Challenge 3: Part 2
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11.
I've always worked hard, done my duty. Been on the side of 'good'. Well, so much as there are sides. All depends on perspective, I suppose.
So to find myself on the 'wrong' side of the law, that was a surprise. Not the first one I've had, but still. They've almost got 'Wanted' posters out for me, apparently. I trust him, though. Trust him not to turn me in or dump me.
At first it was…odd. Quiet. But he'd sit and hold me, cradle me. For hours, sometimes, just sitting, in the gloom. His hands warm, softer than they used to be. Sometimes he'd talk, more often not. Sometimes he'd cry. Unnerving, but what do I know? I seemed to help, in some way. There was only me and him, after all.
In the end though, always the same - a sigh, maybe a sob, and I'd be laid down, sometimes in the dark, hidden, sometimes by the bed, within reach.
A few times were different, a few times it wasn't just holding, it was pointing, my muzzle digging into the soft flesh under his chin. Running through the hair at his temple. That was wrong. That's not what I'm here for. I'm here to protect him, not…
And then we moved. Not that the scenery was much different for me, not at first. Still hidden, still unused. Except now he didn't hold me as much. Didn't sit and hold me. Was it better? I don't know. I think so. I was still there for him. Whenever he needed me.
He did still need me. But now it was sudden, a rush - none of the holding, none of the sitting, silent for long hours. This was action. Grabbed, shoved into a pocket, the running, the fingers, reaching in and checking my presence. The need for me.
Now, when his hand closed around me, it wasn't gentle, it wasn't thoughtful, it was a sure, unshaking hand, the grip tight, but not choking. And my target in plain sight. He didn't hesitate.
Job done. He's the hero of the hour. I'm just a tool. And one to be denied, hidden away, at that. Mind you, it's not like he can admit to what's he's done. But the other one knows. He's the one John - I - saved. Doesn't mean I have to like Him though.
He touches me without permission. He uses me, without asking John. He doesn't understand, he doesn't have any respect. Uses me - uses me for stupid reasons, for damaging a fucking wall, just because he's 'bored'. I'm terrified someone will report it - someone will come and take me away. Luckily John returns to save me, make me safe. I don't think the other one understands, not really. He treats me like a toy.
But when he grabs me, like John grabbed me, and I'm shoved in his pocket, it's terrifying. I don't trust him. But when he draws me out, John's there. He's there, and we're the ones going to save him. Me - I know what I'm doing. And him. He hasn't got a clue. The other one…he can't even get my name right. A Browning? Please.
John looks…upset. The one holding me is tense. The other one - the one I'm pointing at…he's just insane.
Once they're done talking, and he hasn't used me - stupid, he should have shot the guy. Stupid, stupid. And he drops me on the ground, then grabs me again - then, without even making me safe he uses me as a fucking head-scratcher. It's so undignified.
Of course, they think it's all over, and it isn't. Far from it. The insane one's back. And the one who's a genius - but doesn't understand me, obviously - is pointing me at a rather tasteless parka.
If he reckons I can set off those explosives, he's not as clever as he bloody thinks he is.
12.
The diary of a skull
November 3, 2010
Dear diary
Dr. John and Sherlock left the house in the early morning. I didn’t see them again until well past midnight. Sherlock had a head injury. Dr. John and Sherlock were whispering, though, so I don’t know what happened. Dr. John took care of the injury and then they went to bed. I still wonder if they share a bed. Mrs. Hudson thinks they do. I will ask Mycroft the next time he visits 221b Baker Street.
November 4, 2010
Dear diary
Mrs. Hudson came into the apartment around noon. I got a bit of a scare when she saw me. I thought she might throw me away again. And while Sherlock is a genius and the best (consulting) detective, there will come a day that Mrs. Hudson will put me somewhere even he can’t find me.
November 5, 2010
Dear diary
Sherlock’s got a new case. That policeman came in this morning, the smarter one, not Anderson. Apparently a member of the British government was killed last night. Sherlock and John immediately left the house to investigate. Mycroft came by looking for them. I finally had the opportunity to ask him about the status of John and Sherlock’s relationship. He just chuckled and twirled his umbrella. Then he left. I’m still clueless.
November 6, 2010
Dear diary
Dr. John and Sherlock didn’t come back home yesterday. I feel a bit lonely now. Sherlock could have at least left the TV on when he left…
November 7, 2010
Dear diary
Dr. John and Sherlock came back around noon. They already solved the case.
John threw a fit when he found an arm in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. I don’t understand: where else should Sherlock keep that arm? John’s a doctor, he should know that the arm would decay much faster if Sherlock would simply put it on the table…
November 8, 2010
Dear diary
I think I may be getting closer to solving the Dr. John/Sherlock mystery. Last night the two of them sat really close to each other on the sofa and shared a blanket while they watched TV. That’s a sign of affection, is it not? John did get irritated with Sherlock after an hour and left. He doesn’t like it when Sherlock spoils the end of a movie. After that Sherlock switched off the TV and we had a little chat. I didn’t dare to ask about him and the doctor. I was afraid he’d get angry and use me for one of his experiments.
November 9, 2010
Dear diary
Sherlock was shooting at the walls again. I’m glad he’s a good shot, otherwise I might have been afraid that he’d hit me. Mrs. Hudson was not glad with the bullet holes in her walls and neither was John. John does complain a lot, I don’t understand why Sherlock likes him. I do hope Sherlock finds another case, though, he’s always grumpy when he’s bored and then he barely talks to me :(
November 10, 2010
Dear diary
Someone got killed under mysterious circumstances. Sherlock did a little happy dance when he found out. He’s such a silly man! This time he switched on the TV before he and Dr. John left. He’s so thoughtful.
November 11, 2010
Dear diary
The mystery that has been bugging me for weeks has finally been solved: John and Sherlock had sex on the sofa. At least I think so because Sherlock covered me with a blanket so I couldn’t see. So either they were watching a gay porn movie or they did it on the sofa.
November 12, 2010
Dear diary
I am 100% sure now: Dr. John and Sherlock are a couple. I finally had the (metaphorical) balls to ask Sherlock about it. Hgave me a short but thorough answer which confirmed my previous findings. I am so happy for them.
13.
Most days, Mrs Hudson is quite happy to have Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson living in her upstairs flat. They're a polite, upright young couple and, considering, they don't give her too much trouble. With the people you see around nowadays, she could have found much worse tenants.
Mrs Hudson prides herself for being open-minded and progressive and doesn't care at all about Mrs Turner next door who keeps saying it's immoral for two men to live together like that. Mrs Hudson really doesn't want to hear that kind of talk from Mary Turner, who changed husbands as often as other people change a pair of shoes. As far as she's concerned, two men can do whatever they want in the privacy of their own home.
Yes, she would prefer if John found himself a good girl like Sarah, but that's only so he'd stop spending all of his time running around chasing criminals with Sherlock. He is an invalid, after all, and it can't be healthy for him to strain his leg like that. Though she hasn't seen him walking with his cane lately, so maybe he's recovering. It's strange that he should recover better while he's running around instead of staying put and getting some rest, but he's a doctor so he should know best. It's probably one of those newfangled therapies that she'll never properly understand.
Her tenants get quite a lot of visitors, particularly Sherlock. It's a varied crowd, going from posh women in cocktail dresses to some men she wouldn't want to meet alone in a dark alley, but all of them are very polite when she meets them on the stairs. It's not surprising -- getting Sherlock to take an interest in their cases must be hard enough, the least they could do is show some manners towards his landlady. Not that she's not perfectly capable of fending off for herself, but she's happy she doesn't have to.
The Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard comes most often of them all, and even though he always seems to be in a hurry he makes a point of asking Mrs Hudson about her hip and never says no to a couple of tea. Because Mrs Hudson has always got a pot of tea ready, along with a steady supply of biscuits, and poor Inspector Lestrade looks as if he could do with a good meal.
