Читать книгу The Case of the Misplaced Models - Tessa Barding - Страница 10

My night ended with the buzzing of my mobile phone. I reached for it, hoping it was not the surgery. I was not in the mood for an early morning emergency, but it wasn’t work.

Halabi, K was calling.

‘Salaam, my brother,’ I said and rubbed a hand across my face. ‘Why are you calling in the middle of the night? Or are you in a different time zone?’

‘Heathrow. On the way to Dubai, then off to Hong Kong.’ Karim’s voice was typically gruff. I grinned. Not only did my London born- and-bred friend never waste time on niceties, early morning conversations ranked high among the top five things he hated.

‘London time, then. Are you waking me up to share your travel plans?’

He grunted. ‘I’m ringing in to ask if you want to meet for a pint when I get back.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘And when would that be?’

‘How about Wednesday next week?’

‘Sounds good, I think.’

‘You think?’

‘Well, my schedule isn’t as fully booked as yours. Unless I’m stuck at the operating table my evenings are fairly flexible.’

He snorted. ‘Must be hard, being a doctor.’

‘It helps pay the rent.’

‘That dump’s not worth the rent you pay.’

‘Ah, but I’ve moved to Baker Street. Remember I asked you to help but you were conveniently sent on a business trip?’

‘That’s right, you moved. I was working on the Indian transaction then, wasn’t I?’

‘No idea.’

‘No, I think it was the Korean deal. Bad timing, in any case. So, Marylebone, eh?’ He whistled. ‘Have you gone private with your work then?’

‘No, still the same practice.’

‘Won the lottery?’

‘Flat-share.’

‘I see. Cute flatmate?’

‘Mhm,’ I responded evasively.

‘John, my brother, it really is about time we meet. Wednesday it is. Around 7pm?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘The Broken Drum?’

‘Where else?’

‘Excellent. Next week then, inshallah.’

‘Inshallah indeed. Make sure you set yourself a reminder, yeah?’

He laughed and disconnected. I yawned, put the phone back on the bedside table, switched off the alarm clock that would go off any minute, and got up. After brushing my teeth I walked over to one of the living room windows, opened it, and looked outside. The sky was clear, and the air was fresh and crisp. Perfect for a morning run. I went back into my bedroom to change, then fetched my running shoes.

‘Morning, John.’

Sherlock stood at the top of his chicken ladder and peered down at where I was going through my playlists, trying to make up my mind about which one to listen to.

‘Morning, Sherlock.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘For a run. Care to join me?’

He scratched his head. ‘Regent’s Park?’

‘Why not. The lakeside loop is just right. You up for it?’

‘Give me three minutes.’

‘You may have four. I’ll do some stretching in the meantime.’

He joined me a few minutes later, wearing a pair of loose trousers and a faded Ramones shirt that either was child-sized or had suffered in the washing machine. It looked good on him, actually, bringing out his lean frame to full advantage. He bounced on his soles, did a number of squats and then bent over with his long legs spread wide and touched his palms to the floor.

Naturally I chose that exact moment to look up from what I was doing and damn near lost my balance.

‘Careful, John!’ He placed a steadying hand on my arm. ‘What are you doing?’

Looking at your arse, Sherlock.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ I said, somewhat hastily. ‘Wasn’t paying attention for a moment. Let’s go.’

His eyes held mine for a few heartbeats, and it was there and then when I realised that not only had he found me out, he shared my preference. I’m not much of a believer in gaydar and all that, but there’s things you just recognise. Like, whether there’s potential for more than just 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.