Nutrisco et extinguo - Chapter XLI

[zoffoli]

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Nutrisco et extinguo: "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

Ab imo pectore: "from the bottom of my heart"

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.

You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link.

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Chapter XLI: Ab imo pectore

When the leaves, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

When the leaves turn brown
And they cover this lonely town

"Well, that's quite nice! Quite nice indeed."

"Isn't it?"

"So, this is the kitchen..."

You smile as Mary shows everyone around her new flat. It is quite small, very similar to 221B, but without the extra room upstairs; Mary says she doesn't need it anyway, as she can sleep in the living-room and make it her room as well. "Plus, when Blake's grown up, he can use the extra room in your flat!" she told you. That's true. These past few months, you haven't been using your old room at all. It could easily become Blake's, eventually.

"John! Can't you help a bit?"

"Yes, of course!" He runs to the door where Seb is coming in, carrying a wardrobe with another man, a friend of his.

"Man, this is heavy," he whines. "God Mary, why do you need such a big wardrobe anyway?"

"Be quiet, Seb. I'm sure you've got more clothes than I do, you womanizer."

Sebastian shrugs.

"Where should we put it?" his friend - Ron, you think he said, his name's Ron - asks.

"In the room. It's at the end of the corridor. Here, I'll show you the way. John, take Blake."

And without further warning she puts the baby in your arms. Harry, who is sorting cutlery in the kitchen with Chris, turns to you with a smile.

"It is a lovely place. It's lucky Mrs Turner's tenants moved out, really. Don't you think this is great? You'll be living close by. You'll get to see your son whenever you want."

You return her smile and look down at the baby you're holding. Blake blinks. You believe he looks like Mary, but she says he looks like you.

"Sorry, where are the glasses? I'd like a cup of water."

You turn to the man - Ron - and gesture to a cupboard.

"Thanks a lot for your help," you tell him.

"That's fine. Seb doesn't often ask for favours. He's a discreet guy, y'know. Didn't even know he had such... well, mature friends."

Chris lets out a laugh. You really like her laugh. The exact opposite of Sherlock's, open and tinkling. Sherlock's was low and discreet. "Mature? Have you seen them?"

"I mean, not bachelors who laze around all day. Real couples - married people - who have jobs, and all that..."

"So you don't have a job?" you ask idly.

"Well, I'm an heir, you see," Ron replies with an apologetic smile. He looks younger than he is, you can tell. Not as carefree as he wants to let on, either.

You repress a smirk. I'm becoming like Sherlock, now. Well. Not exactly like him. He was better.

"Was that the last piece of furniture?" Seb inquires as he comes back from the room with Mary.

"Yup," she answers, her eyes catching yours fleetingly. You exchange a passing smile.

"Where did you get all of this, by the way?" Seb goes on.

"I had a flat before I moved in with John, you know," she reminds him with a pout.

"I really like the table," Chris chimes in. "Not a very common colour."

"Yes, I like it too! I tried to find a matching tint for the crib. And John, don't make that face."

"What? What face?"

"Your oh-no-this-is-a-boring-conversation-starting-and-I -have-no-way-to-escape."

"What? I don't make such a face!"

"Wrong answer, John. Should've said 'of course it isn't boring, dear'," Harry remarks, trying to mimic your voice - and not exactly succeeding.

"Don't butt in, Harry," Chris tells her with a nudge. You shake his head.

"So, Ron. Been hanging out with Seb for long?" you ask.

"John!" Harry exclaims.

"Just let him change the subject," Mary interrupts before your sister can express her disapproval, "so as I was saying, that crib..."

"Yeah, I've known him since uni. We weren't exactly pals, then. But we played together once in a while," Ron answers.

"Played? Played what?"

"Whist!"

"Seriously, whist?"

"What's wrong with that?" Seb harrumphs.

"Nothing's wrong with that. Just didn't think you were the type."

"Oh he's quite good at it."

"Is he?"

"John. Let's have a house-warming here on Saturday!" Mary says as she comes bouncing towards you to get Blake. The baby seems happy.

