Before Holmes Met Watson (FEATURED)

Day Sixteen: Hidden Talent

I'll wait until morning to travel, John thought. The viscous darkness made exploring too treacherous. He fell into a restless sleep, too cold to stop shivering. When he awoke, even though the sun was still low in the east, he could already tell the day's heat would be searing.

The desert surrounding him went as far as the eye could see.

The Devil's Anvil. Isn't that what they'd called the vast, arid expanse they'd had to cross to get to Aqaba in Lawrence of Arabia? They'd at least been prepared, John thought wryly. Camels, water, actually knowing where they were and where they were going. He'd have to start moving before the sun became too hot. North, he thought. I might as well go north.

He walked for as long as he could, then, when the heat of the sun felt like it was roasting him alive, he made a makeshift tent using dry sticks and his shirt. The pale stranger will come, he reassured himself. Or the raven. One of them will come and tell me what to do.

When the sun was no longer high in the sky and brutally punishing, John set off again, walking until it was too dark for him to continue safely. He curled into a ball and slept, his exhaustion overwhelming the discomfort of the cold.

The next day, he again travelled in the early morning and evening. He found a few desert plants and pulled them out from the roots, sucking as much of the moisture from them as he could. He wondered if they might be poisonous but felt he had to take the risk.

The man with the mother of pearl skin never appeared. Neither did the raven.

They didn't come the next day. Or the next.

#

Back in Maiwand, the Colonel was standing over John's bed with the Second Lieutenant who was in charge of his care. "The antibiotics aren't clearing the infection," the Second Lieutenant told the Colonel. "Whatever he's got is resistant to literally everything."

"We'll have to isolate him, then?" the Colonel said.

"I think that would be best," the Second Lieutenant replied. "It will remind everyone to follow the decontamination protocols if we scare them a bit."

"He'll survive, I think," the Colonel informed the shocked Second Lieutenant who had been preparing to keep John Watson comfortable while he died.

"Why do you think so?" she asked.

"Some people just have a talent for it," the Colonel replied, looking down at John thrashing and sweating. "They're made of hardier stuff than the rest of us."

#

Shinwell Johnson had a daughter called Violet Hunter. She was twenty-three and had stopped using his surname when she was twelve. He supposed he couldn't blame her. It's easy when they're small, isn't it? When all they want is to be picked up and whirled around or a bit of candy and a kiss. They'd follow you over a cliff or into hell without a single question because they trusted you unequivocally because you were their Dad, and that meant you were a hero. But Shinwell was shit at normality, shit at being there every day, shit at providing.

Violet didn't trust him and hadn't in years. She was in trouble and too naïve to suss it out for herself. That's what Shinwell could have given her if he'd been allowed – a bit of street smarts. Shinwell almost always knew when things were going to go tits up, but the life he lived meant he often had no recourse but to stand there and watch. Violet had had a choice but hadn't thought to ask her old Dad for a bit of advice. Her Mum had called him up bragging about how well Violet was doing. Sheila wasn't a bad woman, but she enjoyed rubbing Shinwell's face in it whenever things were going well for her and Violet. She told him how Violet had just taken a job that paid three times what the rest of her friends were making, and Shinwell's "this is a hoodwink" antennae began to vibrate. He probed for details, then said in that direct way of his, "It's too good to be true, Sheila. Something's not right." They'd had a blazing row about Shinwell never having believed in Violet, about how him living amongst reprobates and scammers had skewed his perceptions.

"Not everyone thinks like you and your mates," she'd shouted. "Not everyone's a bloody con artist!"

That was why they'd never got on. They were from different worlds, and he'd never really been more than a bit of rough to her. She'd been infatuated with him, and he'd been the perfect tool of teenage rebellion. Sheila was far more sophisticated than Shinwell in nearly every way, but not about this. That lot up in those office towers, they're worse than we are, Shinwell thought. How could anyone not know that? They were worse, and they'd got his daughter mixed up in their scheme.

My Violet needs help, he thought. My Violet needs Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had been bingeing on cocaine and wasn't very lucid when Shinwell forced his way into his flat. He slapped Sherlock awake, put the kettle on and made a greasy breakfast while he explained Violet's situation.

"My Violet's got a job at The Copper Beeches," Shinwell explained.

"The cosmetics company?" Sherlock asked, taking a bite of his eggs. They weren't bad, but Mark did something with fresh cream and a nutty cheese that was just divine. God, would every meal be like this, Sherlock thought. Me wondering how Mark would have prepared it, me wanting Mark there to cajole me into having a bit more, then giving me a pleased kiss when I cleaned my plate.

"Yeah," Shinwell said. "She's only just started, but they've got her working under one of the top-level execs and they're paying her triple what she should be making." Shinwell paused for a moment. "She's a lovely girl, my Violet, but she's never been... well, exceptional, you know? There's nothing she can offer them that's worth that kind of money."

Sherlock sat back and wondered how best to frame his assessment of the situation without having Shinwell punch him into the middle of the next calendar year. "Shinwell," Sherlock said hesitantly. "You know what the most reasonable explanation is: She's involved romantically with someone at the company, someone important, and they fixed it up for her."

"I asked her," Shinwell said, cringing as he recalled the conversation. "She's like her Mum – naïve, sheltered. She couldn't believe I'd suggest she'd do something like that." He took a grim sip of his tea.

"She may just have been too embarrassed to admit it to you. Or maybe there is someone there who's trying to seduce her, and the job was a way to get in her good graces."

"Told her that too." Shinwell said. "She started crying. Said she didn't want to hear from me again."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said.

"I think there's more going on there, though, Sherlock. They've got her wearing mad clothes and making her sit in the same place for lunch every day."

"What?" Sherlock sat up, his interest piqued.

"I asked her about what she'd been doing, and she said her boss, Mrs Rucastle, was a bit of an eccentric."

"Why didn't you tell me this to begin with?" Sherlock exclaimed. "The Rucastles run the company. The husband and wife are nasty pieces of work, and the rotten fruit didn't fall far from the tree. The son is even worse – he's only seventeen and already has a penchant for beating up sex workers. It's good you came to me, Shinwell. Those people aren't to be trusted."

"Do you think you can convince Violet to leave?" Shinwell asked, his worry expanding catastrophically quickly. He'll go nuclear if I don't calm him down, Sherlock thought. He'll turn up at The Copper Beeches headquarters, start thrashing people and get himself done for GBH.

"If she's anything like you, she can out-stubborn a mule," Sherlock replied drily, and Shinwell smiled. Sherlock reckoned he probably could seduce the girl and use his influence to guide her out of that viper's nest, but then Shinwell would be honour-bound to try to beat him to death. "I'll see if I can find a way into the company." Sherlock was already on his Life Management Device, quickly scanning articles and employment listings. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "Their fragrance division has been struggling, and they've sacked some of the perfumers. The Rucastles are handling the revamping of the division personally."

"And you think you can get a job there?" Shinwell asked dubiously. "Doing perfumes?"

"I am," Sherlock bragged, "what the French call le nez."

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