The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Twelve

John folded his arms. "Are you absolutely sure?" He wasn't about to trust the woman's shoddy typing skills. They were worse than his.

She sighed, then glanced over at her co-worker, who'd just finished a call. "Chalice, does a Vivian Walker work here? This man says he has her scarf."

"I've never heard of her. Are you sure you've got the right building?"

John pursed his lips. Typical corporate office. They likely had so many employees here that no one knew anyone's name. Perhaps everyone went by a number instead. "Yes, I'm positive. She's rather difficult to miss. Tall, ginger hair, green eyes. Ring a bell?"

Chalice put a manicured hand to her mouth and gave a tinkling laugh. "I think you mean Miranda Blythe. You must have had quite a night if you got her name wrong. Get a bit sloshed, did you?"

"No, that's not her," John insisted. He'd thought dropping Vivian's scarf off would have been a simple matter, but these women couldn't be more unhelpful. He wasn't about to leave the scarf here with them; Vivian would never get it. And he didn't want to bother Vivian by ringing her up now. "You know what? Forget it. I'll just give it to her myself later."

Chalice shrugged. "Suit yourself."

John left the building in a huff. He hoped Vivian had those two on her list to sack. If not, then she certainly would after he told her about it.

***

Sherlock stomped his way up the stairs to 221B. If only they had another body. A third one would provide the final clue as to how they were being chosen, he just knew it. But until another corpse turned up, he was going to be stuck waiting for answers. Wrenching the door open, he found John watching some rubbish show on the telly.

John nodded toward the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson dropped off some leftover stew, and your prescription is on the table."

Sherlock kicked the door shut, settled his coat on the hook, then headed into the kitchen. He stuck the covered bowl into the microwave and scowled as it spun on the turnstile. He was on a case, and he was eating. This was an abomination. He was breaking his own rules, rules he had for a reason.

Food was a distraction. It redirected blood flow from the brain to the stomach, inhibiting cognition. And sleep? Sleep was a waste of time, time that could be better spent doing something else - anything else. All those hours lying still and insensible to the world. Nothing was more boring than that. The microwave beeped, and Sherlock set the bowl down on the kitchen table with a thunk. He uncovered it, and the room filled with the savory aroma of beef, celery, and bay leaves. He sat, stabbed a spoon into the stew and began to eat. The potatoes and carrots fell apart on his tongue, and a hint of black pepper warmed the back of his throat. The stew was hearty, fragrant, and flavorful. He wanted to chuck it across the room. Vivian should have been eating this, not him. She was the ruddy hedonist. A single bite would have had her humming in pleasure. Sherlock could practically hear her now.

The dull ache in his temples increased, and he closed his eyes. The headache had plagued him off and on since Victor's triumphant exit from the lab. The following day, it hadn't bothered him much during the old woman's autopsy, but it had returned in the afternoon. Vivian had come in for her lunch hour, but instead of her usual friendly conversation, she'd marched past him into the viewing room, worked on her Mind Palace, and then left with a barely muttered goodbye. Yesterday, her strange behavior had continued. And today, while he'd been carefully cutting into Michael's incision site stitches to see if he could match them to a manufacturer, she'd fled before her lunch hour was even over, as if she couldn't bear to be there a minute longer. She'd been in such a hurry, she'd forgotten her scarf on the way out. Sherlock had almost gone after her to demand an explanation, but he'd hesitated and lost the chance. His headache had worsened then, a heavy drumbeat in his temple. It had been so loud, he hadn't heard John enter the morgue.