Nicotine

Holding Back

John walked stiffly onto Paddington station, platform one, scanning the crowds for the tall figure he knew so well. Identifying him, he waved and headed over.

"John." Said Sherlock. "Are we ready?"

"I am, yeah. What are the arrangements, exactly?" He asked.

"The train will arrive any minute. It will take approximately 2 hours and forty-seven minutes to get to Boscombe. I have booked a hotel for us both. We will arrive about 6.30 and get to the hotel for 7. We can begin tomorrow morning." Sherlock said quickly.

"Right. Good. What is the case, exactly? A murder?" John said.

Sherlock stepped outwards and looked down the track. A train was fast approaching.

"This is our train. We're in E." Sherlock said, picking up his briefcase.

"Isn't that a first class carriage? And what about the case, Sherlock?" John said, following him towards the incoming train.

"I will brief you when we're on board. It is first class, look for seats nine and ten." Sherlock said as he looked for the right carriage. The brakes squealed and the doors slid open.

John climbed in and walked down the aisle until he came to the right seats. Two opposite each other, a table in between. There were only three seats abreast in first class, John noted. Tables of four on the left and tables with two seats on the right. Far more spacious than standard seating.

Sherlock sat down opposite John and stowed his briefcase above him. He motioned for John to pass up his bag and Sherlock placed it beside.

"So." Sherlock said, leaning back and placing his hands as if in prayer below his chin. "The case." His eyes seemed to sparkle.

"Mmhmm." John said.

"Murder, outdoors. The victim was male, Charles McArthy. Widower." Sherlock said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table, head still propped on his fingers.

"Did he have a wife, any children?" Asked John.

"A son, James. Charles is widowed, remember. James is accused but we'll see. The two had very little contact." Sherlock said speedily. The train jerked into motion.

"Rather than I ask questions just tell me the whole thing? It'll be much quicker. But for God's sake in English Sherlock."

"Charles McArthy was Australian and lived with fellow Australians John Turner and Turner's daughter, Alice. John is also widowed. Both Turner and McArthy were major landowners. Charles has been found dead beside Boscombe Pool, it was reported he was there to meet somebody. Two witnesses confirmed they saw Charles walking into the woods, shortly followed by James, who was carrying a gun." Sherlock explained.

"So Charles was shot?" John asked.

"No. Killed by a blow to the left-side of the head."

"So....?" John waited for Sherlock to carry on.

"A girl called Patience Moran claims she saw Charles and James arguing. She saw James raise his hand as if to hit his father. She rushed back to tell her mother what she saw, when James arrived at their house needing help. James lead the Morans to the Pool, where his father was found dead. James has been arrested and charged with the murder."

"Okay..." Said John carefully. "So how did this find you?"

Sherlock smiled again.

"Alice Turner got in touch with Lestrade, she believes James is innocent. And because the police are completely incompetent, Lestrade contacted me." Sherlock finished, leaning back and crossing his legs.

"So here we are." John breathed slowly.

"Indeed." Said Sherlock.

"Lestrade will be coming?" John said.

"Tomorrow at...." Sherlock checked his phone. "Half past one."

"Okay I'm done." Said John. "Now we wait."

Sherlock didn't reply and pulled out a newspaper, absorbing himself quite quickly in the printed columns.

"What the hell am I doing..." John said quietly.

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Solving a crime, solving a murder, leading an investigation with me and enjoying the mystery, the danger and the thrill of the chase together, John, the way it should be."

"Should be?" John repeated, confused.

Sherlock quickly corrected himself. "The way it was, rather. I apologise. This is a fluke, John, you're a married man and a father to be. This is no longer the norm. You will be too busy for this soon and it will come to an end, I am afraid. Enjoy it while you can." Sherlock returned to his newspaper.

"Don't- don't say that." John said quietly. "I will always, always, find time for you."

Sherlock remained hidden behind his newspaper.

"You're my best friend, Sherlock, and this, us, will never come to an end." John said rather forcefully. "And you know I'm not good at this sort of stuff, and, well- but, I can promise you, I will not let that happen. Not the end of this."

"Thank you." Sherlock said softly.

John leant back and breathed out slowly, looking at the ceiling.

Sherlock did not once lower the newspaper. The truth was, he was holding back tears.