Detective in the Shell

Sherlock takes in his surroundings, eyes drifting over every available surface.

 

It takes him a while, but eventually his fingers are drumming along with the beat of his heart.

 

Members of the team start to arrive, and Sherlock stands with a decided swiftness that is particular to him. He doesn’t plan on sitting down again.

 

“Mr. Holmes,” a young man says, stepping forward for a cursory introduction. The consulting detective doesn’t give him the time.

 

“Dr. Watson?” He asks, with a frown.

 

“He should be on his way here, otherwise he’s probably in his workshop, take a left at the end of the hall, then down a flight of stairs and–”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says over his shoulder, already taking long, even strides towards the hallway.

 

“…how long do you give him before he realises he needs a code to get in the door?”

 

“A few minutes,” the young man replies with half a smile.

*******************************************

2-8-4-5.

Obviously.

The Englishman takes in the room slowly, carefully, with a measured step, like a honey bee finding its way home.

 

John’s asleep at his desk.

 

Sherlock is even more surprised when the frenzied foaming noises from the coffee machine don’t wake the good doctor at all. Sherlock runs a cursory hand through his hair.

 

He takes his time, adds milk and takes his place across from the other man.

 

“…good morning, Dr. Watson.”

 

The good doctor wakes up suddenly, abruptly, and swings his legs out from underneath his desk, searching for his boots with his toes. They aren’t there, and he isn’t in a rickety cot in the middle east. He’s still in his apron and shoes, tray of bolts and washers on one side of the desk and Sherlock Holmes on the other.

 

John stands up far too quickly and awkwardly for his artificial joints, but doesn’t grimace. He also doesn’t set down the small mechanical leg still in his hands.

 

“ … right,” he says, instead of the hundreds of other things he can say, that he wants to say — from haven’t heard someone say my name like that in a while to still haven’t gotten around to changing that passcode, have I?

 

“I’ve missed something, then,” he mutters at the other man, blinking.

 

Sherlock reaches for John’s arm, and finds it across the table.

 

“The Major came to my flat in London yesterday to consult me about a series of cyber crimes, anomalies in regard to hacked or edited messages, could be an inside job – can’t be sure, I have hardly any data – in any event I got on the tube, boarded a plane at Gatwick, cleared my attic for twelve hours and arrived 22 and a half minutes ago,” he cleared his throat.

 

The detective let go of the other man’s arm when he realised he was still holding it. “I took the case, obviously. There’s a team upstairs. They’re waiting.”

 

Sherlock’s long, even, purposeful strides take him effortlessly to the door, which he opens, standing in the entryway with all his limbs perfectly charged.

 

“…you mentioned something about J.D. Salinger, then?”

 

(I certainly cannot take all the credit for today’s piece. My wife wrote the good doctor’s part, and also introduced me to Ghost in the Shell – though admittedly I haven’t gotten around to watching it yet. You can find her blog here: artbyval.ca, and one of her doodles here: http://artbyval.ca/post/82632941827/another-sunday-afternoon-another-doodle-to

I do love her work, and her method, and am entirely grateful for this wonderful little crossover of ours, along with all the others.)

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