The same goes for Sherlock, who's so thin he probably skips a good lot of meals too, but Mrs Hudson knows that she can count on John to make sure that the man doesn't starve himself to death. And when they're really, really busy with some of their cases, Mrs Hudson isn't above fixing them some soup or a nice side of meat for their tea. As long as it doesn't become a habit because she's definitely not their housekeeper.
Aside from this, there are very few drawbacks to having Sherlock and John upstairs. There's the occasional gunshot or explosion, but Mrs Hudson is getting used to that and her heart doesn't jump quite as much as it used to. She's also quickly learning not to ask about the foul-smelling stains on the carpet or the bottles lined in the kitchen and not to try to examine them closely.
Fortunately Mrs Hudson had met Sherlock Holmes a long time ago and she knew what to expect when he moved in. She's taken away all of the pieces of furniture she was particularly attached to, so she isn't bothered in the least when she discovered that Sherlock has dismantled the cupboard for some reason or other. She has already realized that, should John and Sherlock leave for some reason, she'll have to do some heavy remodeling. The bullet holes in the wall are the worst part, but she can probably cover them with a picture or a large photo.
In turn, it's handy to have a doctor living upstairs. Not that Mrs Hudson is quite so old that she needs constant care, but John is a reassuring presence. And, of course, no criminal in England would dare to come within a five miles radius of Baker Street. All in all, Mrs Hudson is very pleased with this arrangement.
14.
I’ve never liked coming to London. Awful city. Should have known this would happen. My mum warned me. Should never have left Cardiff, not even for one night.
Please let them find me. Please let them find him.
---
I should be angry. Not sure why I'm not. Not sure why I'm anything to be honest. I thought I believed in an afterlife - one that was all clouds and harps and the like. But I must have lost my faith because I’m a little bit surprised to be anything at all, to be honest.
At least, I think I am. Would be, certainly, if I was in my right mind.
I should be angry. I don't feel angry. I don't feel anything much. I remember being furious and terrified and desperate, clawing at the floorboards, trying to leave a message. Then something like peace.
No. Not peace. Absence.
Besides those last few minutes, it's funny what I can remember. Every name, number, email address I think I've ever known. Thousands of texts and emails. People's faces, but only in photographs. And the only voice I can hear is my own, saying: "I can't answer the phone right now..." Also odd.
And Rachel. She's the key to it all somehow. If I want to remember anything, I have to remember her first.
It feels like she’s...protecting me?
Ah yes. My Rachel.
My password.
My phone.
Me.
I’m a ghost in the machine.
---
I’m still with him, I think. I know I’m moving. Fast. In a car. I can tell by my signal (and that’s another odd thought) and the ever unrolling map that seems to surround me wherever we go.
---
Here is a new thought. It’s meant to sound like one of mine but it isn’t.
“What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out…”
That’s not what happened. But I know those words like they’re part of me. It gives me something akin to pain. Like someone is trying to…edit me.
I think I’m losing myself.
---
My map says we’re at Northumberland Street. My clock says we’ve been here for 5 minutes 32 seconds. It doesn’t feel like long. It doesn’t feel like anything at all.
---
A voice. His voice. Inside me. Complaining. Asking for instructions. And another voice. Petulant and strange.
“Go to his flat then. 221B Baker Street. I assume I don’t have to give you directions, my darling.”
And they’re gone.
---
Another thought arrives. “Come with me.”
---
I’m fading. Fast. We’re still moving. Doubling back on ourselves. Feints and darts through twisty backstreets. Did anyone come with us?
I watch the route unspooling on my map. I think it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.
---
We’ve stopped.
---
We’ve not moved. It’s been 57 minutes 17 seconds.
I can’t hang on any more.
Battery Low
Shutting Down
---
Charging
---
I’m being read. All those memories. All those faces and names. I think I’d miss them if I still could.
Stop. Please stop.
One name stands out. ‘Mike.’ Among all the others, he’s unusual. I remember the time and date of hundreds of phonecalls for Mike, but I don’t have a single text message from him, or even his photograph.
I think we spent a lot of time together.
I think it was a secret.
---
One more thought-that’s-not-mine.
“Mike. Please call the Met. Police on 0207 203 9999. Ask for DI Lestrade”
I think that one would have brought me some peace.
---
Battery Low
Shutting Down
15.
Dial
1
Call
...
You have: four. New messages.
Sherlock, I heard about your little run-in with the floor. Do expect a visit sometime tomorrow.
To delete this message, press seven. To--
--beep--
Message deleted.
Sherlock, it’s Lestrade. I heard about your apartment blowing up. Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that. Call me.
To delete this message, press--
--beep--
Message deleted.
Sherlock, open the do--
--beep--
Message deleted.
Case. I have a case for you, Sherlock. It’s important. Let me in, or I’ll pick the lock.
To del--
--beep--
Message deleted.
Inbox (3)
Government
Today 9:08AM
Sherlock, stop being childish.
-M
Today 9:14AM
I’ll tell Mummy on you.
DI Lestrade
Today 11:38AM
S, call me. -L
Delete all
Delete conversations?
Yes
-----
Accept call >>
Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock, it’s bloody me! I’ve been worried sick about you, you wanker. What’s going on?
The apartment next door blew up, if I understand correctly. Do try to keep up, Inspector.
Yes, I know that. Do you have any useful information? Any ideas who did it, maybe?
Mm. Not yet. To be perfectly honest, I don’t particularly care. Nobody is dead, are they?
Tch. No, Sherlock, nobody is dead. That we know of, at least.
There you go, then, Inspector.
Great, thanks. When you feel like getting up off your lazy arse, call me.
Call ended.
-----
Dial
Contacts
Government
Call
Dialing...
Hello, Secretary. Tell Mycroft to expect John over, I can’t be bothered.
Hello, sir. And what time should we be expecting... John, is it?
You picked him up in your car and you can recall his name perfectly well. Two o’clock. Good bye.
End
Call ended
Inbox
Create message
Don’t forget to pick up some milk.
-SH
Insert
John W.
Contacts
Send
-----
Inbox
John W.
Meet back at flat.
Investments yielded fruit.
-SH
Send
John W.
Bloody great headache
from Golem. Bring ice to
couch?
Send
-----
Inbox
DI Lestrade
Answer at art gallery, guard’s
death at.
89600 Ralph St.
-SH
Send
-----
Inbox (1)
Government
Today 2:37PM
Where is my hard drive,
Sherlock?
-M
Reply
Located. Don’t worry, you’ll
have your government
secrets back soon.
-SH
Send
-----
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
--the bloody, darn, the thing stopped ringing, well obviously Sherlock didn’t bring his phone...
Aha! Oh, that’s not good. He’s gone haring off agai--
click
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
Sherlock! Sherlock pick up your phone! We’ve tried calling John, but he’s not answering, and the flat is empty. Have you two gone off on your own again? It’s Lestrade, call me!
click
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
You bloody great idiot! We saw the post on your blog, Sherlock, don’t go meet him! Or, god, at least wait for backup! Sherlock-- fucking stupid answering machine, goddamn it, Sherlock, pick up!
click
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
--aricle if we can hear the phone under all of this mess, Inspector. We don’t even know if there’s anybody alive under there.
Just keep searching, all right? I’ll just dial again, here, go. Go loo--
click
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
Fuck. Please, Sherlock. Please, just... be alive, all right? Be alive.
click
16.
Life could be funny, sometimes.
One minute you were perfectly happy - without even knowing it, really, because everything else got in the way, it all distracted you from the realities. Not getting the right brand of coffee, having a silly row about what that woman on the telly had been in, tripping over and looking foolish - it all seemed to be the end of the world.
Of course, it wasn’t - the moment you fell, the moment you began to feel it all slipping away from you... That was the end of the world.
