"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Where you start talking and expect me to care."
Cora has always dreamed of having a more normal existence, especially when your last name is Holmes, of all things, are not expected. That's until reti...
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It was about five minutes into their taxi journey over to Lauriston Gardens that Cora and Sherlock could sense that the army doctor was eager to have some of his questions answered from the obvious nervous glances he kept throwing at them.
With a sigh of disbelief, Sherlock finally lowered his smartphone and asked, "Okay, you've got questions."
"Yeah, where are we going?"
"Crime scene. Next?"
"Who are you? What do you both do?" Again, John inquired, directing the question at both Sherlock and Cora.
"What do you think we are?" Cora shot back at him, leaning back in their seat, folding her arms and slightly raising an eyebrow, intrigued by his answer.
Somewhat distracted by the look in Cora's eyes, John slowly but hesitantly took a guess, "I'd say private detectives..."
"But?" Sherlock gestured for him to continue.
"...but the police don't go to private detectives," John finished. The man was wise and knew what he was doing, and Cora thought he could be excellent with the right amount of guidance.
"My brother and I are what you call consulting detectives-the only ones in the world. We invented the job," Cora notified him.
But the older man only frowned in confusion, "What does that mean?"
"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult my sister and me."
"The police don't consult amateurs," John implied, making Cora glance in his direction in disbelief and scoff.
"When we met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You had looked somewhat alarmed," Cora recalled their meeting yesterday.
"Yes, how did you know?"
"I didn't know," she scoffed once again and rolled her eyes before explaining, "I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor - obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand as you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. You were wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq," Cora listed everything she had learnt just by looking at John that day in St Barts.
"You said I had a therapist," John frowned, wondering how on earth she knew that.
"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course, you've got a therapist."
'Then there's your brother. Your phone," Sherlock continued from his sister, holding out his hand for John to pass his mobile phone, which he does, "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. Still, you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this," Sherlock looked the mobile phone over as he explained, "It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy. You know it already."
"The engraving."
Harry Watson From Clara xxx
"Harry Watson: a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father; this is a young man's gadget. It could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely, you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on, he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he'd have kept it. People do - sentiment. But no, he wanted to be rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"
Sherlock went on with a slight smile, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night, he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands shake. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them," he finished, passing John his phone back, "There you go, you see - you were right."
It seemed to Cora that when it came to deducting things about other people, she was always one step behind.
"I was right? Right about what?"
"The police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock scoffed before glancing out the window and Cora the other as they awaited his reaction because John was right. They were anything but amateurs and a dam sight better than those at Scotland Yard.
"That ... was amazing," the Army Doctor gasped, taking it rather well.
"Do you think so?"
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"'Piss off'!" they responded to him in unison before smirking out the cab windows. Cora once told an older woman that her husband had been cheating on her with his sectary for six months.
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