friendship. A mutual interest. And I thought I’d seen just that. Huh.
One corner of his mouth lifted and he nodded.
‘Ready when you are.’
We jogged across the street and over to Regent’s Park at a leisurely pace. Sherlock adapted his somewhat longer strides to mine, and we soon fell into a rhythm that suited us both. We were at about the same level of physical fitness, and, like me, he seemed to prefer running in silence, too. He interrupted the silence only once to ask about my leg.
‘I thought running was off limits for people with artificial knees.’
‘Oh, the knee isn’t the problem,’ I said. ‘It’s the lower leg I need to watch out for. Most of the time it’s okay, it’s only when it gets cold and wet or when I overwork the leg that it starts hurting. But I have both checked once a year, just to be safe.’
‘Anything else you do, sports-wise?’
‘Swimming, whenever I can. Gym, two or three times a week. And my bike. You?’
‘Kendo.’
‘So that’s what all that stuff is. I thought it look martial artsy.’
‘You could have just asked me, John.’
‘I guess so. You been doing this long?’
‘I started when I was 16-years-old.’
A group of retirees walking their dogs made us split up for a couple of metres.
‘I used to practice archery with my brother,’ he continued when we had the path to ourselves again. ‘But his job eats up most of his time and we only get to shoot some arrows three, maybe four times a year.’
‘Really?’ I asked, surprised. ‘He doesn’t look the athletic type.’
‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Sherlock said. ‘He’s pretty good with bow and arrow and he wasn’t always that fat. He used to be in the military, too, so maybe one day the two of you can trade war stories.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
We finished our run in silence and walked up the stairs to our flat.
‘You shower first,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to look into.’
‘Thanks. Will you join me for breakfast?’
‘I don’t – ah, why not. Otherwise you’ll tell Mycroft I’m starving myself.’
‘That’s right, I will. I’ll set up the table when I’m done.’
But when I got out of the bathroom, I was greeted by the smell of coffee, and Sherlock was sitting in his preferred armchair, focussed on his tablet with his legs pulled up and his elbows sticking out, looking very much like a lanky teenager.
‘Thanks for making coffee,’ I said. ‘I really need a cup.’
He looked up. ‘Thought so,’ he replied and let his eyes travel along my body, making me feel like a bug under a microscope. ‘Did you wrestle at uni?’
‘Rugby. Number eight position, if you’re interested.’
‘Ah,’ he said and turned his focus back to his tablet. ‘Bring me a cup, will you? Black, three sugars. Thanks.’
‘Of course, dear.’
He looked up at that but didn’t say anything, and I went to fetch coffee for us both.
So he liked blokes, Sherlock did. And he liked to run. I filed both away for later use, hoping that getting him to join me for the latter might…well. We’d see about that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sherlock did join me for another morning run later that week. And again. And again, until it became a much-beloved habit. For me, at least. At that point I wasn’t too sure about Sherlock, but the fact that I heard his bedroom door open whenever I left the bathroom to change into my running gear gave me reason to hope that he was enjoying our exercise routine as much as I did.
We usually ran for about 30 to 45 minutes, depending on the weather and on whether or not it was a good leg day for me, but we always moved in perfect synchronicity with each other, either in companionable silence or chatting easily.
It was during one of our runs that I got my first insight into what Sherlock did for a living. I’d seen papers and photos lying around but he always made a point of hastily collecting them as soon as I got in, just as if I’d caught him brooding over state secrets.
‘When do you have to be at the practice?’ he asked.
‘About half nine,’ I said. ‘I got a post surgery check-up scheduled for 10am and I need to prepare my room.’
‘Don’t your assistants do that for you?’
‘I’m not your lordly brother,’ I said. ‘Our assistants and practice nurses have their hands full already. Besides, I rather like getting everything ready myself. Puts me in the right spirit.’
‘And caters to your perfectionism, right?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean that everything has to be just so, at least where basic organisation is concerned.’
‘Are you telling me I’m a neat freak?’
‘Neat, yes. Freak, I don’t think so. I’ve watched you closely over the last couple of weeks–’
‘Now who’s the freak here?’
‘But I think,’ he continued, ignoring my words, ‘it’s to do with your military background. Some things just stick, eh? Anyway, I’d like to show you something.’
‘Show me what?’
‘You’ll see.’
He steered me out of Regent’s Park and towards Ulster Terrace where he hailed a cab. We drove for about 40 minutes, with him typing away on his ever present phone and not speaking until we stopped before a building I knew well enough.
‘What on earth are we doing at the Royal London?’ I asked, climbing out of the cab behind him.
He paid the cabbie and motioned for me to follow him. ‘I need to ask your advice.’
‘My advice on what?’
‘I’m missing one minor detail on something I’m working on. I’m almost there, I can feel it, but there’s one tiny thing that I can’t quite identify.’
What was he getting at? And why were we–
‘Are you taking me to the morgue?’ I asked, recognising the route he was taking.
‘I
