Chapter 173: Sherlock and Watson
"Alright, I'll take your advice. I'll head back to Los Angeles soon," Ron agreed after a moment's consideration.
Sherlock's approach was always... to put it diplomatically, enigmatic; to put it bluntly, just plain cryptic, but Ron could still catch glimpses of his reasoning.
Because of his involvement, Owen would inevitably alter his strategy. On one hand, his advantage of knowing what was coming would be lost, and on the other, Owen might seek assistance from his well-connected mother.
The forces he'd face would undoubtedly be far more formidable than the ragtag crew Owen had assembled. While Ron wasn't intimidated by any challenge, based on the principle of avoiding unnecessary complications, he decided it was wise to follow Sherlock's counsel.
It wasn't cowardice, just pragmatism.
The laboratory door swung open, and in walked a heavyset man and a man with a limp, not the female pathologist who had just offered coffee. Sherlock ignored them, continuing his experiments.
Ron, however, wore an intrigued expression. Wasn't this Watson, Sherlock's legendary partner?
Sherlock suddenly said, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? Mine's got no signal."
"Why not use the landline?" replied the portly Mike.
"I prefer texting."
"Sorry, it's in my coat."
"Here, use mine." Watson, moving with some difficulty, handed over a specially designed smartphone.
"Oh, thanks." Sherlock took the phone, and the heavyset Mike seized the opportunity to introduce him: "This is my old friend, John Watson."
Mike glanced at Ron, implying it was his turn for introductions, but Sherlock had no intention of obliging. Instead, he casually asked while texting.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"What?" Watson looked stunned.
"Afghanistan or Iraq, which one?" Sherlock repeated, and Ron's lips curved slightly.
Things were getting more interesting by the minute. He wondered if Mycroft's heart would skip a beat seeing the famously sharp-tongued detective being so patient.
He'd probably never have a nephew at this rate, though adoption was always an option.
"Afghanistan, how did you..."
"Molly, thanks for the coffee," Sherlock accepted the cup. "What happened to your lipstick?"
"It didn't really suit me," the female pathologist said dejectedly.
"Really? I thought it worked well. Your lips look too narrow now." Sherlock sipped his coffee and wandered around, acting as comfortable as if he owned the place. The pathologist handed Ron his iced Americano and left looking dejected.
Ron took a sip of his coffee. "You do realize she put on that lipstick to get your attention, right?"
But Sherlock ignored him and set his coffee on the table. "What's your opinion on violin music?"
Ron and the heavy-set Mike exchanged glances, then turned their attention to Watson. Knowing Sherlock, they were certain he was addressing Watson.
"Sorry, what?" Watson looked puzzled by their stares.
"I play violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't speak for days on end. Would that bother you?" Sherlock turned around. "Potential flatmates should know each other's worst habits."
Watson looked at his introducer, "Mike, did you tell him about me?"
"Not a word."
"Then who mentioned flatmates?"
"I did," Sherlock glanced at the test results just delivered by the pathologist, jotted down all the information, and grabbed his coat.
"I told Mike this morning I was having trouble finding a flatmate, and here he is after lunch, bringing along an old friend. Obviously just returned from military service in Afghanistan, so that was easy enough to deduce."
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" Watson asked numbly, though Ron could clearly see he was beginning to take interest in Sherlock, and Ron suddenly felt like everything he was witnessing had romantic undertones.
"I've got a decent flat in central London, so splitting rent shouldn't be too expensive. We'll meet tomorrow evening at seven."
Sherlock was operating at his own pace, completely oblivious to others' responses, or even if he noticed, he wouldn't bother acknowledging them. "Sorry, I've got to run."
With that, Sherlock brushed past Watson and made his stylish exit.
"We just met and we're going apartment hunting?" Watson stopped Sherlock. "We don't know anything about each other, not even where to meet. I don't even know your name."
"I know you're an army doctor, recently returned from Afghanistan with an injury. I know you have a brother who worries about you, but you won't accept his help because you can't stand him—probably because he's an alcoholic, or more likely because he recently left his wife.
And I also know your therapist believes your limp is psychosomatic, which I find quite accurate."
Sherlock walked back. Though his expression remained neutral, Ron could detect a hint of smugness he couldn't quite suppress. Ron had studied psychology and knew that narcissists like this never missed an opportunity to show off.
Generally speaking, if such people didn't have someone protecting them, they'd get beaten up regularly from childhood. He had a family member exactly like this.
"Shall we continue? My name is Sherlock Holmes, address 221B Baker Street, good afternoon." Sherlock gave Watson a rather theatrical wink and shut the door.
"Yeah, he always does that." X2
Ron and the heavy-set man said in unison.
"Are you Sherlock's friend?" Watson asked.
"Hardly. Sherlock doesn't have friends, though maybe you'll be the exception," Ron replied matter-of-factly. In a sense, a romantic partner was also a kind of friend, right?
Probably?
"But I can answer your question." Perhaps showing off was contagious, spreading from person to person. Ron was intrigued by Sherlock's performance and felt the urge to demonstrate as well.
Watson looked to Ron for help: "Do you know how he figured out I just returned from Afghanistan?"
"Of course, it's not that difficult," Ron drained his coffee in one gulp: "Your haircut and posture indicate military background. Sorry, but Sherlock and I overheard part of your conversation. You said 'this feels different than before,' suggesting you were a student here, so obviously you're a military medic."
"Your face is tanned, but not above the wrists, meaning it's not from deliberate sunbathing. Your leg gives you trouble, but you didn't ask for a chair when standing, as if you forgot about the disability. You have some psychological issues."
"That suggests the injury was traumatic, a combat wound. There was warfare and intense sunlight. The only places meeting both criteria recently are Afghanistan and Iraq."
Ah~
Admiring the bewildered expressions of the heavy-set man and Watson, Ron felt exhilarated. Fortunately, he was a Sherlock Holmes fan. Ron could practically recite this classic deduction from the original stories.
No wonder Sherlock and Sheldon never missed a chance to show off. Turns out being a know-it-all was genuinely enjoyable.
Ron secretly decided to continue promoting this pastime.
"You mentioned I need counseling..." Watson was about to respond, but Ron interrupted again.
"Your limp is psychological. Obviously you need therapy. I have a buddy who was also wounded in the Iraq War. He was fine after just three months, but his injury was to his rear end."
Ron also put on his coat. "Pleasure meeting you both. I'm Ron. I'm also in a hurry—got to get back to the States. I'm sure we'll cross paths again soon."
(End of Chapter)
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