And it was in that second that you realised just how bloody happy you were. Just how good life had really been. Not all of it, obviously - there had been genuine moments that had been terrible, heartbreaking moments when you suffered more than you should’ve done. But on the whole, you had been happy, you had loved and been loved.
You would not be able to share this revelation. Nobody would know. You’d never be able to tell them.
Or do anything else, for that matter.
It has been a while since you visited the doctors, and although it is clear to you how you died (it was obviously a sudden heart-attack, barely lasting a minute as far as the rest of humanity was concerned, but you’d still seen life stretched out before you, slipping away, reminding you of the things that mattered) it isn’t to them - it strikes you, now, that there is a definite you and a definite them. There is a finite them. You are the wrong side of the divide - not infinite, but past finite.
You entered the world naked, and apparently you leave it naked, too. The pathologist is a pretty girl, trying too hard to look pretty. Why do these girls bother with make up? She’s beautiful, just look at her, doesn’t need to plaster herself with that stuff. Somewhere along the line there’s someone not appreciating that (could be a man, could be a woman - that mattered once, didn’t it? You can’t imagine why.)
She smiles at you, brushes the hair out of your eyes lovingly (someone else used to do that, someone important - maybe lots of important people did that to you) and tells you that her name is Molly. You once knew a Molly. Or maybe you read about one. Or maybe you were one. Everything is fading. You’re disinclined to hold on to it, especially with the look of that scalpel.
That riding crop is doing a number on you.
You’re oddly (is it odd? Or is this how it’s meant to be?) detached from it now - you can see it, but not feel it. You hadn’t felt the autopsy either, but at least that had been routine. This wasn’t. You’d trusted that nice pathologist girl - maybe this is the one she’s trying to impress. Poor girl. The living can be such fools.
There’s something in his eyes that scares you - it’s not pleasure, it’s not reluctance, it’s not lust. You could understand those things, they wouldn’t scare you like this does. There’s a machination to his movements, like this is something he must do, a duty. There isn’t anything in those eyes, and that’s why they’re scaring you. Or maybe you’re losing touch, maybe there is something there that you can’t understand anymore - you don’t belong here, after all.
You can see bruises blossoming on your body (not that it is really your body now, and everything is getting smaller, getting faster, because you’re leaving now) - it reminds you of an exhibition you saw once, with mould growing on fruit fast-forwarded, but maybe that wasn’t an exhibition, maybe that was just something you saw once, or something someone told you about.
It really doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t matter anymore - you barely exist now. You’re a memory, an anecdote, a tear.
You’re an example of a bruising pattern.
17.
Characters: Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner.
Warning: Contains two gossiping old women
She never goes next door with the distinct purpose of swapping tawdry stories and snippets of idle gossip, but it always ends that way. It was the biscuits probably, or the warm, cosy looking teapot that Mrs Turner always had on her coffee table whenever guests popped by.
They'd start with small talk, the price of gas and electricity, the price of rent, how youth style was different from their day, the strange noises that were apparently coming from the flats across the road. Eventually, however, after the fourth cup of strong tea and the second packet of Custard Creams, the conversation would turn to gossip. Who was sleeping with who at the local church? How many men they had seen using the services of Ms Booth at number 215? Had Mrs Dent from the bottom of the street had a facelift?
Today was no different.
This time, though, Mrs Hudson had managed to get to her fifth cup of tea before Mrs Turner dived in for the kill.
"So, your new lodgers. What's going on there?" Mrs Turner winked, her cheek crinkling to reveal a suggestive smirk beneath.
"I don't know what you mean." Mrs Hudson sipped gently from her cup.
"I'm not making a judgement. I'm just asking, you know, are they?"
"Are they what?"
"Oh come on Martha. Are they like my Carl?" Mrs Turner leaned forward, eyes widened, determined to extract this key piece of information.
"What? Are they...gay?" Mrs Hudson waved a hand in the air. "I don't know. I don't think so."
"Two grown men sharing a flat. Both single I presume?"
"I think so. Although, John did have a lady friend over a few weeks back." A Custard Cream wormed its way into Mrs Hudson's mouth.
"Which one is he? Is he the short one or the tall one?"
"Short one. Sherlock is the tall one with the..." Mrs Hudson clicks her fingers. "...the hair. Very slim."
Mrs Turner's nods aggressively. "Of course. Of course."
"Well I don't know what happened with her, because she was there one moment and gone the next. I never found out who she was. Then he had another lady friend drop him off in a car once. I saw her out the window. Very pretty she was too. Quite tall, long black hair."
"So he likes the women does he?"
"Seems that way."
Mrs Turner groaned. "Well you know that could mean he is making up for something. Happens all the time. You get these men who have been married two or three times, have four children on two different continents, and it turns out that they've liked men the whole time. Look at Elton John. He was married."
"I don't know. I did ask when they moved in if they needed to use the second bedroom."
"And what did they say?"
"Sherlock said nothing. John was rather adamant that he would use the second bedroom."
Mrs Turner slammed a hand onto the coffee table with some force. "There you go. The man doth protest too much. How adamant was he?"
"Oh very. Seemed almost offended that I would suggest they shared."
Mrs Turner raised her eyebrows. "I see." She carefully sipped from her cup. "Offended was he?"
"Oh don't be silly Margaret. You've put too much sugar in your tea again."
"You say that now, but just you wait. It started exactly the same way with Carl. He moved in, another lodger came in a few weeks later. Few months after that I had to knock a broom on the ceiling to tell them to keep the noise down."
"I do that anyway. But it's usually Sherlock doing something odd in the upstairs kitchen. You know he blocked the sink with a finger the other day."
"A finger?"
"Mmmm. I told him," Mrs Hudson jabbed her finger in the air. "'Sherlock, if I keep finding body parts in the kitchen, I am going to have to put the rent up.'"
"And what did he say?"
"He told me John would clean it up."
Mrs Turner chuckled, sending tea dribbling onto her blouse. "And you're telling me they aren't married?" She swiped the Custard Creams and empty cups from the table. "Nice try Martha.”
18.
I have committed many sins in my lifetime. All of the cardinal ones I covered before I had cleared the gates of my university, and I have broken all of the commandments, save one.
I've worn the scarlet letter of Adultery on my breast for twenty seven years. It was a temptation I had continually fought against, and I finally fell to it seventeen years into my marriage not because I was weak, or that the temptation became too much, but because the weight of my want was far greater, and far more exciting, than any personal glory I might have felt at resisting. My error lay in assuming that Sherringford would not find out.
Fool, was I, to think I could keep hidden a secret in a house built upon exposing them. It took my husband barely four months to find us out, and even then I suspect he waited three and a half of those for me to confess before he made his move.
I imagine that it might not have been so bad when he finally did confront me, if he hadn't entered our bedroom while we were fucking. More fool, I, for not noticing the physical clues he had left that morning. I should have known he would be returning home early. It was obvious. But I was blinded by the feel of my lover inside of me, so did not notice Sherringford's slender silhouette in the open doorway. Did not see him approach over the tutor's shoulder, above where my nails dug in, where they clutched and scratched. Nor did I notice the small, dark shadow in the corner by the wardrobe, not until my lover had fled, and I at last looked up from the floor, could manage my shaking hands to wipe the blood from my eyes and see him, little Sherlock, pale face branded with the blood of my shame and eyes deadened by the results of it.
We had damaged him irrevocably that day, in ways neither or us could anticipate nor ever hope to repair. And when Sherringford took his own life three months later, any chance of reconciliation was lost.
I disappeared out of necessity for half a year. A holiday, I told my sons, I needed to put my mind into order. It was a lie, of course, and though Mycroft may have suspected something, he was away at boarding school and though his spy network was rather well developed even then, they could not follow me to where I was going.
I left Sherlock in the hands of my mother. I knew she would care for him well.