"He likes you better than me," you comment.

"Don't talk rubbish. He just doesn't like your sweater."

"Excuse me?"

"It's green. He doesn't like green, remember? Since when do you have green sweaters anyway?"

"You gave it to me last Christmas."

"Oh. Right. Well I'll buy you another colour this Christmas."

Everyone bursts out laughing. You shake your head again and turn to look at your son. He is giggling too, and his impish nose creases from his laughter. You smile. He really does look like his mother.

And I miss your kiss
When the leaves turn brown

"I never thought I'd receive a phone call from you," you declare by way of greeting. Then you realize you might have sounded a little harsh, and amend: "Good morning, Mycroft."

"Hello, John. You are the one who so kindly pointed out you had a phone when we first met. So I thought... I should just phone you."

You smile stiffly. You still have a hard time dealing with Mycroft. It's been over two years now, it shouldn't be so raw anymore. But it is.

"You got here rather quickly for someone working in a clinic on the other side of London," Mycroft comments casually. A waiter comes and serves them coffee. "I took the liberty to order for you."

"Thank you," you reply perfunctorily. "And I've been reading London maps. Memorized some of them eventually."

"Mmm. Still retracing Sherlock's footsteps, aren't you?"

You put down your coffee abruptly and give Mycroft a cold stare.

"What did you call me for, Mycroft?"

"Just to have a chat."

"About what? Sherlock is dead, there is no reason I should still be of any interest to you."

Something like genuine pain flashes across Holmes the elder for a second, and you almost feel a pang of remorse. Almost. You avert your gaze.

"I just wanted to know how you were doing."

"I'm fine. Thank you." As if you gave a damn.

"I am quite amazed with the way you are handling this."

"What?"

"Bereavement."

"Oh. Well. It's been months. Years. I couldn't want to murder you forever. Or I would have already done it."

Mycroft does not reply immediately.

"How is your son? And Mary?"

"You know they're doing well. Why are you trying to make small talk? You can deduce all of this. You already have the answers to all of your questions."

"Not all."

"Then just ask the ones you want to ask."

"You're still mad at me."

"Aren't you? Mad at yourself?"

Mycroft's eyes turn to slits. You drink your coffee in one go.

"You didn't put sugar," Mycroft remarks quietly.

You smile bitterly. Your hand is shaking, but you do not try to hide it. Mycroft has already noticed anyway.

"You think I'm coping well, do you? Well I am. I truly am. So what are you expecting now? My thanks? Do you want me to express my gratitude for showing me that drugs would not help, that death would not help?"

"I don't need your thanks."

"Well good, because you won't have them."

"Please calm down, John."

"I am calm. You still haven't told me what you want. Why did you call me here? To see if I still took two sugars in my coffee? Or did you time me, perhaps, see how long it took me to get here?"

"No, that's not it."

"Then why don't you save us some time, Mycroft? I'm no genius, I won't guess. And I don't have all night."

"I've come to tell you something."

"Good. I'm listening."

"This must remain between us."

"Yes?"

"The one behind the Snow White murders is dead. You do not have to worry about this case anymore."

"Oh."

You search Mycroft's eyes a moment. You see nothing. The other's face is as smooth as ever, featureless. You give up. "Does Lestrade know?"

"No. And he won't."

"Right. Fine. No use asking you the whole story, I suppose?"

"Your supposition is correct."

"All right. Excuse me! Can I have the bill?" you ask a waiter.

"Please. You're my guest."

"No, thank you. And you're not mine, either. Have a good day, Mycroft."

"John."

You take a deep breath before turning to the other man. He's just like Sherlock. He's kept the most important for the end. Manipulation, was it? More like theatrics.

"Sherlock wasn't easy to live with."

"Have you come to tell me that? You must be joking."

"It must have been difficult sometimes. Hellish even. You probably found him quite insufferable."

"What?"

"Especially when he tried to completely stop smoking and refrained from using patches."

"Mycroft. What are you trying to say?"

