"Nothing ever happens to me."
John Watson, first in his class in anatomy for two years running, has realised his life has come to a complete standstill. He's walking back to the tube after therapy, pondering the insurmountable wall he seems wedged up against these days. His leg hurts, his hand shudders uncontrollably, he can't sleep unless the light is on, he never has a night of unbroken sleep, he can't adjust to civilian life, he is bored to the core. It's going to be like this forever.
Nothing will ever happen to me.
He's crossed the road and about to walk through the park - there might be squirrels, and squirrels always make you feel better - when he spies a soft plump man sitting on a bench in amongst the trees. Other people are walking along the path or chatting in pairs on other benches, enjoying the watery Spring sunshine.
John, horribly self conscious of his leg that jammed shut and will no longer bend without a scatter gun spray of agony, suddenly can't face walking past people who appear as a kind of audience, gawking from the front row as he struggles on a cane. He turns left and walks the long way around to the tube.
The plum man on the bench close to the entrance of the park is the first person John would have had to walk past, if he had turned left. He's soft and spreading in early middle age with a cheerful face and a resigned unhappiness that no one would guess. Not long after John didn't walk past him, this man goes back to his work in the local hospital, checks the slides he's prepared for the afternoon lectures and bids Sherlock, some indefinable scientific deducting genius or certifiable unfeeling loony with a gift for chemistry, depending on who you ask, a cursory goodbye.
Sherlock, to whom things happen regularly & who only a short time earlier was flogging a corpse with a riding crop, doesn't look up from his microscope. He is mesmerised by small pools of blood that spit and shine like tiny stars as they burn in salty solutions.
"Hoo roo," he says sharply with synthetic warmth.
That night Sherlock is consulted on the case of the not exactly suicides. He meets the killer cabbie face to face and humours him for a while, pretending that he too will swallow the fatal pill. He listens to the cabbie's dreary brags and woeful excuse of an aneurysm as he texts Lestrade under the table.
Minutes later Lestrade and Donovan burst into the room as if the future of the free world is threatened. Sherlock rolls his eyes and is about to leave them to it but there is a clatter of furniture and the dull thud of a lifeless weight hitting the floor.
The stress of the arrest has dislodged the murderous cabbie's aneurysm and he expires in a greying heap as the large gelatinous clot bursts in his brain.
Sherlock celebrates solving the case with a bowl of long life noodles at a nice Chinese restaurant nearby that he knows stays open late. He finishes with three fortune cookies which he always enjoys because of how they contradict one another, then goes home and sits in the dark and ponders blood clots.
It's boring celebrating alone.
I have two livers if you would like them.
Diseased or clean?
Thank you. I'll pick them up later today.