When I returned I set to repairing what could be repaired, and waxing over what couldn't. We made it work, for a time, with shadows, lies, and fabricated honesty. Oh, we each of us eventually knew the truth of things, but we would never admit it aloud. While it stayed hidden and secret we could remain idle. Speaking it would force us to act upon it, and none of us were ready at that point.
Until now. Until tonight.
It started with Dr. Watson. And it takes me a second glimpse of his eyes to know (for he is a far, far better actor that either of my sons) the same horrors that dull Sherlock's eyes writhe behind his own. And I understand now why it is this man, and this man alone, that has turned my middle son's attention to its finest point. Has given him both a weakness and an unforeseen strength. Sherlock has found his anti, his mirror-image, his like-ness. That Moriarty, (and how he came to know to use that name... how he came to know the damage it would cause...) can bandy about his psychosis like a battle sigil all he likes, but I will never buy into his belief that he is anything like my son. My son who was not born this way, was not made this way. My son who chose to be this way, because he saw with his own eyes what became of people who cared too much, who loved too deeply, and controlled themselves too little.
In the next hospital room over there is a man cuffed to his bed. His survival is slim.
I have broken all of the commandments save the sixth. And I will break that one tonight.
19.
Klotho
In Greek mythology, Klotho is one of the three Fates, sisters who control the destiny of mankind. Klotho spins the thread, twining paths together and creating destinies.
Mike blinked.
"Anyone would think you've never seen a topless man before," Sherlock said, straightening up and scrubbing at his soaking wet hair with a completely inadequate towel. Mike stepped inside hastily and shut the door.
"I don't usually expect to see them in hospital toilets," he said apologetically. Sherlock snorted and let the towel fall around his shoulders.
"Why are you washing your hair in the hospital toilets?" Mike asked, knowing that it would get him a glare.
"Because I am currently unable to do so at home," Sherlock said.
"Yes, but why?" Mike asked, deciding to behave as if this were perfectly normal and moving over to the urinals.
"The boiler is broken," Sherlock informed him through gritted teeth, as if volunteering this meagre information was a form of torture.
Mike sighed inwardly.
"Did you break it?" he asked, finishing his business and zipping up.
"No, I did not!" Sherlock snapped. "It is broken because that pathetic excuse for a landlord will not understand that a boiler that age requires frequent maintenance and, frankly, is insufficient for the needs of the building. If it were less than 20 years old it would be fine, but as it is over 25 it is, once again, broken and I have neither heating nor hot water."
"Oh dear," said Mike helplessly. This was possibly the most information Sherlock had ever given him at one time, and his usually smooth bedside manner deserted him. "I take it you can't fix it yourself. Have you thought about..."
"Of course I have," Sherlock said, but tiredly. "The previous repairman not only charged me an exorbitant rate which the landlord refused to fully reimburse, he also informed me that this model is obsolete and impossible to repair."
"Perhaps it's time to move," Mike said, washing his hands at a sink one removed from Sherlock, who was still topless and combing his fingers through his hair in a faintly distracted way.
"Unfortunately, my budget does not stretch to anything better. Single person accommodation in London is extremely hard to find."
"How about a flat share or something?" Mike suggested, drying his hands and throwing the paper towel into the bin by the door.
"Who'd want me for a flat mate?" Sherlock asked, and Mike was glad that his hands were dry and he was ready to leave because he didn't have an answer for that.
*
He hadn't been thinking about anything much when he saw John Watson. It took him a moment to resolve the strange feeling of familiarity into the realisation that he really did know that man, and a moment longer still to come up with his name because he was so changed. John clearly didn't recognise him. He'd never suffered fools gladly, and whatever he'd been doing hadn't changed that about him.
"Weren't you off somewhere getting shot at?" he asked. "What happened?"
John gave him a look that stated quite clearly that John thought he was an idiot.
"I got shot," he said bluntly, and Mike found himself offering suggestions to him mostly out of habit. Habit and a desire to reconnect with this jagged man who was so far away from him now in every way that mattered. And, with a feeling of inevitability, Mike spoke the words he'd said to Sherlock that very morning.
"Who'd want me for a flat mate?" John said bitterly, and Mike could do nothing but laugh. John Watson, sharp edges and pain, with fey, feckless, brilliant Sherlock.
"What's funny?" John asked sharply.
"You're the second person who has said that to me today," he said, and as a flicker of interest showed in John's eyes for the first time in their conversation, Mike Stamford wondered, just for a moment, whether introducing these two might be the best thing he'd ever do.
20.
From: h.watson@eve-ltd.com
To: johnwatson.14@gmail.com
Date: 20/02/09
Subject: ...
John,
I’m sorry for what I said, okay? I didn’t mean it, really. I was just upset cos you always do the most dangerous stuff you can find (don’t think I don’t know why) and I thought this was one step too far. I still do, I won’t lie. And I knew I’d miss you! I still do, I won’t lie. So....yeah. Sorry, okay? Can we go back to writing now??
Harry xx
--
From: h.watson@eve-ltd.com
To: johnwatson.14@gmail.com
Date: 12/03/09
Subject: re: ...
Did you get my email??? Please don’t ignore me!
--
{Buried under a pile of unsigned forms and a month-old coffee mug}
John,
I guess Afghanistan would have patchy internet, huh? So I decided to send you a letter; hopefully the BFPO will deliver this to you sometime or other!
In case you really didn’t get the emails - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said you might as well be already dead to me. You aren’t. You’re all I’ve got, so can we stop ignoring each other now? When you get back, we should meet up, or call each other or something.
How’s the weather?!
Clara and I are doing good. I’m still working for that bloke on Harley Street and Clara just got a new job at Eversheds (you remember she’s a lawyer, right?) so everything’s still fine here!
Please write back if can, John.
Love,
Harry xx
--
{Pen scribbles and noted phone numbers in the margins}
John,
I can’t remember if I wrote to you or not. I’ll assume I did so hopefully this won’t be coming totally about of left-field!
I’ve forgotten when you’re supposed to be on leave. Are you coming back to London? I’ll meet you at the station if you are! Met any nice girls you wanna bring back to meet me (promise I won’t poach!)? I guess a war zone isn’t really the place though.
Me and Clara are so busy right now, like you wouldn’t believe! It’s like ‘ships passing in the night’, Dad would have said? We’re hardly ever in the house as the same time and when we are, we’re too tired to do anything more than sleep on the sofa. Even I’m bored!
I am a bit worr
--
{Once scrumpled, torn at one side and now smoothed between pages of Paradise Lost}
John,
I found the others. Guess my subconsios didn’t want me sending them. Wont send this one ither. u never liked me drunk and I can’t be arsed finding a postbox.
I nev clara and me split. she cheated on me - can you believe it!!!!! ME. i new I’d be the villain in all this! its my fault she says. Never around, she says but she isn’t either!
sorry she says. she should be, i swear to god
To make my rambling clearer, I’ve sorta broken up with Clara. She wants to get back together but right now I still don’t know. It hurt - I’m meant to be the irresponsible one here. Instead, we’re not formally divorcing but we are separating for a bit. Maybe by the time you get back we’ll have sorted this shit out one way or another.
I’m sober while writing this now. I should probably chuck this out along with the others you’d never want to get in the post, if it even reached you, but instead I’m keeping them to show you when you get back. Until then, it’ll feel a bit weird writing to essentially myself!! Maybe it’ll help me sort my head out. I’m a mess here, John. You need to come back; I need some family.
--
From: h.watson@eve-ltd.com
To: johnwatson.14@gmail.com
Date:21 /12/09
Subject: Happy Xmas!!!!
Stop ignoring my texts!! I know you’re back and I know your phone’s shit but I’m sure you can get texts still!
I’m sorry about Monday. We’ll meet at that cafe instead of The Fox next time, yeah? How’s tomorrow morning at 10 sound?
xx
Next: 21 to 30
11.