"Would you have cared for him even if he had been broken?"

"Broken?"

You sit back down in surprise. This is new. This isn't like Mycroft at all. You're absolutely certain you are missing something somewhere, something very important.

"What do you mean broken?"

"I don't know. Like you had been after the war. Or perhaps like he would have been had he still been a drug addict."

"I don't understand."

"Would you have stayed by his side if he had been too much of a mess to provide you with the excitement you craved?"

You simply give him a look and sit back.

"Don't tell me you cannot deduce that. Have your skills become rusty?"

"I want to hear you say it."

"Why does it matter? He's dead." You loath the quiver in his voice.

"Yes. But had he been alive when you met Mary Morstan, had he been alive and only a burden, would you have stayed with him?"

"Mycroft."

"If he had been charged with the murder of Jim Moriarty and every other deed the consulting criminal managed to blame on him, would you have stood up for him and remained on his side until the end?"

"What do you think, Mycroft?"

"Say it."

"Of course I would have," you answer between gritted teeth. "You know I would have."

"And what if he had been the murderer once?"

"He would never have."

"But what if he had?"

"He would never have."

"You think he couldn't have killed someone?"

"That's not what I said."

"Oh?"

"He wouldn't have been a murderer. Perhaps he could have killed. No, he probably could have. Self-defence. Something like that."

"He could have sacrificed lives."

"No, he would have considered it to be a failure. He liked to win."

"What if winning made some sacrifices necessary? Such as killing or letting people die?"

"Mycroft, what are you trying to tell me? Is there something you want to tell me?"

"No, there is something I want you to tell me. You've seen him at his worst. You've seen a side of him that greatly disappointed you. And there are some things you might have guessed. Such as the way he obtained Moriarty's name from the old cabbie."

You clench your fists under the table. No, it hadn't crossed your mind at first. But then you had considered it, yes. Sherlock must have tortured the old man to some extent to make him speak. It hadn't occurred to you until much later. When Sherlock was already dead and there was nothing to hang on to except scraps of memories.

"Boredom can make him inhuman, if that's what you're hinting at, I know. He isn't a high functioning sociopath, but he does have issues. Did."

You slap yourself mentally and stand up once more. "Well, if we're done, I'll just-"

"If Sherlock had been bored, terribly bored, or if for any reason he'd been inhuman - if you had met Mary Morstan then, would you have still cared for him?"

You give him a caustic smile.

"I met Mary in a pub, you know. A pub where Sherlock caught a murderer by hitting on him a few years ago. Does that answer your question?"

"Only partly."

"Look, Mycroft. I saw Sherlock when he played with Moriarty for the first time. He was excited. He was genuinely happy. He didn't give a damn about the victims. He didn't consider himself responsible in any way. He got upset because he lost even though technically he had solved everything. I knew him, as much as someone could. So what are you testing me for now?"

"Do you miss him?"

"God, Mycroft, that's enough."

But as you turn to leave for good, Mycroft stops you with an iron grip.

"Please. Just answer me."

The pleading, more than the grip, makes you stop. Your fists clench once more and you grit your teeth. "I miss him. Every day of my life, I miss him. Every hour, every second. But it won't bring him back. Nor will this awful questioning you're imposing on me. I'm out of here. Goodbye, Mycroft."

You miss Mycroft's insistent gaze on your back as you leave; miss his discreet, jaded smile.

"Won't bring him back, you say? I wouldn't be so sure."

Under the table, Holmes the elder stops the recorder.

When the snow comes down
And it covers this lonely town

"God, it's freezing out!" Lestrade groans as they enter the pub.

"We'll get warmer once we have a drink," you reply with a smile.

"You drinking?"

"Just a pint. Mary threw me out of the flat so I could have some time off, since I've been taking care of Blake all day - she's exhausted, she seriously needed to sleep. But then she had a lot to drink yesterday at the home-warming, so I guess she felt she owed me."

Greg shakes his head as you sit at the bar.

"I'll never understand your relationship. Aren't you getting a divorce?"

"We are. Well. Mary wants to, at any rate."

