Chapter 4: Sherlock Shows Off (Again)

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by MichaelaMonarch

by MichaelaMonarch

We walked out into the cold winder air. It was so cold it made me gasp, which was a mistake because when I inhaled, it felt like my throat would freeze over. I guessed it was probably only seven or eight degrees outside.

"Taxi!" yelled Sherlock, waving at an oncoming taxi. It pulled over and the three of us crowded in the back. Sherlock sat closest to the right window, and John closest to the left. Being the smallest, I was smashed in the middle. Nobody said anything for a long time. Sherlock texted on his Blackberry and John alternated between staring at Sherlock and out the window. I tried hard not to fall back asleep.

I think I did, but not for long. I woke up on John's shoulder. Sherlock was still on his phone. "Sorry," I apologized straightening up.

"It's fine," John gave me a half-smile.

John glanced nervously at Sherlock.

"Okay, you've got questions, obviously," said Sherlock. He put his phone away and shifted his position so he was sitting somewhat sideways with his elbow up against the window.

"Yeah," said John. "Where are you going?"

"Crime scene. Next."

"Who are you two, what do you do?"

"Out of curiosity, what do you think we do?" I asked. "

"I'd say a private detectives..." John hesitated.

"But..." Sherlock said.

"The police don't go to private detectives," John said.

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock said somewhat proudly.

John turned to me. "And what does that make you?" he asked.

"Oh." I sad. "Well I'm actually a mortician, but I also have police force training, and a mind almost as brilliant as Sherlock's." John nodded, impressedly. "Not quite," I said. "But close."

"But what does that mean?" he asked Sherlock. "Consulting detective."

"It means when the police are out of their depths, which is always, they consult me," he said simply.

"The police don't consult amateurs," said John. I snorted. Sherlock an amateur? This man was less observant than I thought.

"When I met you for the first time today, I said, Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised.

"Yes, how did you know?" John asked.

"I didn't know, I saw," said Sherlock. "The way you walked into the room, you haircut, the way you hold yourself military. You knew your way around, so you must have trained at Bart's. Military doctor, obviously. Your face is tanned, but not above the wrists. Abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you stand, but you don't ask for a chair, like you're used to it, so it must be at least partly psychosomatic. That says that the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Suntan, wounded in Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist," said John.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've get a therapist," Sherlock looked extremely annoyed. "Then there's your brother," he continued.

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flat-share. It was a gift. You wouldn't waste money on it," John handed him his phone and Sherlock examined it. "Scratches," he said. "Not one, but many over time. It's been in the same pocket with keys and coins. You wouldn't treat a luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it. The engraving."

Sherlock flipped over the phone and showed the engraving to me and John. It said, "To Harry from Clara. XXX"

"Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you their phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. could be a cousin, but you're a war hero and can't find a place to live. Unless you've got extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses say romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says......wife.......not.......girrlllfriennddd," Sherlock's voice faded away as I fell asleep against John again.