Sherlock: Dancing with Death, Part Two

Chapter One

John

It was an early morning in April that Dr. John Watson was awoken, much earlier than he would have liked.  He woke with start, with a feeling that someone was watching him in his small, third floor bedroom, and could not dissipate it as he usually could.  Turning over in his bed, John jumped when he saw his flatmate's tall, thin figure hovering over his bed.

"Sherlock!" John hissed angrily, reaching blindly to turn the bedside light on.  "What the hell are you doing in here?"  John was a man of regular habits, and Sherlock Holmes was generally a late riser anyway, so when John saw the time--barely seven o'clock--he looked up at his friend with both curiosity and annoyance.

"I've got a text," Sherlock replied, seeming unusually happy.  He was wearing his usual dress shirt and trousers, though had exchanged his blazer for his royal blue dressing gown.  Smiling a bit--again, unusual for him--he held up his sleek black phone triumphantly.  "Beatrice is coming home."  Now grinning, he rushed out the room, only pausing slightly on his way out to call over his shoulder, "Get dressed, we're going to pick her up at the airport."

 Beatrice Martin had been training under the great consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, for some time before she'd left to see her family again, back in Ireland.  She'd even rented a room in their flat during that time, them becoming close friends.  Sherlock, especially, had missed her--though he'd never admit to it.

Fifteen minutes later, John walked out into the parlor of the flat that he rented with his friend and colleague, and found said flatmate pacing the room restlessly.

"You took your time," Sherlock observed, though it wasn't his typical cynical observation--he was obviously excited as he plucked at the strings of his old violin.  "She'll be arriving at the airport in..."  He glanced at his wristwatch quickly.  "An hour."

"You woke me an hour beforehand?" John said in disbelief.  Granted, he was, of course, happy that Beatrice, their third flatmate, was coming back--but found it hard to be as chipper as Sherlock seemed to be, at least at this time of the morning.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, as if it were obvious--to him, it probably was.  "I needed someone to talk to, and my skull doesn't answer back."  He gestured toward the skull on the mantelpiece--John had walked into the flat numerous times to find Sherlock having a full-blown conversation with the thing.

Sherlock Holmes was, in the eyes of many, a genius--he was the world's only consulting detective, and his brain capacity was phenomenal.  He could often tell where you had been that day--and many other things--from a single look, and was invaluable to Scotland Yard, the London police station.  Except, of course, that he was rude, moody, impulsive, conscienceless, sociopathic, mysterious, and, perhaps, mentally ill.  And he was Dr. John Watson's best friend.

"What do you need to talk about?" John sighed, sitting down in his chair, and giving Sherlock a curious look when the man handed John a cup of tea--Sherlock never made tea.

But what Sherlock said was even more surprising and unexpected to John.  "How do I look?"

John blinked at Sherlock in confusion.  "What?"

Sherlock never asked John for advice--not that sort of advice, anyway.  He never seemed to care, anyways, unless he was putting on a disguse, which wasn't rare.  Still, he replied seriously.  "You heard me, John," he said, sitting down opposite John in his own chair.

John looked at Sherlock for a moment, considering the question--though still quite puzzled.

Sherlock was a rather good looking man, in his own ways, with his curly mop of dark hair and piercing, slate-blue eyes.  His face was thin, with high, sharp cheekbones, and a vampireishly pale complexion, especially in the early morning light seeping in through the parlor windows.  He also happened to be at least six feet tall, and was very thin and gangling--but that was how he always looked.