"Oh. So you don't?"

"It might be for the best. She deserves to meet someone who loves her, and her only."

"Yeah," Greg answers, clearly not knowing what else to say. You smirk and order two beers. "So where do you sleep these days?" the D.I. goes on.

"At Mary's flat. I've told her I can take Blake sometimes at night in 221B so she can rest a bit, but she doesn't want to. Says she'll give him to me when he's stricken with teenage angst. Not keen to deal with that."

"Ha ha! She's something."

"She is."

"So, how does it feel?"

"What?"

"Well, being a father. I imagine you feel... different."

You give it a thought for a moment.

"Not really," you answer at last. "I mean, everything's different, but I don't feel different. I don't think this has changed me. I had given up on becoming a father. Having kids was never part of the picture since I came back from the war."

"Hence your sharing a flat with Sherlock."

"Exactly."

"But precisely, didn't you panic? If you'd never intended to be a father, it must have come as a shock."

"Well, yes. Especially since Mary told me just after she'd said we should get a divorce."

Greg chuckles and puts a hand on your shoulder. It is through these little gestures that you truly realize how close you have become. Less than two years ago this kind of situation - you and Greg having a pint together at the pub - would have been unthinkable. Just going to the pub would have been unthinkable. But most of all, you would have never gone anywhere with Lestrade at the time.

"It'll be all right, though," you continue, trying to focus on the conversation again. "Sherlock's not around anymore, I should be able to deal with one brat."

"Aw, that's harsh. True, though. Can you imagine Sherlock with a child in the flat?"

"God, I'd have to hire a baby-sitter."

"No one but you could baby-sit him."

"I thought that was your role."

"And I failed."

You exchange a knowing smile.

"In fact, I think it will be less trouble to look after Blake than after Sherlock," you muse. Lestrade gives you a look.

"You think?"

Then I miss your kiss
When the snow comes down

"How many roads must a man walk down,
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail,
Before she sleeps in this sand?"

Sitting in the kitchen with Blake while Mary is having her "guitar lesson" with Seb - and Ron, whom she seems to have taken a liking to - you absent-mindedly rocks your son in your arms, your discarded book, An Introduction to Chemical Pharmacology, lying on the table.

"Yes, how many times must the cannon balls fly,
Before they're forever banned?"

Sherlock played the violin, but he never sang. Probably never would have. Still, you wonder how his voice would have sounded if he had sung. Not necessarily while playing, but...

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind."

You smile as Mary joins Seb in his singing for the refrain.

"The answer is blowin' in the wind."

Ron begins to play his mouth organ, and you are not sure why you like the sound of this instrument. It is rather whiny, and it could even wake up Blake. It does, in fact. But as the baby opens his eyes and blinks, you can't help but smile down at him, and he returns your smile, a little drowsily.

"No, no, during the harmonica part, what you play is CDGCCDG, not CGDCCGD," Seb suddenly interrupts. Mary runs a hand through her hair.

"Right. Sorry. Let's do that part again. Ron?"

"No problem."

Ron starts playing the harmonica melody again. You look down at your son's sleeping face. You miss the sound of the violin. Sometimes, the profound lack you feel within yourself, this void that you can feel almost physically in your chest, makes you doubt that you'll ever be a good father. There is an emptiness inside of you that doesn't square with the role, somehow.

"Yes, and how many years can a mountain exist,
Before it is washed to the sea?"

Mary looks very happy as she joins Seb in his singing. Until now she only sang the refrain, but it turns out she knows the song pretty well. Actually, it is a rather beautiful song. For some reason you cannot put his finger on, it also seems to fit Sebastian very well.

"Yes, and how many years can some people exist,
Before they're allowed to be free?"

As you look at the three figures in your living-room, you realize how little people know about each other. How fragile any kind of bond is. You realize you know nothing about Mary's childhood, nothing about everything she's lived during her thirty years of existence or so; the later you meet somebody in life, the harder it is to truly get to know them.

"Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head,
And pretend that he just doesn't see?"

