a drinker, from the small scratches around the power connection; and how he, John, wouldn’t go to Harry for help because of the drinking.
The only point he’d missed was Harry’s actual gender, but that really wasn’t his fault. Most people wouldn’t think of a woman by that nickname. Which only showed that even the brilliant, arrogant Sherlock Holmes had something in common with most people.
It was a comforting thought, actually.
“There you go, you see,” Sherlock finished triumphantly. “You were right.”
“I was right?” John didn’t have a clue where that came from. “Right about what?”
“The police don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock replied, looking out of the side window haughtily. But he was biting his lower lip as he was waiting for John’s reaction. Not quite so sure about himself as he’d like others to think, apparently.
“That… was amazing,” John declared, and he meant it, because aside from Harry’s gender, Sherlock had been spot on. Sherlock turned to him in apparent surprise.
“You think so?” he asked after a few moments, and there was almost some child-like eagerness in his voice. John felt his heart contract painfully at that obvious hunger for appreciation.
“Of course it was,” he replied with as much conviction as he could manage; which, in this case, was a lot. “It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”
Sherlock accepted the honest reassurance with a slight nod. “That’s not what people normally say,” he then said, but there was amusement in his voice rather than hurt.
“What do people normally say?” John asked, curious.
Sherlock smiled briefly. “’Piss off!’” he said
And then they both grinned as their journey continued.
~TBC~
(no subject)
Date: 2013-04-05 03:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-04-05 07:06 pm (UTC)I'll be so glad when we reach Part 38, where the Whoniverse stuff comes in again!