I've always worked hard, done my duty. Been on the side of 'good'. Well, so much as there are sides. All depends on perspective, I suppose.
So to find myself on the 'wrong' side of the law, that was a surprise. Not the first one I've had, but still. They've almost got 'Wanted' posters out for me, apparently. I trust him, though. Trust him not to turn me in or dump me.
At first it was…odd. Quiet. But he'd sit and hold me, cradle me. For hours, sometimes, just sitting, in the gloom. His hands warm, softer than they used to be. Sometimes he'd talk, more often not. Sometimes he'd cry. Unnerving, but what do I know? I seemed to help, in some way. There was only me and him, after all.
In the end though, always the same - a sigh, maybe a sob, and I'd be laid down, sometimes in the dark, hidden, sometimes by the bed, within reach.
A few times were different, a few times it wasn't just holding, it was pointing, my muzzle digging into the soft flesh under his chin. Running through the hair at his temple. That was wrong. That's not what I'm here for. I'm here to protect him, not…
And then we moved. Not that the scenery was much different for me, not at first. Still hidden, still unused. Except now he didn't hold me as much. Didn't sit and hold me. Was it better? I don't know. I think so. I was still there for him. Whenever he needed me.
He did still need me. But now it was sudden, a rush - none of the holding, none of the sitting, silent for long hours. This was action. Grabbed, shoved into a pocket, the running, the fingers, reaching in and checking my presence. The need for me.
Now, when his hand closed around me, it wasn't gentle, it wasn't thoughtful, it was a sure, unshaking hand, the grip tight, but not choking. And my target in plain sight. He didn't hesitate.
Job done. He's the hero of the hour. I'm just a tool. And one to be denied, hidden away, at that. Mind you, it's not like he can admit to what's he's done. But the other one knows. He's the one John - I - saved. Doesn't mean I have to like Him though.
He touches me without permission. He uses me, without asking John. He doesn't understand, he doesn't have any respect. Uses me - uses me for stupid reasons, for damaging a fucking wall, just because he's 'bored'. I'm terrified someone will report it - someone will come and take me away. Luckily John returns to save me, make me safe. I don't think the other one understands, not really. He treats me like a toy.
But when he grabs me, like John grabbed me, and I'm shoved in his pocket, it's terrifying. I don't trust him. But when he draws me out, John's there. He's there, and we're the ones going to save him. Me - I know what I'm doing. And him. He hasn't got a clue. The other one…he can't even get my name right. A Browning? Please.
John looks…upset. The one holding me is tense. The other one - the one I'm pointing at…he's just insane.
Once they're done talking, and he hasn't used me - stupid, he should have shot the guy. Stupid, stupid. And he drops me on the ground, then grabs me again - then, without even making me safe he uses me as a fucking head-scratcher. It's so undignified.
Of course, they think it's all over, and it isn't. Far from it. The insane one's back. And the one who's a genius - but doesn't understand me, obviously - is pointing me at a rather tasteless parka.
If he reckons I can set off those explosives, he's not as clever as he bloody thinks he is.
12.
The diary of a skull
November 3, 2010
Dear diary
Dr. John and Sherlock left the house in the early morning. I didn’t see them again until well past midnight. Sherlock had a head injury. Dr. John and Sherlock were whispering, though, so I don’t know what happened. Dr. John took care of the injury and then they went to bed. I still wonder if they share a bed. Mrs. Hudson thinks they do. I will ask Mycroft the next time he visits 221b Baker Street.
November 4, 2010
Dear diary
Mrs. Hudson came into the apartment around noon. I got a bit of a scare when she saw me. I thought she might throw me away again. And while Sherlock is a genius and the best (consulting) detective, there will come a day that Mrs. Hudson will put me somewhere even he can’t find me.
November 5, 2010
Dear diary
Sherlock’s got a new case. That policeman came in this morning, the smarter one, not Anderson. Apparently a member of the British government was killed last night. Sherlock and John immediately left the house to investigate. Mycroft came by looking for them. I finally had the opportunity to ask him about the status of John and Sherlock’s relationship. He just chuckled and twirled his umbrella. Then he left. I’m still clueless.
November 6, 2010
Dear diary
Dr. John and Sherlock didn’t come back home yesterday. I feel a bit lonely now. Sherlock could have at least left the TV on when he left…
November 7, 2010
Dear diary
Dr. John and Sherlock came back around noon. They already solved the case.
John threw a fit when he found an arm in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. I don’t understand: where else should Sherlock keep that arm? John’s a doctor, he should know that the arm would decay much faster if Sherlock would simply put it on the table…
November 8, 2010
Dear diary
I think I may be getting closer to solving the Dr. John/Sherlock mystery. Last night the two of them sat really close to each other on the sofa and shared a blanket while they watched TV. That’s a sign of affection, is it not? John did get irritated with Sherlock after an hour and left. He doesn’t like it when Sherlock spoils the end of a movie. After that Sherlock switched off the TV and we had a little chat. I didn’t dare to ask about him and the doctor. I was afraid he’d get angry and use me for one of his experiments.
November 9, 2010
Dear diary
Sherlock was shooting at the walls again. I’m glad he’s a good shot, otherwise I might have been afraid that he’d hit me. Mrs. Hudson was not glad with the bullet holes in her walls and neither was John. John does complain a lot, I don’t understand why Sherlock likes him. I do hope Sherlock finds another case, though, he’s always grumpy when he’s bored and then he barely talks to me :(
November 10, 2010
Dear diary
Someone got killed under mysterious circumstances. Sherlock did a little happy dance when he found out. He’s such a silly man! This time he switched on the TV before he and Dr. John left. He’s so thoughtful.
November 11, 2010
Dear diary
The mystery that has been bugging me for weeks has finally been solved: John and Sherlock had sex on the sofa. At least I think so because Sherlock covered me with a blanket so I couldn’t see. So either they were watching a gay porn movie or they did it on the sofa.
November 12, 2010
Dear diary
I am 100% sure now: Dr. John and Sherlock are a couple. I finally had the (metaphorical) balls to ask Sherlock about it. Hgave me a short but thorough answer which confirmed my previous findings. I am so happy for them.
13.
Most days, Mrs Hudson is quite happy to have Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson living in her upstairs flat. They're a polite, upright young couple and, considering, they don't give her too much trouble. With the people you see around nowadays, she could have found much worse tenants.
Mrs Hudson prides herself for being open-minded and progressive and doesn't care at all about Mrs Turner next door who keeps saying it's immoral for two men to live together like that. Mrs Hudson really doesn't want to hear that kind of talk from Mary Turner, who changed husbands as often as other people change a pair of shoes. As far as she's concerned, two men can do whatever they want in the privacy of their own home.
Yes, she would prefer if John found himself a good girl like Sarah, but that's only so he'd stop spending all of his time running around chasing criminals with Sherlock. He is an invalid, after all, and it can't be healthy for him to strain his leg like that. Though she hasn't seen him walking with his cane lately, so maybe he's recovering. It's strange that he should recover better while he's running around instead of staying put and getting some rest, but he's a doctor so he should know best. It's probably one of those newfangled therapies that she'll never properly understand.
Her tenants get quite a lot of visitors, particularly Sherlock. It's a varied crowd, going from posh women in cocktail dresses to some men she wouldn't want to meet alone in a dark alley, but all of them are very polite when she meets them on the stairs. It's not surprising -- getting Sherlock to take an interest in their cases must be hard enough, the least they could do is show some manners towards his landlady. Not that she's not perfectly capable of fending off for herself, but she's happy she doesn't have to.
The Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard comes most often of them all, and even though he always seems to be in a hurry he makes a point of asking Mrs Hudson about her hip and never says no to a couple of tea. Because Mrs Hudson has always got a pot of tea ready, along with a steady supply of biscuits, and poor Inspector Lestrade looks as if he could do with a good meal.