You suddenly feel all at once very close and very far from these three people standing in your flat. What does Sebastian really care about in life? Is there anything he holds dear? Why does Ron still hang out with him? Does he really consider himself a lazy bachelor, an heir without a purpose in life? You have been consorting with Seb for a while now, months. Still, you don't even know the kind of music he likes. His favourite colour. Whether he takes any interest in sports or politics. You've talked about his travels, but it is always so hard to tell whether the idiot is making it all up or not.

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind."

If Sherlock hadn't died so prematurely, would you have really got to know him better? People never try to get to know better those they're already close to, those who have become so much part of their life that they take their presence for granted.

"Yes, and how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?"

Thinking about it still hurts, of course. Life and death are such heavy things to deal with. Looking at Blake's peaceful face, you wonder whether parents ponder it at all before getting kids: whether they are aware of the extent of their responsibility in giving birth to someone - in giving life. And death, incidentally, because they come together, don't they? There's no one-way ticket to life.

"Yes, and how many ears must one man have,
Before he can hear people cry?"

You would like to know what Sherlock's parents were like. Admittedly his mother is still alive, but Sherlock himself had so little contact with her, and apparently so little attachment, that you can hardly consider paying her a visit. And as far as you know, even Mycroft spends Christmas alone. It doesn't look like a very united family.

"Yes, and how many deaths will it take until he knows,
That too many people have died?"

You catch Seb's eyes as he looks up and you almost feel like the question is addressed to you. Which doesn't really make sense. Sebastian sings on.

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind; the answer is blowin' in the wind."

Ron plays the harmonica again and Mary turns to you with a triumphant grin. I did it! I can play now, see?

Still feeling Sebastian's gaze on you, you return her smile.

On Christmas evenings like this
I wonder if it's me you'll miss

"It's been thirty-one months."

"What?"

"Sorry, did I just say that out loud?"

"Mm."

You rub your yes and try to will the remaining images of your nightmare away.

"What time is it?"

Mary shifts in the bed next to you to look at the alarm clock.

"Six twenty."

You groan. "I'm sorry if I woke you up."

"Blake woke me up. Didn't you hear him about ten minutes ago?"

"...No."

She laughs. "Oh well."

"Is he back to sleep?"

"Yup."

You fall silent. Mary's room in her new flat - well, what turns into her room at night but is in fact the living-room - is very white. Since she moved in you have been bringing her yellow flowers every time it is necessary to replace the bouquet standing proudly, if a little incongruously, on her desk near the window. In the semi-darkness of the room, you can see that the mimosas are beginning to wilt.

"Nightmare?" she asks.

You nod voicelessly.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"It's all right. Go back to sleep."

"Well, I'm trying."

"Are you saying me talking could help you?"

"Maybe."

You turn to Mary and give her a look. As your eyes lock, you start chuckling. Once your laughter quiets down, Mary becomes serious again, and takes your hand in hers.

"Thirty-one months since he jumped?"

Your face loses its smile and fills with a blunt sadness which you don't even try to hide.

"It's funny how it seems as if it were only yesterday, and at the same time, like it belongs to another time, almost another world."

She starts stroking the back of your hand soothingly.

"I was remembering some of his words," you go on. "The conversation we had about the solar system."

Mary arches an eyebrow. "That was more comic than nightmarish, though..."

"He said that he only put things that were really useful in his 'hard drive', and not rubbish, which is what ordinary people did. Because they filled their heads with rubbish, he said, they had a hard time getting at the stuff that mattered."

"I guess he was right. Many people spend a lot of their time thinking about little things, troubles that don't really matter, instead on focusing on the things they care about or the people they love."

"That's not what he meant, though."

"I guess not."

"All that mattered to him was the 'Work'. He said it. It was vital to him. Without cases, he said he felt like his brain was rotting. And he had indeed a very hard time dealing with boredom."

Mary squeezes your hand a little, as if in reproach, or in warning.

"John. You know that isn't quite true. You're not being fair."

"What do you mean?"

