The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

The Hidden Man

Fingerprints. Watermarks. Trail of IP addresses. Analytics data. Database logs. A consistent spelling error.

Motives (too obvious; clumsy. Pointing in the wrong direction). Lengthy email exchanges. (The smell of coffee.) Transcripts of phone tapped conversations. Photographs. Evidence of a sex scandal (pedestrian; too dull for words). Receipts. (Toast.)

Convoluted trail that turns in upon itself, branches out and merges back together. Maddening. Key piece of evidence missing; the middle of the puzzle still obstinately blank. (Requires legwork. Research. Possibly a disguise.) Not uninteresting.

For the bow, for the bow. Would he take it back if I refused? (Not just possible. Probable.) Typical Mycroft: wait for me to get used to it, to love it, to be unable to live without it, then snatch it back. Like his precious (bloody) chess set (1981). Bastard. Has been playing me like his (bloody) viola since I was five years old. Places deliberate pressure in just the right places, forces it (forces me) to sing (a very specific, desired note) on command. Seethe. Comply anyway. (No choice.)

Transaction records. Evidence of fraud. Newspaper: four stories reported as unconnected all related to this case. Intriguing. In spite of its origins.

Annoying email from Mycroft. (Ignore it.) Three texts from Lestrade (dull).

In front of me, a cup of coffee (steaming). Plate: toast (jam).

John.

Awake (obviously). Moving around the kitchen. Making breakfast (for me). Talking (to me). Damp hair, dressed. Wearing a shirt he left upstairs a year ago, laundered by Mrs Hudson. His jeans (picked up from the bedroom floor).

“—and you wouldn’t know it looking at him.” Chuckles to himself. He’s told a joke? An amusing anecdote? Have missed the entirety of the conversation? Missed that we were having a conversation. Missed that he was here. (How?)

How long has he been talking to me? (How long has he been awake?) Must have got out of bed, said good morning, taken a shower, dressed, come back downstairs and made coffee. Toast. Spread jam. Placed the cup and the plate under my nose. How have I become so unobservant? (Is he angry? Hurt? Disappointed?)

He looks at me. Confusion must be written all over my face. He smiles. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you.”

A right answer; a wrong answer. Which is which? (Does everything depend upon my answer?)

He laughs. “It’s all right. I was talking shite anyway.” Puts a cup and a plate into the sink. He has become so familiar to me that my senses let him pass without comment, without alarm. (Strange.) “Case?”

Nod. “Mycroft’s.”

“And you’re taking it? That’s unusual.”

“I said I’d look at the evidence.” Been up for hours. Thirsty. Didn’t notice that, either. Brain has equated John with the various foibles and needs of my own body, to be ignored in favour of brainwork. (Sanctified and joined together. Of one flesh. Are we? Already? Quiet ceremonies in the night are powerful.) Wrap fingers around cup of coffee (hot). Drink. (Perfect.) Reassuring (I suppose). Ability to concentrate utterly and completely: not affected by his presence, his wandering around the flat, his idle conversation. (The hidden man of the heart, not corruptible.)

“Gives you something to do.” Smiles at me, fond. Smile back. (I’m only able to ignore you because I love you, John. Accept this humble offering.)

“Lestrade doesn’t have anything more interesting.” (Yet.) A good murder would be nice. (Serial killer: haven’t seen one of those in a while.) Better than a case involving a few (frankly dull) leaked documents. (Mycroft: a life drowned in useless paperwork.) Could drop the file back in Mycroft’s lap, take John with me under the police tape, revel in the urgency of serial murder. The tiny, telling details.