The same goes for Sherlock, who's so thin he probably skips a good lot of meals too, but Mrs Hudson knows that she can count on John to make sure that the man doesn't starve himself to death. And when they're really, really busy with some of their cases, Mrs Hudson isn't above fixing them some soup or a nice side of meat for their tea. As long as it doesn't become a habit because she's definitely not their housekeeper.
Aside from this, there are very few drawbacks to having Sherlock and John upstairs. There's the occasional gunshot or explosion, but Mrs Hudson is getting used to that and her heart doesn't jump quite as much as it used to. She's also quickly learning not to ask about the foul-smelling stains on the carpet or the bottles lined in the kitchen and not to try to examine them closely.
Fortunately Mrs Hudson had met Sherlock Holmes a long time ago and she knew what to expect when he moved in. She's taken away all of the pieces of furniture she was particularly attached to, so she isn't bothered in the least when she discovered that Sherlock has dismantled the cupboard for some reason or other. She has already realized that, should John and Sherlock leave for some reason, she'll have to do some heavy remodeling. The bullet holes in the wall are the worst part, but she can probably cover them with a picture or a large photo.
In turn, it's handy to have a doctor living upstairs. Not that Mrs Hudson is quite so old that she needs constant care, but John is a reassuring presence. And, of course, no criminal in England would dare to come within a five miles radius of Baker Street. All in all, Mrs Hudson is very pleased with this arrangement.
14.
I’ve never liked coming to London. Awful city. Should have known this would happen. My mum warned me. Should never have left Cardiff, not even for one night.
Please let them find me. Please let them find him.
---
I should be angry. Not sure why I'm not. Not sure why I'm anything to be honest. I thought I believed in an afterlife - one that was all clouds and harps and the like. But I must have lost my faith because I’m a little bit surprised to be anything at all, to be honest.
At least, I think I am. Would be, certainly, if I was in my right mind.
I should be angry. I don't feel angry. I don't feel anything much. I remember being furious and terrified and desperate, clawing at the floorboards, trying to leave a message. Then something like peace.
No. Not peace. Absence.
Besides those last few minutes, it's funny what I can remember. Every name, number, email address I think I've ever known. Thousands of texts and emails. People's faces, but only in photographs. And the only voice I can hear is my own, saying: "I can't answer the phone right now..." Also odd.
And Rachel. She's the key to it all somehow. If I want to remember anything, I have to remember her first.
It feels like she’s...protecting me?
Ah yes. My Rachel.
My password.
My phone.
Me.
I’m a ghost in the machine.
---
I’m still with him, I think. I know I’m moving. Fast. In a car. I can tell by my signal (and that’s another odd thought) and the ever unrolling map that seems to surround me wherever we go.
---
Here is a new thought. It’s meant to sound like one of mine but it isn’t.
“What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out…”
That’s not what happened. But I know those words like they’re part of me. It gives me something akin to pain. Like someone is trying to…edit me.
I think I’m losing myself.
---
My map says we’re at Northumberland Street. My clock says we’ve been here for 5 minutes 32 seconds. It doesn’t feel like long. It doesn’t feel like anything at all.
---
A voice. His voice. Inside me. Complaining. Asking for instructions. And another voice. Petulant and strange.
“Go to his flat then. 221B Baker Street. I assume I don’t have to give you directions, my darling.”
And they’re gone.
---
Another thought arrives. “Come with me.”
---
I’m fading. Fast. We’re still moving. Doubling back on ourselves. Feints and darts through twisty backstreets. Did anyone come with us?
I watch the route unspooling on my map. I think it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.
---
We’ve stopped.
---
We’ve not moved. It’s been 57 minutes 17 seconds.
I can’t hang on any more.
Battery Low
Shutting Down
---
Charging
---
I’m being read. All those memories. All those faces and names. I think I’d miss them if I still could.
Stop. Please stop.
One name stands out. ‘Mike.’ Among all the others, he’s unusual. I remember the time and date of hundreds of phonecalls for Mike, but I don’t have a single text message from him, or even his photograph.
I think we spent a lot of time together.
I think it was a secret.
---
One more thought-that’s-not-mine.
“Mike. Please call the Met. Police on 0207 203 9999. Ask for DI Lestrade”
I think that one would have brought me some peace.
---
Battery Low
Shutting Down
15.
Dial
1
Call
...
You have: four. New messages.
Sherlock, I heard about your little run-in with the floor. Do expect a visit sometime tomorrow.
To delete this message, press seven. To--
--beep--
Message deleted.
Sherlock, it’s Lestrade. I heard about your apartment blowing up. Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that. Call me.
To delete this message, press--
--beep--
Message deleted.
Sherlock, open the do--
--beep--
Message deleted.
Case. I have a case for you, Sherlock. It’s important. Let me in, or I’ll pick the lock.
To del--
--beep--
Message deleted.
Inbox (3)
Government
Today 9:08AM
Sherlock, stop being childish.
-M
Today 9:14AM
I’ll tell Mummy on you.
DI Lestrade
Today 11:38AM
S, call me. -L
Delete all
Delete conversations?
Yes
-----
Accept call >>
Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock, it’s bloody me! I’ve been worried sick about you, you wanker. What’s going on?
The apartment next door blew up, if I understand correctly. Do try to keep up, Inspector.
Yes, I know that. Do you have any useful information? Any ideas who did it, maybe?
Mm. Not yet. To be perfectly honest, I don’t particularly care. Nobody is dead, are they?
Tch. No, Sherlock, nobody is dead. That we know of, at least.
There you go, then, Inspector.
Great, thanks. When you feel like getting up off your lazy arse, call me.
Call ended.
-----
Dial
Contacts
Government
Call
Dialing...
Hello, Secretary. Tell Mycroft to expect John over, I can’t be bothered.
Hello, sir. And what time should we be expecting... John, is it?
You picked him up in your car and you can recall his name perfectly well. Two o’clock. Good bye.
End
Call ended
Inbox
Create message
Don’t forget to pick up some milk.
-SH
Insert
John W.
Contacts
Send
-----
Inbox
John W.
Meet back at flat.
Investments yielded fruit.
-SH
Send
John W.
Bloody great headache
from Golem. Bring ice to
couch?
Send
-----
Inbox
DI Lestrade
Answer at art gallery, guard’s
death at.
89600 Ralph St.
-SH
Send
-----
Inbox (1)
Government
Today 2:37PM
Where is my hard drive,
Sherlock?
-M
Reply
Located. Don’t worry, you’ll
have your government
secrets back soon.
-SH
Send
-----
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
--the bloody, darn, the thing stopped ringing, well obviously Sherlock didn’t bring his phone...
Aha! Oh, that’s not good. He’s gone haring off agai--
click
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
Sherlock! Sherlock pick up your phone! We’ve tried calling John, but he’s not answering, and the flat is empty. Have you two gone off on your own again? It’s Lestrade, call me!
click
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
You bloody great idiot! We saw the post on your blog, Sherlock, don’t go meet him! Or, god, at least wait for backup! Sherlock-- fucking stupid answering machine, goddamn it, Sherlock, pick up!
click
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
--aricle if we can hear the phone under all of this mess, Inspector. We don’t even know if there’s anybody alive under there.
Just keep searching, all right? I’ll just dial again, here, go. Go loo--
click
You have reached an automated answering service.
Sherlock
Is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
--beeeeep--
Fuck. Please, Sherlock. Please, just... be alive, all right? Be alive.
click
16.
Life could be funny, sometimes.
One minute you were perfectly happy - without even knowing it, really, because everything else got in the way, it all distracted you from the realities. Not getting the right brand of coffee, having a silly row about what that woman on the telly had been in, tripping over and looking foolish - it all seemed to be the end of the world.
Of course, it wasn’t - the moment you fell, the moment you began to feel it all slipping away from you... That was the end of the world.