"If all that had mattered to him had been the Work, why would he have jumped? I thought your theory was that he had to sacrifice himself in order for some people, including you, to live."

You shake your head. "I know. Of course you're right. He wouldn't have let us die. But anyhow, Moriarty's little scheme had rather compromised his job. Sherlock could have hardly continued to be a consulting detective after all that ruckus. Even private clients might have not trusted him anymore."

"Eventually, they might have. Look at what Greg did for his reputation - and that fan club of his! All thanks to you."

"Thanks to me? I did nothing, Mary, I-"

"The people from the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement are all clearly readers of your blog, John. They believed you, over the newspapers."

"I did nothing to clear Sherlock's name."

"You're writing again now. You're posting on your blog, telling people more about him, showing them how human he truly was."

You smile dejectedly.

"Yeah. Yeah, but if I had never written in the first place, he might have not become famous. He might still be alive."

"If you say that again, I swear I will punch you."

Your eyes widen. Mary's tone is icy, and dead serious. "And if you feel guilty about not having done anything after his death to clear his name, why don't you accept an interview with that Langsdale Pike guy who keeps asking you for one?"

"No. No, I don't want to. I hate journalists. I'll never trust one."

"Who asked you to trust him, John?"

"What would be the point, now? His name is cleared anyway."

"But there are still many rumours. Your voice will be taken as Gospel's truth."

"That's stupid. I'm no Messiah. And Mary, I want a quiet life. I don't want to get involved with the press. And that Pike guy would see right through me if I accepted the interview."

"How do you mean?"

"Mary, we're officially married. We haven't even asked for a divorce yet. Do you think it'd be good for us, for Blake, if some journalist wrote something about my undying love for Sherlock Holmes?"

"You don't have to tell him about that."

"I don't know if I can talk about him without being obvious. That's why I turned down the guy from the 'we believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement who wanted me to do some kind of conference or something. I don't trust myself with this, and I think it is nobody's business. Lestrade did all there was to be done."

Mary lets go of your hand and turns to lie on her back again. She stares at the ceiling as you stare at her.

"Maybe you're right. But then don't you dare feel guilty about anything."

"I don't. Sorry, it's just the nightmare, I-"

"Are you happy, John?"

The interruption and most of all, the unexpected question, leaves you speechless. You swallow. Mary's eyes remain fixed on the ceiling.

"Can you find it in yourself to be happy about your son's birth, about us? I mean, the three of us?"

"Mary. I want you to listen very carefully. I... I know I'm tactless. Some things I have done or said must have been horrible for you and I probably never noticed, and never will. I... Perhaps it was horrible of me to propose in the first place. I don't know what went on in my mind at the time. I just... It just felt right. You were great. I was drunk and didn't think twice about it. I wanted to be with you."

"John, I wasn't-"

"Please let me finish. I... The next day, I thought what I'd done was crazy. I tried to think of other things, but I kept being obsessed by that ring I had promised to bring. It was silly, really. But I couldn't stop myself from going back to the pub. Then when I saw you, I just didn't want to tell you it had all been a terrible mistake, a misunderstanding. Because it didn't feel like it had been. At all. I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you deserve. I told you everything else was yours. But there's a part... The part that... I can't. I won't get over it. I don't want to get over it."

"I never asked-"

"I am happy that I met you. So terribly happy. I was incredibly lucky to meet you, to fall in love with you, and I am extremely lucky to have a child with you. I never deserved such happiness. I thought I would spend the rest of my life alone with a ghost, and that was fine, but you came along and gave me a family. I'll never regret what we had. I am so happy to have been with you and I want you to count on me anytime, for anything, until the very end. I've never been a good boyfriend to anyone, and I think I was a terrible husband - but I fully intend to be a good father, and the best friend you'll ever get. Come here, now."

Extending an arm, you pull her into a hug and can feel her grumbling against the crook of your neck.

"I wasn't having some fit of insecurity, y'know. I was just asking if you were as happy as I was that we had a son. A son, John! D'you realize?"

