Secondary Exposure: 5
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
When he awoke, for a few confused seconds Sherlock suffered the delusion that he had been asleep a mere moment; the natural light filtering into the flat hadn't changed. As he struggled to sit up, the blood in his brain pulsed vindictively against its confines, blinding him briefly before settling into a persistent throb. Sherlock pressed both hands over his eyes and then noticed that no, the light had changed. It was earlier by at least an hour.
Sherlock began the arduous task of levering himself upright. His mouth had taken on an acrid, tacky quality, and by the time he had made it to the toilet he thought he would vomit. He leaned over the seat for nearly five minutes, salivating from the back of his throat, until the feeling slowly dissipated. He straightened, then brushed his teeth. He returned to the kitchen, and noticed that it was very clean. He had been asleep for twenty-three hours. Oh, and also, John had drugged him.
On top of the nicotine, whatever John had used wouldn't have taken long to reach his bloodstream. Diazepam, probably. That alone wouldn't have knocked him out for twenty three hours, or leave him feeling as though he'd been mauled repeatedly by Satan's own chariot. The eighth patch had perhaps been in excess.
Sherlock made his way to the table, where there was a plate of stone cold french toast. He slid into a chair, stared absently for a moment, then rallied his energy and retrieved the note John had left him. John the Traitor.
Eat this, it read. What, eat the note, John, really?
I''m sort of sorry I drugged you, but not really, and I hope you're feeling better. I spoke with Harry last night. She said that after (here something was scratched out,) the incident at Theydon Bois, that I went off onions. I don't know that means, but it's the sort of thing you usually like to know. -J
Well, that was stupid. Children went off various foods all the time. Sherlock hadn't eaten much more than bread prior to University. He set the note back, anchoring one corner beneath the plate of french toast. He picked at a bit of crust, but then the thought of consuming it made him nauseous again. He closed his eyes.
He was being an idiot. This wasn't a three patch problem, or an eight patch, to be solved in one long string of concerted effort over the course of four days. All facts considered, it wasn't even particularly interesting. The man hadn't yet been caught only because he allowed the scent to cool sometimes several years before killing again. There were exceptions, of course, but rarely more than one in a year, sometimes none for as long as five. There was nothing singular, nothing fascinatingly unique, except that he had tried to kill John.
Sherlock leaned his head forward, into his hands. John had seemed to suffer some sort of traumatic flashback yesterday in the cab. The case was affecting him badly, that much was obvious. In general, John was straightforward and reliable, and Sherlock didn't like the distant, flat, unreadable look that prevailed lately. He didn't like the way John had flinched into the corner of the cab in a paralysis of stifled horror. And he didn't like that he didn't know why he didn't like it. He had never before had to deduce his own motives.
John was his friend. It was natural that Sherlock should experience residual distress on his behalf. More importantly, it would compromise John's effectiveness should Sherlock require his assistance, as he often did. But "residual distress" didn't explain the anxiety which had kept him in a flurry of half-directionless activity for eighty some-odd hours, until John had had to drug him to get him to stop. Sherlock was properly livid about that by the way. He would express it as soon as he regained his fine motor skills, which seemed slow to resurface from their involuntary furlough.
Sherlock decided to have a shower. He stood under the harsh, steaming spray, gathering the thoughts which in the last twenty-three hours had fled in diaspora. His skin took on the curious quality of feeling somewhat numb, yet hypersensitive: he couldn't quite detect the temperature of the water, but he was acutely aware of each individual point of impact, as though he were being pelted with rock salt rather than water. He shut it off and stepped out of the shower. He shaved, then brushed his teeth again, scouring his tongue and the sides of his mouth.
Once he had gotten dressed, he wandered about the flat in search of his shoes. They were lined up, heels out, at the foot of the couch, and Sherlock was halfway to retrieving them when he was arrested by the realization that John had removed them while he slept. There was an inexplicable tenderness in the gesture, and Sherlock sat down, bewildered, with a prickling tension in the back of his throat. With some difficulty he ushered this thought out of his mind and finished putting on his shoes.
