Black Lab

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Sherlock looked at the woman who stood in front of him. She was almost as tall as he and though she was of a sturdy build, there was a fragility about her. She had loved and lost. He leaned forward. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

She pursed her lips. "I know who you are Mister Holmes, you're famous."

He smiled. "Yes, well I am one of a kind. You understand that the nature of your work here would be somewhat well below the radar."

She arched an eyebrow. "You mean illegal."

"Well, it depends on what you consider illegal, Doctor Shaw. My partner and best friend John Watson has been in care for the last year. He isn't getting better. I have determined that it is a result of inadequate medication and substandard therapy. I've studied your record and it is impressive. Your advances in PTSD are remarkable and new. It's too bad you fell in love with a patient and that you had an affair with said patient and then said patient committed suicide after you lost your medical license. What a waste of a once brilliant career."

Doctor Shaw stood up. Her lips were ashen and her hands shook. "I don't need this. Good day, Mister Holmes."

He rushed after her. "Wait, I'm sorry, please I need your...help." Then he handed her a folder. "Please."

She took the file, sat down and began to read. After a few moments, she looked up at him. "So, you jump off a roof, pretend to die, traumatizing the man you supposedly love, then expect him to bounce back? Has he tried to suicide?"

"Yes." Then he looked down at his own shaking hands.

"You said you have a chemical drug in mind for him? Let me see the composition."

He grabbed his laptop and handed it to her. She studied the screen, then looked up at him. "This is unusual but it could work, but without a PET scan I would have no idea whether your formula would do him more harm than good."

Wiggins came into the room. "Ah, Sherlock's thought of everything he has, he has a machine that can do that."

"You have a CT scanner?"

"Yes."

Wiggins nodded. "Oh, he's bloody rich he is and I get all his stuff when he dies."

Doctor Shaw's eyes narrowed. "What's he talking about?"

"Nothing, he's an idiot—a minion. So, are you interested in taking the job?"

"I want to see the patient."

He nodded, pinching Wiggins on the arm when they left room. "Oy, that hurt."

They made their way up the stairs, then he stopped before a door and knocked. "John, I have someone here to see you." John gave them a blank stare, until he took him in his arms. "John, this is Doctor Shaw, your new therapist." He then looked up at her with an expression in his eyes that few had witnessed—desperation. "So, can we count on you?"

Doctor Shaw looked from one to the other, then sighed. "Yes, I'll attempt to treat him, but at the first sign this new drug of yours is going south, I will report you."

He kissed John on the side of the cheek then smiled. "Fine, I'll draw up a payment of contract."

John smiled back at him. "I'll be seeing you, Sherlock."

He squeezed his hand. "That you will, John."

After they left the room, Doctor Shaw looked at him. "So, John thinks you are a figment of his imagination—a ghost?

"Yes," he whispered.

***

Sherlock made his way downstairs to where Wiggins sat. "Come on Wiggins, time to mix up a potion, while the good Doctor attends to John."

"Hoy, which lab set?"

"The black." Then he went to a cupboard and put on a black lab coat. "Come Wiggins, we have a potion to concoct."

"How come I don't get a fancy lab coat?"

"Because you're the minion."

"You know it's times like these, that makes me hope that John doesn't get better."

"You say anything like that again and I will gut you where you stand," Sherlock hissed.

Wiggins backed up. "Fine, but I'm starting to feel underappreciated."

"Oh, quit sniveling and get me the strychnine."

Wiggins bowed. "Yes, your liege."

***

John looked at the woman before him. He liked her better than the other therapists he had in the past, but there was something about her—a secret.

"Now John, tell me why you don't believe that Sherlock is alive and well?"

He shifted in his chair. "Because...I saw...him jump. There was blood everywhere—everywhere. God, it was horrendous." He then started to shake.

"John, let's talk about something else. How is your blog going?"

He looked confused. "My blog? I don't write in it anymore. What's the point?"

"Perhaps, you can keep a personal blog about your experiences with Sherlock."

"A personal blog? You mean like a diary? That sounds a little girly."

Doctor Shaw smiled. "I'm not asking you to write about puberty or your first pimple. I'm asking you to write about..."

He smirked. "You know that reminds me about something Sherlock asked me one time. Do you know what he asked me?" Tears were running down his face while he laughed. "He asked me...asked me...when I got my first pubic hair right in the middle of a crowd of people. It had nothing to do with what we were talking about. I was outraged, but then that was Sherlock—outlandish and utterly wonderful. Yeah, that was my wonderful Sherlock—my idiot—my annoying dickhead." Then the laughter died his throat, replaced by tears. "I miss him so much. I begged him not to be dead—just one more miracle. Do you know something? I think I have a daughter named Rosie, but then maybe I don't. I'm confused. We...need to stop...just stop. SHERLOCK..." Then he sank to the floor.

Sherlock burst through the door, gathering him in his arms. "It's okay, John, I'm here. Ssh, please, don't cry. It's okay."

"Sherlock, my ghost, you keep me from being alone."

Sherlock looked back at Doctor Shaw. "After I get him settled, we need to talk."


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