Surgeons must be very careful
Holmes turned to face John.
He couldn’t see Holmes’ face, only his silhouette was visible in the darkness. His curly hair stuck up in the moonlight and his long coat lapped in the breeze. It was quite a different cutout of Holmes than the one John saw at work. He usually showed up in his trousers and a light shirt and even on his first day, his suit was form fitting and left little to imagination. Not that John was imagining Holmes, though. He only meant that his coat added to the mysteriousness of his persona.
“Watson!” Holmes jumped excitedly, clapping his hands together. “Come, come!” He waved his arms wildly, motioning to John.
John stepped forward hesitantly, unsure of what was happening. He was expecting Holmes to run off, so as to prevent anyone from seeing his potentially nefarious behaviors. For him to be so excited was a different kind of unsettling.
“Look, Watson, look.” Holmes pointed down to the ground.
John looked down and felt his eyes go wide.
Laying on the ground, in the disturbed soil, was a severed finger covered in blood and earth.
John’s head started spinning. Whose finger is that? How did it get here? Did Holmes put it there? If he did, where did he get it from, or rather, from who? Was he burying the evidence when John found him here?
“What do you think?” Holmes beamed.
John turned to him slowly, feeling almost betrayed at the possibility of this being Holmes’ doing .
Holmes’ smile dropped when he saw the uneasiness on John’s face.
“Oh please, Watson, I didn’t put it here and I certainly didn’t kill anyone to get it.” Holmes rolled his eyes.
John swallowed. “Alright,” he said, captivated by Holmes’ ability to seemingly read his mind, “Who did then?”
Holmes crouched down over the finger, studying it. “Someone was after him,” he said, halfway ignoring John’s question. “He dug with his hands, quickly. See, the finger was only a few inches deep and the dirt was brushed back quite unnaturally. It must’ve been dark too, he obviously didn’t realize that this spot is surrounded by growth. He must’ve dug through the grass in his haste and didn’t stop to think that a bald patch would draw attention.”
“Lucky a kid didn’t find it,” John stated, “It is a schoolyard after all.”
“Yes,” Holmes said, staring off, “Why a schoolyard? Why be so careless? I mean, the grass ends here, he could have buried it a few feet to the right. It would’ve been easier too.”
“Maybe he wanted someone to find it,” John offered.
“Yes, but who?” Holmes continued to stare into the darkness. He gave no indication that John’s suggestion was heard, but instead responded as if he had come to the conclusion himself.
He snapped out of his stupor abruptly, pulling a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and scooping up the finger in it. “I’ll take it to Hooper, see if any bodies are missing a finger.”
John stood for a moment, equally confused and enamored by the man in front of him.
Holmes stood up, put the handkerchief-wrapped finger in his coat pocket, and looked at John.
“You have questions,” he said matter of factly, observing the concerned look on John’s face.
He laughed a bit. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“Well,” Holmes’ responded, “ask away.”
John stared for a moment at the man, studying his face. He really was quite attractive, objectively speaking.
“Why weren’t you at work today?”
Holmes’ brow furrowed. It wasn’t the question he was expecting. His face quickly returned to its mysteriousness, however, as he offered his explanation. “I was looking for clues.”
John laughed even louder this time. “Clues? About this?” He gestured to the ground where the finger was buried.
Holmes rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yes.”
“Shouldn’t you leave that to the sheriff?” John questioned, increasingly confused and captivated.
It was Holmes’ turn to laugh. “Lestrade? He’s out of his depth. Besides, he’s asked me to help. It’s a sort of deal we have: he collects the taxes, shovels the manure, arrests the bank robbers who are stupid enough to get caught and I do the “legwork” as he calls it. He offered me a job as deputy sheriff, but I don’t care much for titles. I just do the work that appeals to me.”
John scoffed. “Severed fingers appeal to you.” He meant it as a question, but it sounded more like a fact.
Holmes smiled and John’s stomach fluttered slightly.
“Yes, yes they do,” he remarked, moving a little closer. “And I suspect they do to you as well, Watson.”
John breathed in, feeling suddenly vulnerable. The question was an odd one, even on the surface. Of course severed fingers didn’t appeal to John, but maybe Holmes was referring to the sense of danger and excitement that comes with the discovery of a dismembered digit. John couldn’t deny that he had always been drawn to a bit of danger, especially now, with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. But the way Holmes asked the question and looked hard into John’s eyes as he did, almost made him think he was referring to something else.
“I suppose they do.” It was barely a whisper, but John knew Holmes was close enough to hear. They held each others’ gazes for what felt like minutes, but John couldn’t bring himself to look away. Holmes’ stare bore into him and left him feeling exposed. Could he see what John was thinking, what he was feeling?
“Stamford should be stumbling out soon,” Holmes said softly, not breaking eye contact.
John furrowed his brow, “What?” He finally breathed out and broke the tension between them.
“JOHN WATSON!”
John sighed as the flamboyant voice echoed off the buildings of the street. Shit. He forgot he left Stamford at the saloon.
“Right on time,” Holmes said, his voice still quite soft. His eyes still hadn’t left John.
“WATSON!?” Stamford continued to yell for John, completely and utterly plastered.
John turned to look towards the street where Stamford was parading with a glass in his hand. He looked back at Holmes who had returned to a crouch beside the dirt.
“Will I see you at work tomorrow?” John cursed himself internally for the phrasing of his question. He meant to say ‘Will you be at work tomorrow.’
“Doubtful,” Holmes responded, now inspecting the ground with a magnifying glass he had pulled from his coat.
“But Sholto-” John started, but Holmes cut him off.
“Dull.”
John tried again. “Holmes-”
Holmes looked into his eyes intensely, causing John to trail off.
“Like I said, dull.”
He returned to his magnifying glass and John was left with a strangely empty feeling. It wasn’t abnormal to miss a friend, right? Is that what they were, friends?
John wanted to ask more, to figure out when the next time they would see each other would be, but Stamford's incessant yelling was starting to become unbearable.
Without saying anything more, John turned and jogged toward the road to Stamford.