And it was in that second that you realised just how bloody happy you were. Just how good life had really been. Not all of it, obviously - there had been genuine moments that had been terrible, heartbreaking moments when you suffered more than you should’ve done. But on the whole, you had been happy, you had loved and been loved.
You would not be able to share this revelation. Nobody would know. You’d never be able to tell them.
Or do anything else, for that matter.
It has been a while since you visited the doctors, and although it is clear to you how you died (it was obviously a sudden heart-attack, barely lasting a minute as far as the rest of humanity was concerned, but you’d still seen life stretched out before you, slipping away, reminding you of the things that mattered) it isn’t to them - it strikes you, now, that there is a definite you and a definite them. There is a finite them. You are the wrong side of the divide - not infinite, but past finite.
You entered the world naked, and apparently you leave it naked, too. The pathologist is a pretty girl, trying too hard to look pretty. Why do these girls bother with make up? She’s beautiful, just look at her, doesn’t need to plaster herself with that stuff. Somewhere along the line there’s someone not appreciating that (could be a man, could be a woman - that mattered once, didn’t it? You can’t imagine why.)
She smiles at you, brushes the hair out of your eyes lovingly (someone else used to do that, someone important - maybe lots of important people did that to you) and tells you that her name is Molly. You once knew a Molly. Or maybe you read about one. Or maybe you were one. Everything is fading. You’re disinclined to hold on to it, especially with the look of that scalpel.
That riding crop is doing a number on you.
You’re oddly (is it odd? Or is this how it’s meant to be?) detached from it now - you can see it, but not feel it. You hadn’t felt the autopsy either, but at least that had been routine. This wasn’t. You’d trusted that nice pathologist girl - maybe this is the one she’s trying to impress. Poor girl. The living can be such fools.
There’s something in his eyes that scares you - it’s not pleasure, it’s not reluctance, it’s not lust. You could understand those things, they wouldn’t scare you like this does. There’s a machination to his movements, like this is something he must do, a duty. There isn’t anything in those eyes, and that’s why they’re scaring you. Or maybe you’re losing touch, maybe there is something there that you can’t understand anymore - you don’t belong here, after all.
You can see bruises blossoming on your body (not that it is really your body now, and everything is getting smaller, getting faster, because you’re leaving now) - it reminds you of an exhibition you saw once, with mould growing on fruit fast-forwarded, but maybe that wasn’t an exhibition, maybe that was just something you saw once, or something someone told you about.
It really doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t matter anymore - you barely exist now. You’re a memory, an anecdote, a tear.
You’re an example of a bruising pattern.
17.
Characters: Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner.
Warning: Contains two gossiping old women
She never goes next door with the distinct purpose of swapping tawdry stories and snippets of idle gossip, but it always ends that way. It was the biscuits probably, or the warm, cosy looking teapot that Mrs Turner always had on her coffee table whenever guests popped by.
They'd start with small talk, the price of gas and electricity, the price of rent, how youth style was different from their day, the strange noises that were apparently coming from the flats across the road. Eventually, however, after the fourth cup of strong tea and the second packet of Custard Creams, the conversation would turn to gossip. Who was sleeping with who at the local church? How many men they had seen using the services of Ms Booth at number 215? Had Mrs Dent from the bottom of the street had a facelift?
Today was no different.
This time, though, Mrs Hudson had managed to get to her fifth cup of tea before Mrs Turner dived in for the kill.
"So, your new lodgers. What's going on there?" Mrs Turner winked, her cheek crinkling to reveal a suggestive smirk beneath.
"I don't know what you mean." Mrs Hudson sipped gently from her cup.
"I'm not making a judgement. I'm just asking, you know, are they?"
"Are they what?"
"Oh come on Martha. Are they like my Carl?" Mrs Turner leaned forward, eyes widened, determined to extract this key piece of information.
"What? Are they...gay?" Mrs Hudson waved a hand in the air. "I don't know. I don't think so."
"Two grown men sharing a flat. Both single I presume?"
"I think so. Although, John did have a lady friend over a few weeks back." A Custard Cream wormed its way into Mrs Hudson's mouth.
"Which one is he? Is he the short one or the tall one?"
"Short one. Sherlock is the tall one with the..." Mrs Hudson clicks her fingers. "...the hair. Very slim."
Mrs Turner's nods aggressively. "Of course. Of course."
"Well I don't know what happened with her, because she was there one moment and gone the next. I never found out who she was. Then he had another lady friend drop him off in a car once. I saw her out the window. Very pretty she was too. Quite tall, long black hair."
"So he likes the women does he?"
"Seems that way."
Mrs Turner groaned. "Well you know that could mean he is making up for something. Happens all the time. You get these men who have been married two or three times, have four children on two different continents, and it turns out that they've liked men the whole time. Look at Elton John. He was married."
"I don't know. I did ask when they moved in if they needed to use the second bedroom."
"And what did they say?"
"Sherlock said nothing. John was rather adamant that he would use the second bedroom."
Mrs Turner slammed a hand onto the coffee table with some force. "There you go. The man doth protest too much. How adamant was he?"
"Oh very. Seemed almost offended that I would suggest they shared."
Mrs Turner raised her eyebrows. "I see." She carefully sipped from her cup. "Offended was he?"
"Oh don't be silly Margaret. You've put too much sugar in your tea again."
"You say that now, but just you wait. It started exactly the same way with Carl. He moved in, another lodger came in a few weeks later. Few months after that I had to knock a broom on the ceiling to tell them to keep the noise down."
"I do that anyway. But it's usually Sherlock doing something odd in the upstairs kitchen. You know he blocked the sink with a finger the other day."
"A finger?"
"Mmmm. I told him," Mrs Hudson jabbed her finger in the air. "'Sherlock, if I keep finding body parts in the kitchen, I am going to have to put the rent up.'"
"And what did he say?"
"He told me John would clean it up."
Mrs Turner chuckled, sending tea dribbling onto her blouse. "And you're telling me they aren't married?" She swiped the Custard Creams and empty cups from the table. "Nice try Martha.”
18.
I have committed many sins in my lifetime. All of the cardinal ones I covered before I had cleared the gates of my university, and I have broken all of the commandments, save one.
I've worn the scarlet letter of Adultery on my breast for twenty seven years. It was a temptation I had continually fought against, and I finally fell to it seventeen years into my marriage not because I was weak, or that the temptation became too much, but because the weight of my want was far greater, and far more exciting, than any personal glory I might have felt at resisting. My error lay in assuming that Sherringford would not find out.
Fool, was I, to think I could keep hidden a secret in a house built upon exposing them. It took my husband barely four months to find us out, and even then I suspect he waited three and a half of those for me to confess before he made his move.
I imagine that it might not have been so bad when he finally did confront me, if he hadn't entered our bedroom while we were fucking. More fool, I, for not noticing the physical clues he had left that morning. I should have known he would be returning home early. It was obvious. But I was blinded by the feel of my lover inside of me, so did not notice Sherringford's slender silhouette in the open doorway. Did not see him approach over the tutor's shoulder, above where my nails dug in, where they clutched and scratched. Nor did I notice the small, dark shadow in the corner by the wardrobe, not until my lover had fled, and I at last looked up from the floor, could manage my shaking hands to wipe the blood from my eyes and see him, little Sherlock, pale face branded with the blood of my shame and eyes deadened by the results of it.
We had damaged him irrevocably that day, in ways neither or us could anticipate nor ever hope to repair. And when Sherringford took his own life three months later, any chance of reconciliation was lost.
I disappeared out of necessity for half a year. A holiday, I told my sons, I needed to put my mind into order. It was a lie, of course, and though Mycroft may have suspected something, he was away at boarding school and though his spy network was rather well developed even then, they could not follow me to where I was going.
I left Sherlock in the hands of my mother. I knew she would care for him well.
