Contact High → Sherlock Holmes (BBC) [on hold]

{ seventy }

"Did you know?" Lestrade asked.

John shook his head, "Of course I didn't."

The light was dull above the two of them. Lestrade's eyes flicked over to the recorder that was silently transcribing every word. His own head was still reeling, he couldn't believe Sherlock would do such a thing.

"You didn't see him take the scalpel?" Lestrade asked.

John shrugged, "Nobody saw it. Not even Carmen. I suppose you already interviewed her?"

Lestrade nodded. He rubbed the back of his neck as he thought about what a crazy day he had had. The criminal classes had already been on a kick, and now Sherlock had gone mad too. "I interviewed her at the hospital. She's staying under observation. She took quite a nasty blow to the head. Did Sherlock do that?"

No matter what John felt against the two of them, he knew that Sherlock would never intentionally physically hurt her. "She fell," he said. At Lestrade's disbelieving face, he repeated it. "You know Sherlock as well as I do," John continued, "You know he would never hurt her."

"I know," Lestrade said, sighing, "You just can never be too careful these days. The whole wide world's gone mad, and we've got to deal with it. Now, tell me, John. Did you know what was about to happen?"

"Of course I didn't know!" John defended, "How would I know he was going to lose it and brandish a knife?"

"Well, there must have been some buildup!" Lestrade said, "He didn't just suddenly do it."

John shook his head, "He lost it. He finally lost it, that's it. Look, I didn't know he had the bloody scalpel, okay?"

Lestrade reached over and turned the tape off. He leaned back in his chair, hanging his head back. "Awh, Christ," he muttered. He looked off into the distance, the dark corners of the room where his doubts lived. "I keep wondering if we should've seen it coming," he finally said.

"Not long ago, he shot Charles Magnussen in the face," John said flatly, "We did see it coming. We always saw it coming... but it was fun."

There was a knock at the door and Lestrade told them to come in. A female officer carrying a laptop walked in. "Sir," she said, "You're going to want to see this." She set the laptop down on the desk and hit the spacebar. A breaking news report played on the screen.

The news anchor smiled into the camera, just enough to not frown but not enough to say she enjoyed talking about such dark news. Her expression was the perfectly calculated masks that so many were used to hearing the state of the world from.

"Mr. Smith has stated he has no interest in pressing charges," she nodded and the screen turned from her to a clip of Mr. Smith. He, too, smiled greasily into the camera.

They were interviewing him in the morgue where it had all happened. Was John seeing things, or was that Sherlock's blood still smeared across the floor? The sight made him feel guilty. He flexed his hand in regret, feeling the sore muscles expand and contract under his skin.

"I'm a fan of Sherlock Holmes," Mr. Smith said, "A big fan. I don't really know what all happened today. To be honest, I don't think I'd be standing here without Dr. Watson."

"Is it true he's being treated at your hospital?" the reporter asked.

Mr. Smith chuckled a little too goodnaturedly, "It's not actually my hospital. Well, it is a little bit my hospital. But I can promise you this... he's going to get the absolute best of care. I might even move him to my favorite room."

John scrunched his eyes at the strange wording of the man. He felt something tugging at the ends of his mind. Something he needed to think about, but not here, not now. The officer paused the video and left the room with the laptop. The door shut with a final-sounding snap.