Sherlock caught a cab for us and one by one we climbed in.
I was in the middle, John was on my left and Sherlock was on my right.
The silence was unbearable.
I cleared my throat in an attempt to get their attention.
"What's the difference this time then Sherly?" I asked.
"How am I meant to know?"
"You're smart. I wouldn't go as far as genius...but you're talented... at this stuff."
"Is that a compliment?" He smirked.
"Yes, brother. I suppose you wouldn't know, since you haven't much experience with compliments, or people for that matter." I hissed.
John sensed that we were getting frustrated with each other.
"Who are you? What do you actually do?"
"What do you think?"
"I'd say private detective..."
"But?"
"But the police don't go to private detectives."
"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."
"What does that mean?"
"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"The police don't consult amateurs."
"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation... Bit different from my day...said trained at Barts - so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned... but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand - so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic - wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."
"You said I had a therapist."
"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't buy this - it's a gift. Scratches. Not one, many over time -it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."
"The engraving?"
"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live - unlikely you've got an extended family, not one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, it's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on he's given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help - that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, or don't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked.
"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks round it. Every night he plugs it in but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you were right."