For awhile, Sherlock perused the information he had tacked above the mantle, and for a longer while he stared aimlessly at the desiccating toast on the table. He would have played a bit on his violin if the blood vessels in his brain hadn't been threatening mutiny. His stomach was clenching with hunger, but the thought of eating anything made it clench in revulsion, and there was, on top of everything, that godawful taste in his mouth that would not desist. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
"Oh," he said. Oh! "Of course." All ailments forgotten, he dashed into the hall and threw on his blazer, picking his phone from his pocket as he opened the door.
"Sherlock?" John answered, as Sherlock rushed down the steps, careening against the wall in his haste.
"Onions, John!" he said. "Meet me at Scotland Yard immediately."
John was there by the time Sherlock arrived, the clinic being closer than the flat. Sherlock had called ahead to request a photo compilation of suspects, blond, blue-eyed men between fifty and sixty years old, employed within the Greater London area, and most importantly - "He's a doctor," Sherlock said. John looked at him blankly.
"And how do you know that?"
"Because of the onions, obviously."
"What onions," Lestrade piped in. It would be awhile before his team had gathered the list of suspects, and for the time they were camped rather tensely in his office.
"John doesn't like onions," Sherlock explained, then, seeing that he would have to go further, he rolled his eyes. It was purely theatrics. Aside from having a case, and solving a case, Sherlock loved nothing more than to recapitulate the finer points of his deductions. As long as John were present.
"We know from John's report that he was anesthetized prior to his abduction. When he was found the following day, he reported feeling nauseous, a natural side effect not only of the ordeal, but of having been drugged for the thirty minute drive to Theydon Bois. As John's sister so helpfully recalled, his taste for onions suffered a sharp decline subsequent to this event, and having extensively studied the effects of most drugs on the human body, I am aware that sodium thiopental will often generate what has been described as a garlic or rotten onion aftertaste. Its use has generally been replaced with propofol, but in 1990 it would have been the staple anesthetic in any hospital, with limited recreational availability or abuse due to lack of demand, on account of the side effects, which John experienced in the form of nausea and the lingering onion flavour." Sherlock began to pace the confines of the office. Oh, it was brilliant. He loved being him.
"While I maintain that John was initially anesthetized with an inhalational agent, that doesn't account for the extended period of time he was rendered unconscious. The killer drove some distance and then administered a solution containing the second drug, thiopental, intravenously. If administered incorrectly, this drug will cause severe necrosis in the tissue surrounding the injection. As John exhibited no such symptoms, it must have been injected flawlessly into the vein. This man had the unconscious body of an abducted child in the passenger seat of his car. Under those circumstances, only a doctor would have been so habitually careful with someone he intended to kill shortly afterwards."
Lestrade eyed him dubiously. "And you got all that," he said, "because John doesn't like onions."
Lestrade was an idiot. But John was smiling that awed, addictive little sliver of a half-smile, and Sherlock felt the heat jump suddenly to his face.
"Once the list has been compiled it's a simple matter of identifying the killer, and you can make your arrest." Sherlock turned and stared staunchly out the window to the main office.
In an hour, John was seated before a large computer monitor scrolling through the images of suspects. There were well over fifty hospitals in Greater London, so the list was quite extensive. Sherlock leaned back against the desk, scrutinizing John's expression. So much as a tick and Sherlock would raise his eyes to Lestrade, who would jot down the name and send it off with one of his lackeys to rustle up an older picture. John hunched further forward, his nose drawing closer and closer to the screen until he abruptly leaned back with a groan, scouring his face with his hands.
"Get him some water," Sherlock said, and Lestrade nodded to an underling.
"Make it a scotch," John muttered.
When someone arrived with a bottle of water, he took a long pull, breathed deeply, and resumed his scroll. It was nearing six when, for the first time, he hesitated notably and leaned forward. Sherlock stood up and crowded him at the monitor.
"No," John said. "It's just someone I recognize from the...from the conference." He trailed off.
"Prioritize Alan Cartwright," Sherlock demanded, straightening up. One of Lestrade's minions leapt to do his bidding. Sherlock kept a narrow gaze on John, and ten minutes later the minion returned with the color print out of the man at thirty-five, sandy hair, beardless, and bright blue eyes. John looked at it for a long time before nodding and clearing his throat. "Um, yes. Yes, that's him."
The office burst into a flurry of activity, at the center of which John sat in an emotionless nadir. Sergeant Donovan hurriedly set a paper cup before him, and was gone. The cup contained Scotch. Glenfiddich, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken, which he wasn't. In a moment, the entire office had nearly cleared, aside from those running paperwork.
Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned back on the desk, watching his flatmate stare vacantly forward, his face that blank and inscrutable mask.
"Alright?" Sherlock finally asked. John seemed to shake himself briskly and blinked several times.
"No, I...yes, I mean. I, um...met him, that was all. At the conference. I actually sat. At a table with him." John's voice had gone a bit breezy, and Sherlock picked up the scotch and thrust it at him. John took it, saw what it was, and laughed. "Cheers," he said, but didn't drink. A Scotland Yard minion scurried through the office. A door closed somewhere.
"You think I would have noticed, right? Fuck. Fuck, I didn't even think."
"Yes, well. That's why you have me."
John cracked a limited smile. He stood up and downed the cup of scotch. "Let's get out of here, then."
"It's all circumstantial, though, isn't it?" They were on their way to Monsoon for dinner. There was something of a bite to the air now that the sun had dropped below the skyline. "I mean, it's more like my word against his, we can't prove anything."
"Honestly, John, what do you take me for?" Sherlock replied. "Something will turn up."
"Oh, that's very reassuring."
"It should be."
"It's not."
"In any event, your testimony is more than enough to hold him for now. The accusation is rather grave."
"Yeah, I suppose." John sighed, then laughed without humor. "Should have just killed him when I had the chance."
"Would have saved time."
John laughed again, more quietly. Sherlock assessed him from the corner of his eye. Abruptly, he said, "You drugged me."
John glanced at him, caught his gaze and held it. To Sherlock's surprise, there was quite a bit of heat in his expression. "I did," he confirmed. "And I will if I have to. Don't ever scare me like that again, Sherlock."
Mildly affronted, Sherlock drew back. Before he could retort, however, John continued, vehemence replaced with weary exasperation. "It's enough with the thieves, and the smugglers, and the...the criminal underworld, without you doing yourself in, alright?" John caught his gaze once more, this time in something curiously akin to supplication. For some reason Sherlock began to feel anxious. His mouth had gone dry, and guardedly, he looked away. The hangover he had placed on hold returned fiercely and threatened to dominate him. They walked the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence.
They finished a subdued meal some time before seven. John was clearly exhausted, and Sherlock didn't feel much better than when he'd awoken. What little he'd eaten sat heavily in his stomach. It was odd that Lestrade hadn't contacted them yet with news of the arrest; he was usually quite prompt to report when Sherlock's information led to success. Sherlock fired off a text in this regard while John signalled for the bill. He then nodded towards the phone and asked "What've you got?" It rang just then, a call from Lestrade.
"Haven't got him yet," he said. "He's left work, but his wife doesn't know where he is. Says he's usually in by six."
"You haven't allowed her to contact him."
"Course not."
Sherlock pondered this for a moment. "Have someone call from the hospital, then get back to me." He hung up. He spun the phone in his fingers and tapped it against the table. His head was still pounding, but the unexpected obstacle had given him a jolt of something. He didn't know that it qualified as adrenaline.
"What?" John said. Sherlock continued tapping, then snatched up the phone and flipped it about.
"They can't find him."
John stilled. The waitress brought the check and he numbly signed off on it. Sherlock stood up abruptly, paced a step forward and spun around. It could be nothing. He could be out buying groceries.
Sherlock's mobile lit up with an incoming text.
No answer. We'll wait.
It could be nothing.
John stood and slung on his jacket. "Get us a cab," Sherlock instructed. He wordlessly complied. Sherlock scrolled to Lestrade's number, thumb restlessly tapping before he finally pressed send. The blood was screaming at the back of his eyes and he sincerely hoped he was wrong.
"Get the local police to every location, even those which have turned up nothing. Meet me in Cudham immediately." For once Lestrade asked no questions.
John was waiting outside with a cab. "Should we stop at the flat, do you think?" Meaning his gun.
"No time." Sherlock gave the address to the driver, and John flipped open Lestrade's badge.
"This is police business, so quickly, if you please."
The cabbie's eyes widened. "Right, then."
They climbed into the cab. Sherlock shot John an appraising glance, but he was staring grimly forward. "I hope you're wrong," he said. They pulled out into the London traffic, and Sherlock didn't bother to concur.