When I returned I set to repairing what could be repaired, and waxing over what couldn't. We made it work, for a time, with shadows, lies, and fabricated honesty. Oh, we each of us eventually knew the truth of things, but we would never admit it aloud. While it stayed hidden and secret we could remain idle. Speaking it would force us to act upon it, and none of us were ready at that point.
Until now. Until tonight.
It started with Dr. Watson. And it takes me a second glimpse of his eyes to know (for he is a far, far better actor that either of my sons) the same horrors that dull Sherlock's eyes writhe behind his own. And I understand now why it is this man, and this man alone, that has turned my middle son's attention to its finest point. Has given him both a weakness and an unforeseen strength. Sherlock has found his anti, his mirror-image, his like-ness. That Moriarty, (and how he came to know to use that name... how he came to know the damage it would cause...) can bandy about his psychosis like a battle sigil all he likes, but I will never buy into his belief that he is anything like my son. My son who was not born this way, was not made this way. My son who chose to be this way, because he saw with his own eyes what became of people who cared too much, who loved too deeply, and controlled themselves too little.
In the next hospital room over there is a man cuffed to his bed. His survival is slim.
I have broken all of the commandments save the sixth. And I will break that one tonight.
19.
Klotho
In Greek mythology, Klotho is one of the three Fates, sisters who control the destiny of mankind. Klotho spins the thread, twining paths together and creating destinies.
Mike blinked.
"Anyone would think you've never seen a topless man before," Sherlock said, straightening up and scrubbing at his soaking wet hair with a completely inadequate towel. Mike stepped inside hastily and shut the door.
"I don't usually expect to see them in hospital toilets," he said apologetically. Sherlock snorted and let the towel fall around his shoulders.
"Why are you washing your hair in the hospital toilets?" Mike asked, knowing that it would get him a glare.
"Because I am currently unable to do so at home," Sherlock said.
"Yes, but why?" Mike asked, deciding to behave as if this were perfectly normal and moving over to the urinals.
"The boiler is broken," Sherlock informed him through gritted teeth, as if volunteering this meagre information was a form of torture.
Mike sighed inwardly.
"Did you break it?" he asked, finishing his business and zipping up.
"No, I did not!" Sherlock snapped. "It is broken because that pathetic excuse for a landlord will not understand that a boiler that age requires frequent maintenance and, frankly, is insufficient for the needs of the building. If it were less than 20 years old it would be fine, but as it is over 25 it is, once again, broken and I have neither heating nor hot water."
"Oh dear," said Mike helplessly. This was possibly the most information Sherlock had ever given him at one time, and his usually smooth bedside manner deserted him. "I take it you can't fix it yourself. Have you thought about..."
"Of course I have," Sherlock said, but tiredly. "The previous repairman not only charged me an exorbitant rate which the landlord refused to fully reimburse, he also informed me that this model is obsolete and impossible to repair."
"Perhaps it's time to move," Mike said, washing his hands at a sink one removed from Sherlock, who was still topless and combing his fingers through his hair in a faintly distracted way.
"Unfortunately, my budget does not stretch to anything better. Single person accommodation in London is extremely hard to find."
"How about a flat share or something?" Mike suggested, drying his hands and throwing the paper towel into the bin by the door.
"Who'd want me for a flat mate?" Sherlock asked, and Mike was glad that his hands were dry and he was ready to leave because he didn't have an answer for that.
*
He hadn't been thinking about anything much when he saw John Watson. It took him a moment to resolve the strange feeling of familiarity into the realisation that he really did know that man, and a moment longer still to come up with his name because he was so changed. John clearly didn't recognise him. He'd never suffered fools gladly, and whatever he'd been doing hadn't changed that about him.
"Weren't you off somewhere getting shot at?" he asked. "What happened?"
John gave him a look that stated quite clearly that John thought he was an idiot.
"I got shot," he said bluntly, and Mike found himself offering suggestions to him mostly out of habit. Habit and a desire to reconnect with this jagged man who was so far away from him now in every way that mattered. And, with a feeling of inevitability, Mike spoke the words he'd said to Sherlock that very morning.
"Who'd want me for a flat mate?" John said bitterly, and Mike could do nothing but laugh. John Watson, sharp edges and pain, with fey, feckless, brilliant Sherlock.
"What's funny?" John asked sharply.
"You're the second person who has said that to me today," he said, and as a flicker of interest showed in John's eyes for the first time in their conversation, Mike Stamford wondered, just for a moment, whether introducing these two might be the best thing he'd ever do.
20.
From: h.watson@eve-ltd.com
To: johnwatson.14@gmail.com
Date: 20/02/09
Subject: ...
John,
I’m sorry for what I said, okay? I didn’t mean it, really. I was just upset cos you always do the most dangerous stuff you can find (don’t think I don’t know why) and I thought this was one step too far. I still do, I won’t lie. And I knew I’d miss you! I still do, I won’t lie. So....yeah. Sorry, okay? Can we go back to writing now??
Harry xx
--
From: h.watson@eve-ltd.com
To: johnwatson.14@gmail.com
Date: 12/03/09
Subject: re: ...
Did you get my email??? Please don’t ignore me!
--
{Buried under a pile of unsigned forms and a month-old coffee mug}
John,
I guess Afghanistan would have patchy internet, huh? So I decided to send you a letter; hopefully the BFPO will deliver this to you sometime or other!
In case you really didn’t get the emails - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said you might as well be already dead to me. You aren’t. You’re all I’ve got, so can we stop ignoring each other now? When you get back, we should meet up, or call each other or something.
How’s the weather?!
Clara and I are doing good. I’m still working for that bloke on Harley Street and Clara just got a new job at Eversheds (you remember she’s a lawyer, right?) so everything’s still fine here!
Please write back if can, John.
Love,
Harry xx
--
{Pen scribbles and noted phone numbers in the margins}
John,
I can’t remember if I wrote to you or not. I’ll assume I did so hopefully this won’t be coming totally about of left-field!
I’ve forgotten when you’re supposed to be on leave. Are you coming back to London? I’ll meet you at the station if you are! Met any nice girls you wanna bring back to meet me (promise I won’t poach!)? I guess a war zone isn’t really the place though.
Me and Clara are so busy right now, like you wouldn’t believe! It’s like ‘ships passing in the night’, Dad would have said? We’re hardly ever in the house as the same time and when we are, we’re too tired to do anything more than sleep on the sofa. Even I’m bored!
I am a bit worr
--
{Once scrumpled, torn at one side and now smoothed between pages of Paradise Lost}
John,
I found the others. Guess my subconsios didn’t want me sending them. Wont send this one ither. u never liked me drunk and I can’t be arsed finding a postbox.
I nev clara and me split. she cheated on me - can you believe it!!!!! ME. i new I’d be the villain in all this! its my fault she says. Never around, she says but she isn’t either!
sorry she says. she should be, i swear to god
To make my rambling clearer, I’ve sorta broken up with Clara. She wants to get back together but right now I still don’t know. It hurt - I’m meant to be the irresponsible one here. Instead, we’re not formally divorcing but we are separating for a bit. Maybe by the time you get back we’ll have sorted this shit out one way or another.
I’m sober while writing this now. I should probably chuck this out along with the others you’d never want to get in the post, if it even reached you, but instead I’m keeping them to show you when you get back. Until then, it’ll feel a bit weird writing to essentially myself!! Maybe it’ll help me sort my head out. I’m a mess here, John. You need to come back; I need some family.
--
From: h.watson@eve-ltd.com
To: johnwatson.14@gmail.com
Date:21 /12/09
Subject: Happy Xmas!!!!
Stop ignoring my texts!! I know you’re back and I know your phone’s shit but I’m sure you can get texts still!
I’m sorry about Monday. We’ll meet at that cafe instead of The Fox next time, yeah? How’s tomorrow morning at 10 sound?
xx
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