冬眠的倉庫

It is almost textbook: The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption.

The first time was on a busy street at the heart of London. He was wearing his long over-coat, collar-up, so he looks all cool. He did not do anything with his cheekbones.

John saw him, clearly saw him. Because he walked straight to him, because he paused, and stood still. He did not shake, or tremor, his hands steady as steel. He just stared at Sherlock, and took a deep breath after a couple of minutes. One minute and fifty-three seconds, to be exact. His eyes became shinier than usual. Crowds of ordinary people wandered past them, completely ignorant of what they saw.

He nodded at Sherlock and kept walking after that. Sherlock turned as John rushed past him, a bit surprised. He only got hold of his arm for two seconds.

He expected an angry punch, joyous tears, or whatever normal people do. He did not expect being ignored.

Maybe John was too mad at him.

***

The second time was at John’s new flat. John refuses to revisit 221B Baker after that.

John had just returned from grocery shopping, multiple plastic bags in his hands. Heavy, measuring around twenty pounds, he can tell from the indentations they made on John’s hands. John shops exactly once every two weeks judging by the size of the milk he picked up and the content of his garbage bins.

He had been sitting on the couch for a large part of the afternoon, making himself comfortable. After he was finished with John’s laptop, solved three cases on his phone and watched two hours of crappy telly.

He took his own pulse and steadied it when John entered. John was putting things away when he finally saw him.

“Hello, John.”

John dropped a bag on the counter and made a huge noise. He seemed very surprised. Why would he? It is only logical for him to visit John at his apartment. John doesn’t know where he lives yet.

“Bloody hell, you talk!”

“What do you mean I talk? Of course I talk. You have heard me talking. Why would you assume I all of a sudden turned mute?”

John’s pupils dilated, he looked in shock. Maybe he should fetch him a blanket.

He shook his head twice. “No, no reason at all. You are very realistic.”

Sherlock took a deep look at John. Hum?

John went on and conducted his business through out the night, ignoring him most of the time. He can be very, very stubborn.

He imagined John thinks love’s a mystery to him but their chemistry is incredibly simple. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side and love is a dangerous disadvantage. The probability of John outlasting him is zero.

“No strings of girlfriend, I see, judging by your hair, in fact no dates at all in a long time by your shoe closet. Your computer password says you miss someone deeply, and you don’t listen to string instruments. Is that kidney pie you are making?”

“Stop it! Stop it stop it...Just... stop.” John stopped chopping onions. He picked up the pace and started crushing the onions after a deep breath.

 “Why now? Why today? My therapist said I am making rather remarkable progress.”

“You also have an remarkable power of stimulating genius. The case I am on requires more than my skull.”

John laughed, no, snorted. He twitched the corner of his lips seeing John’s laugh.

“Just as I thought.”

“I am not hungry yet, some tea would do, thank you.”

John ignored him and made enough kidney pie for one. He never delivered his tea. At some point he opened his fridge and muttered to himself, “I am surprised I am not seeing a bag of thumbs.”

Silence never bothered Sherlock, but John’s reaction deviated from the norm. There is something that he is not grasping.

“I am done collected data on human thumbs. You know that. Besides I have my own fridge for my specimen now.”

“Yes, yes, don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"The look. We all know what’s really going on here. Obviously.”

He rose from the couch, walked into the kitchen and stood right next to Watson. “Are you sure you are alright?”

“No. Yes. God no. I’ll be fine.”

The timer rang and John collected his dinner. He walked to the previously occupied spot and sat down.

“It even smells like you.”

“Of course it smells like me, I just got up from there. Each human body emits a combination of thousands of organic compounds unique to the individual, untrained noses cannot identify intruders or mark out territories but can often recognize those significant to them.”

John stared at something in mid air, his voice softened. “You didn’t like using soap or deodorant with fragrance, said they interfere with your senses on a crime scene. But you always smelt good, very clean, lean, and masculine.”

“Didn’t?”

John turned on the telly, and started eating his kidney pie.

***

He left John’s place shortly before midnight to acquire something from his flat. He returned with his violin and started playing on the loveseat. John simply turned the volume of his TV up and kept watching, did not even attempt to stop him.

It became after one very quickly, and he kept playing. It was a piece he played often when his mind was not occupied with cases these years. He finally heard busy footsteps from upstairs, pounding on the door and yelling. John answered the door.

“I am so sorry, I don’t understand how......my apologies, I promise you will enjoy a good night of sleep from now on.”

John returned to the living room, pale as a ghost.

“Your reactions since this morning say you can see, hear and even smell me properly, and yet you refer to me in the past tense, implying your firm belief in my state of death. When does someone see a person dear to him in real life and not realize he is not dead? A ghost, maybe, but you do not seem frightened. It could be you feel too intimate to be alarmed by my--”

He waved his bow in mid air, searching for the right word,

“-- ghost, but normally people take advantage of seeing a ghost by expressing their feelings. No, you are a scientific man, you would have disregarded the idea quickly enough. You tried ignore me, like my existence somehow is detrimental to you. The only logical assumption would be you thought I am not real. You have had a psychosomatic limp and the experience of seeing the hound, you know what the human brain is capable of creating. Imageries, proper responses, my scent. You thought you missed me too much and started seeing illusions. That is why you did not even ask about the case I am on, after I clearly informed you I am on a difficult one. You heard me play my violin, and continued to assume your flaccid brain is capable of creating melodies you have never heard before.

You had yourself convinced until your neighbors knocked on the door. It took them a while to come down because you have always been a good neighbor and never caused trouble, but they finally have had enough. What violin, you thought, they should be complaining about the telly, which is put on max volume to cover up my violin, but that’s not what they complained about. Not surprising, actually, the sound of a violin is higher in frequency and often harsher on the human ears.”

He put his violin on the coffee table, stood up, and walked toward John. John tilted his head up thirty degrees to meet his eyes.

“Why would your neighbors complain about music played by the product of imagination? You should be the only one bothered by it, your asked yourself. You have in your head the only assumption not eliminated by evidence already, you are not too stupid, or not stupider than the average. Whatever remains, however improbably, John, must be the truth.”

A strong right hook landed on his cheekbone. Excellent, here come the reactions he anticipated.

“You have to understand it was the only plausible solution to the conundrum, Ouch,...... I see, you are having a bad day......”

Give him a riddle and watch him dance.