Chapter Six
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
When he awoke, for a few confused seconds Sherlock suffered the delusion that he had been asleep a mere moment; the natural light filtering into the flat hadn't changed. As he struggled to sit up, the blood in his brain pulsed vindictively against its confines, blinding him briefly before settling into a persistent throb. Sherlock pressed both hands over his eyes and then noticed that no, the light had changed. It was earlier by at least an hour.
Sherlock began the arduous task of levering himself upright. His mouth had taken on an acrid, tacky quality, and by the time he had made it to the toilet he thought he would vomit. He leaned over the seat for nearly five minutes, salivating from the back of his throat, until the feeling slowly dissipated. He straightened, then brushed his teeth. He returned to the kitchen, and noticed that it was very clean. He had been asleep for twenty-three hours. Oh, and also, John had drugged him.
On top of the nicotine, whatever John had used wouldn't have taken long to reach his bloodstream. Diazepam, probably. That alone wouldn't have knocked him out for twenty three hours, or leave him feeling as though he'd been mauled repeatedly by Satan's own chariot. The eighth patch had perhaps been in excess.
Sherlock made his way to the table, where there was a plate of stone cold french toast. He slid into a chair, stared absently for a moment, then rallied his energy and retrieved the note John had left him. John the Traitor.
Eat this, it read. What, eat the note, John, really?
I''m sort of sorry I drugged you, but not really, and I hope you're feeling better. I spoke with Harry last night. She said that after (here something was scratched out,) the incident at Theydon Bois, that I went off onions. I don't know that means, but it's the sort of thing you usually like to know. -J
Well, that was stupid. Children went off various foods all the time. Sherlock hadn't eaten much more than bread prior to University. He set the note back, anchoring one corner beneath the plate of french toast. He picked at a bit of crust, but then the thought of consuming it made him nauseous again. He closed his eyes.
He was being an idiot. This wasn't a three patch problem, or an eight patch, to be solved in one long string of concerted effort over the course of four days. All facts considered, it wasn't even particularly interesting. The man hadn't yet been caught only because he allowed the scent to cool sometimes several years before killing again. There were exceptions, of course, but rarely more than one in a year, sometimes none for as long as five. There was nothing singular, nothing fascinatingly unique, except that he had tried to kill John.
Sherlock leaned his head forward, into his hands. John had seemed to suffer some sort of traumatic flashback yesterday in the cab. The case was affecting him badly, that much was obvious. In general, John was straightforward and reliable, and Sherlock didn't like the distant, flat, unreadable look that prevailed lately. He didn't like the way John had flinched into the corner of the cab in a paralysis of stifled horror. And he didn't like that he didn't know why he didn't like it. He had never before had to deduce his own motives.
John was his friend. It was natural that Sherlock should experience residual distress on his behalf. More importantly, it would compromise John's effectiveness should Sherlock require his assistance, as he often did. But "residual distress" didn't explain the anxiety which had kept him in a flurry of half-directionless activity for eighty some-odd hours, until John had had to drug him to get him to stop. Sherlock was properly livid about that by the way. He would express it as soon as he regained his fine motor skills, which seemed slow to resurface from their involuntary furlough.
Sherlock decided to have a shower. He stood under the harsh, steaming spray, gathering the thoughts which in the last twenty-three hours had fled in diaspora. His skin took on the curious quality of feeling somewhat numb, yet hypersensitive: he couldn't quite detect the temperature of the water, but he was acutely aware of each individual point of impact, as though he were being pelted with rock salt rather than water. He shut it off and stepped out of the shower. He shaved, then brushed his teeth again, scouring his tongue and the sides of his mouth.
Once he had gotten dressed, he wandered about the flat in search of his shoes. They were lined up, heels out, at the foot of the couch, and Sherlock was halfway to retrieving them when he was arrested by the realization that John had removed them while he slept. There was an inexplicable tenderness in the gesture, and Sherlock sat down, bewildered, with a prickling tension in the back of his throat. With some difficulty he ushered this thought out of his mind and finished putting on his shoes.