"I do. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I didn't."

"It's not that. It's just..."

She trails off. You know what she wants to say. It's that hole again, that void within you that sometimes seems to eat away everything else.

"It's part of me," you murmur against her hair. "It's how I am, but it will never prevent me from loving you and loving Blake."

You pause, then add quietly:

"I am happier than I ever thought I could be again."

When Christmas carols fill every space
And I think of your hands upon my face

When you finally get up, Mary is still sleeping by your side on the sofa-bed. You smile. Silently you leave the living-room and walk down the corridor into Blake's room. You are surprised to find him awake.

"Hello, there! I thought babies always cried and made a fuss when waking up, but there you are, just looking around."

A wave of unalloyed fondness washes over you as you pick up his son. Blake babbles happily.

"Shh. You'll wake up your mother."

Blake blinks. You like the colour of his eyes. They're bright blue, not dark like yours or clear like Sherlock's. And why would he have Sherlock's eyes anyway? He slaps himself mentally. Twice.

"You're a great baby, you know." It doesn't seem strange to you to speak to a two month old, even though you always found parents who talked to their babies as if they were adults stupid. Now it feels only natural. And it's the right thing to do, too.

When Blake was born, you panicked - even more than Mary. You waited outside the room because she didn't want you there, and you thought you wouldn't be able to stay away until the end. But you managed and when the nurse came to tell you your son and wife were fine, you cried. Mary had never been so beautiful as she lay there exhausted, holding her baby, your child. You had never felt so lost and so happy at once.

Really? Except...

You frown. Startled, Blake tries to frown back, snapping you back to reality and making you laugh.

"Sorry, here I am, telling you to be quiet and day-dreaming while holding you. Maybe I will be a bad father, after all."

Blake babbles again.

"I know you can't understand what I'm saying, but you've got to start somewhere, right?"

Unsurprisingly, Blake doesn't answer.

"It's different," you say as if Blake could have heard your train of thoughts. "It's true there might be one moment when I felt... I don't know if I can say happier. It's different. But it doesn't matter, does it?"

Yes, it matters. It's the kind of things that matters, that truly matters. You smile.

"Once, a very good friend of mine came into my room at night because I had a nightmare. It was a very awkward person and he didn't know how to deal with such things. But he did his best and held my hand and stayed with me all night. It made me really happy."

Another babble, louder this time. Blake starts fidgeting in your arms.

"I wish you'll never have nightmares like that, my love," John says as he leans to kiss his son's brow. "But if you do, I hope you'll have such a friend to come and hold your hand, when your mother and I aren't around."

Blake pouts and begins to lick and smack his lips. You chuckle apologetically.

"Right. You're hungry, and daddy's just here spouting nonsense."

You kiss your son again before bringing him to Mary.

When the trees come down
I'm sweeping needles up from the ground

Typing your latest post for the blog while Mary reads in the armchair in 221B is one of the things you enjoy doing the most during weekends. In the afternoon, while Blake is napping, you make some tea and spend time together in comfortable silence. Until one of you breaks it with some random comment.

"You know, I think it was all calculated," you say.

"Sorry, what?"

"The first time I met Sherlock. Everything he did. I think it was already manipulation."

Mary stares.

"Sorry, Forget it."

"No, go on. Every time you suddenly say something out of the blue I can be sure it's about him anyway."

"I'm sorry."

"So? The first time you met?"

"He was in a lab at St Bart's. Mike brought me in. We were talking about the time when we were at school there, and I just lent Sherlock my mobile phone because he asked Mike his, but he didn't have it. I offered mine. He took it and asked: 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'"

"I know, you've told me all about it already."

You nod.

"But he didn't develop. He didn't even say his name, he didn't mention the address. This is Sherlock we are talking about, he wouldn't have been so careless. He knew I would stop him from leaving the room. Just to be sure, he mentioned his riding crop at the mortuary, so he knew, he knew I would be intrigued. He knew I would ask. He never intended to leave like that. Of course it worked, I did protest. And I pointed out the obvious: that we didn't know a thing about each other. He knew I would ask that. He'd prepared it all, for better effect. Just so he could recite everything he'd deduced about me already. He did, and then left, theatrically. It was all staged; great acting, though." John' brow suddenly clouds. "He always was, wasn't he?"

