The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Nine

The next morning, John came downstairs and found Sherlock at the living room table typing away on a laptop. Of course, it was John's laptop. Sherlock's proprietary use of his stuff wasn't likely to change anytime soon, so John had finally given up feeling irritated about it. Instead, he'd started changing his computer password every few days. His latest one was 'Sherlockisatosser.' The fact that Sherlock had to have gone through a variety of insults before finding the right one was immensely satisfying.

Humming a cheerful tune, John shuffled around the kitchen and prepared his breakfast. The kettle came to a boil, and he poured the steaming water into their new teapot. He quite liked it. It was black and stout, with a zen vibe to it. Their previous teapot had vanished just after Christmas along with their old, chipped cups. Mrs. Hudson must have thought it was time for a new set. Securing his plate of marmalade toast in one hand and his tea in the other, John sauntered into the living room and settled into the chair across from Sherlock. Eyes busy scanning the computer screen, Sherlock didn't even appear to notice his presence.

John would need his laptop back sooner rather than later if he was going to continue his research for Vivian. Last night's test results had left him at a bit of loss. It was already mind-boggling how Vivian's head injury had stolen her ability to read and given her an audio eidetic memory. But now it had also increased her hearing sensitivity to ultrasonic levels. The woman was a medical marvel. If anyone within the medical community caught word of her condition, it would spread faster than head lice at a primary school. They'd descend upon Vivian en masse, and she wouldn't get a moment's peace. John understood her desire to keep her condition quiet, but her other injuries were another matter. He frowned as he recalled the massive bruises on her arms. She'd better be icing them like she promised.

He swallowed a mouthful of toast. "How did you-"

"Freckles," Sherlock said, still staring at the computer.

"Sorry, what?"

"Vivian has four distinct freckles on her left arm. If one were to connect the dots, they'd form a perfect trapezoid. Since they couldn't have possibly dissolved overnight, it was obvious she was using make-up. I noticed her favoring her left shoulder during our cotton ball competition. Between that and the missing freckles, the leap to why was simple."

John blinked, still hung up on Sherlock drawing geometric shapes with Vivian's freckles. The rather intimate image was clearly lost on Sherlock who'd relayed the information with his usual clinical detachment. "You noticed her freckles?"

"I notice everything."

"Yes, but-"

"You have a scar on your right elbow from a mole removal. Now, shut up and finish your tea. I'm working."

What could he possibly be working on? Sherlock would have told him if they'd received the results from the autopsy or if they had another case. As John polished off his toast, the wrinkles in Sherlock's suit shirt caught his eye. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

"Did you sleep at all?" John asked.

Silence.

Fine. Unlike Sherlock, John knew how to be patient. He sat back, savored his tea, and waited. A few minutes later, his mobile chimed.

I woke up to a bouquet of lilies, a fruit basket, and a box of biscuits at my door. And now someone just tied a "Thinking of You" balloon to the gate. Are you dead? - Harry

John pursed his lips. Was his sister drinking again?

Nope. Still breathing. - John

Are you sure? Maybe you should double-check.