For awhile, Sherlock perused the information he had tacked above the mantle, and for a longer while he stared aimlessly at the desiccating toast on the table. He would have played a bit on his violin if the blood vessels in his brain hadn't been threatening mutiny. His stomach was clenching with hunger, but the thought of eating anything made it clench in revulsion, and there was, on top of everything, that godawful taste in his mouth that would not desist. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
"Oh," he said. Oh! "Of course." All ailments forgotten, he dashed into the hall and threw on his blazer, picking his phone from his pocket as he opened the door.
"Sherlock?" John answered, as Sherlock rushed down the steps, careening against the wall in his haste.
"Onions, John!" he said. "Meet me at Scotland Yard immediately."
John was there by the time Sherlock arrived, the clinic being closer than the flat. Sherlock had called ahead to request a photo compilation of suspects, blond, blue-eyed men between fifty and sixty years old, employed within the Greater London area, and most importantly - "He's a doctor," Sherlock said. John looked at him blankly.
"And how do you know that?"
"Because of the onions, obviously."
"What onions," Lestrade piped in. It would be awhile before his team had gathered the list of suspects, and for the time they were camped rather tensely in his office.
"John doesn't like onions," Sherlock explained, then, seeing that he would have to go further, he rolled his eyes. It was purely theatrics. Aside from having a case, and solving a case, Sherlock loved nothing more than to recapitulate the finer points of his deductions. As long as John were present.
"We know from John's report that he was anesthetized prior to his abduction. When he was found the following day, he reported feeling nauseous, a natural side effect not only of the ordeal, but of having been drugged for the thirty minute drive to Theydon Bois. As John's sister so helpfully recalled, his taste for onions suffered a sharp decline subsequent to this event, and having extensively studied the effects of most drugs on the human body, I am aware that sodium thiopental will often generate what has been described as a garlic or rotten onion aftertaste. Its use has generally been replaced with propofol, but in 1990 it would have been the staple anesthetic in any hospital, with limited recreational availability or abuse due to lack of demand, on account of the side effects, which John experienced in the form of nausea and the lingering onion flavour." Sherlock began to pace the confines of the office. Oh, it was brilliant. He loved being him.
"While I maintain that John was initially anesthetized with an inhalational agent, that doesn't account for the extended period of time he was rendered unconscious. The killer drove some distance and then administered a solution containing the second drug, thiopental, intravenously. If administered incorrectly, this drug will cause severe necrosis in the tissue surrounding the injection. As John exhibited no such symptoms, it must have been injected flawlessly into the vein. This man had the unconscious body of an abducted child in the passenger seat of his car. Under those circumstances, only a doctor would have been so habitually careful with someone he intended to kill shortly afterwards."
Lestrade eyed him dubiously. "And you got all that," he said, "because John doesn't like onions."
Lestrade was an idiot. But John was smiling that awed, addictive little sliver of a half-smile, and Sherlock felt the heat jump suddenly to his face.
"Once the list has been compiled it's a simple matter of identifying the killer, and you can make your arrest." Sherlock turned and stared staunchly out the window to the main office.
In an hour, John was seated before a large computer monitor scrolling through the images of suspects. There were well over fifty hospitals in Greater London, so the list was quite extensive. Sherlock leaned back against the desk, scrutinizing John's expression. So much as a tick and Sherlock would raise his eyes to Lestrade, who would jot down the name and send it off with one of his lackeys to rustle up an older picture. John hunched further forward, his nose drawing closer and closer to the screen until he abruptly leaned back with a groan, scouring his face with his hands.
"Get him some water," Sherlock said, and Lestrade nodded to an underling.
"Make it a scotch," John muttered.
When someone arrived with a bottle of water, he took a long pull, breathed deeply, and resumed his scroll. It was nearing six when, for the first time, he hesitated notably and leaned forward. Sherlock stood up and crowded him at the monitor.
"No," John said. "It's just someone I recognize from the...from the conference." He trailed off.
"Prioritize Alan Cartwright," Sherlock demanded, straightening up. One of Lestrade's minions leapt to do his bidding. Sherlock kept a narrow gaze on John, and ten minutes later the minion returned with the color print out of the man at thirty-five, sandy hair, beardless, and bright blue eyes. John looked at it for a long time before nodding and clearing his throat. "Um, yes. Yes, that's him."
The office burst into a flurry of activity, at the center of which John sat in an emotionless nadir. Sergeant Donovan hurriedly set a paper cup before him, and was gone. The cup contained Scotch. Glenfiddich, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken, which he wasn't. In a moment, the entire office had nearly cleared, aside from those running paperwork.
Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned back on the desk, watching his flatmate stare vacantly forward, his face that blank and inscrutable mask.
"Alright?" Sherlock finally asked. John seemed to shake himself briskly and blinked several times.
"No, I...yes, I mean. I, um...met him, that was all. At the conference. I actually sat. At a table with him." John's voice had gone a bit breezy, and Sherlock picked up the scotch and thrust it at him. John took it, saw what it was, and laughed. "Cheers," he said, but didn't drink. A Scotland Yard minion scurried through the office. A door closed somewhere.
"You think I would have noticed, right? Fuck. Fuck, I didn't even think."
"Yes, well. That's why you have me."
John cracked a limited smile. He stood up and downed the cup of scotch. "Let's get out of here, then."
"It's all circumstantial, though, isn't it?" They were on their way to Monsoon for dinner. There was something of a bite to the air now that the sun had dropped below the skyline. "I mean, it's more like my word against his, we can't prove anything."
"Honestly, John, what do you take me for?" Sherlock replied. "Something will turn up."
"Oh, that's very reassuring."
"It should be."
"It's not."
"In any event, your testimony is more than enough to hold him for now. The accusation is rather grave."
"Yeah, I suppose." John sighed, then laughed without humor. "Should have just killed him when I had the chance."
"Would have saved time."
John laughed again, more quietly. Sherlock assessed him from the corner of his eye. Abruptly, he said, "You drugged me."
John glanced at him, caught his gaze and held it. To Sherlock's surprise, there was quite a bit of heat in his expression. "I did," he confirmed. "And I will if I have to. Don't ever scare me like that again, Sherlock."
Mildly affronted, Sherlock drew back. Before he could retort, however, John continued, vehemence replaced with weary exasperation. "It's enough with the thieves, and the smugglers, and the...the criminal underworld, without you doing yourself in, alright?" John caught his gaze once more, this time in something curiously akin to supplication. For some reason Sherlock began to feel anxious. His mouth had gone dry, and guardedly, he looked away. The hangover he had placed on hold returned fiercely and threatened to dominate him. They walked the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence.
They finished a subdued meal some time before seven. John was clearly exhausted, and Sherlock didn't feel much better than when he'd awoken. What little he'd eaten sat heavily in his stomach. It was odd that Lestrade hadn't contacted them yet with news of the arrest; he was usually quite prompt to report when Sherlock's information led to success. Sherlock fired off a text in this regard while John signalled for the bill. He then nodded towards the phone and asked "What've you got?" It rang just then, a call from Lestrade.
"Haven't got him yet," he said. "He's left work, but his wife doesn't know where he is. Says he's usually in by six."
"You haven't allowed her to contact him."
"Course not."
Sherlock pondered this for a moment. "Have someone call from the hospital, then get back to me." He hung up. He spun the phone in his fingers and tapped it against the table. His head was still pounding, but the unexpected obstacle had given him a jolt of something. He didn't know that it qualified as adrenaline.
"What?" John said. Sherlock continued tapping, then snatched up the phone and flipped it about.
"They can't find him."
John stilled. The waitress brought the check and he numbly signed off on it. Sherlock stood up abruptly, paced a step forward and spun around. It could be nothing. He could be out buying groceries.
Sherlock's mobile lit up with an incoming text.
No answer. We'll wait.
It could be nothing.
John stood and slung on his jacket. "Get us a cab," Sherlock instructed. He wordlessly complied. Sherlock scrolled to Lestrade's number, thumb restlessly tapping before he finally pressed send. The blood was screaming at the back of his eyes and he sincerely hoped he was wrong.
"Get the local police to every location, even those which have turned up nothing. Meet me in Cudham immediately." For once Lestrade asked no questions.
John was waiting outside with a cab. "Should we stop at the flat, do you think?" Meaning his gun.
"No time." Sherlock gave the address to the driver, and John flipped open Lestrade's badge.
"This is police business, so quickly, if you please."
The cabbie's eyes widened. "Right, then."
They climbed into the cab. Sherlock shot John an appraising glance, but he was staring grimly forward. "I hope you're wrong," he said. They pulled out into the London traffic, and Sherlock didn't bother to concur.
Chapter Six