"Oh no, don't get depressed now."

"I'm not getting depressed!"

"Right. So you weren't just thinking about how he acted the day he jumped?"

You swallow.

"That wasn't a great piece of acting, though."

Mary gives a prudent nod.

"Anyway," you go on, "he already knew what he was doing. While he was deducing me he must have thought I was worth a try - that perhaps I would be the kind of flatmate he needed, one who'd put up with him."

"I think he was hitting on you."

You choke on your drink and look up at Mary with wide eyes.

"What?"

"Oh come on, John, he tried to razzle-dazzle you - and succeeded, incidentally - and he winked at you. He mentioned the riding crop."

"Now I see it, yeah, the riding crop. I mention that to my every first dates. Perfect way to hit on someone, yeah."

Mary rolls her eyes.

"Then he went on, didn't he? He kept doing everything to catch your interest."

"Yeah, I suppose he did. He said he'd given a hand to Mrs. Hudson by ensuring her husband was executed, which would catch anyone's interest, really."

"Really?"

"Well, mine, anyway."

"Exactly."

"He wasn't hitting on me. I... When he thought I was hitting on him, he was at a loss. He was embarrassed, and obviously felt awkward about it."

"He probably didn't realize it was love at first sight, then!"

"Now that's preposterous!" you burst out laughing. "Y'know, if theatrical means flirty, then Mycroft was flirting with me a lot more than Sherlock."

"OK now that's disturbing."

"Exactly my point."

"What, is the idea of Sherlock flirting with you disturbing?"

"I heard him flirt with Moriarty and that was disturbing enough."

"Ha ha! I bet."

"But he's such a child, he doesn't know how to flirt. He reacted like a kid to Lestrade coming to him for the serial suicides. I mean it, he really looked like a kid."

"Mmm, I wonder what that says about you, then."

"What?"

"Falling in love with 'a kid'."

"...Right. Many adults act like brats, though. Sherlock was so... So proud, really. When I mentioned his website, I could tell he was expecting compliments, he really was happy about it. Then I made fun of him and he took offence. He got revenge by not answering my questions."

"Great. So your type is childish and sulky, huh?"

You grin. "Now I wonder what that says about you, then." Mary sticks her tongue at you, and you refrain from giving her a hug. Too many displays of affection could become awkward in your current situation. So instead, you resume: "The manipulation continued to some extent, but he was already himself, too. Infuriating. Bossy."

"But he cured your psychosomatic limp."

"Yes. And he tested me, just like Mycroft."

"Tested your patience, didn't he."

"That, he did."

You fall silent. "You should have told me, y'know," Mary says eventually.

"Told you what?"

"That you get off on being pushed around."

"I do not!"

"If you say so."

"Mary."

"John."

Your eyes lock and you both avert your gazes at the same time to break into quiet laughter.

"Why are we having this conversation again?"

"Because you were daydreaming about Sherlock and started rambling."

"Right."

You take another sip of tea.

"What about a song?" Mary asks.

"You mean with the guitar?"

She nods.

"You want me to sing?"

"I'd like to sing one with you."

"We'll wake up Blake."

"He's awake already. You can bring him here."

"But what do you want me to sing? I don't know any songs."

"There's one you know. The lullaby I've been singing to Blake."

"The Robert Louis Stevenson one?"

"Yup, that one!"

"Not sure I know all the lyrics."

"Just sing. I'll help you if you have a memory lapse."

"Fine."

And so while Mary goes to get her guitar, you go into the room to take your son in your arms.

"If I had known how engrossed in it you'd be, I would've never bought you that guitar," you say as you come back into the living-room.

"Yes, you would have."

You smirk. "All right, I would have."

Mary sits down on the sofa and plays a few notes. She smiles to herself in satisfaction, then looks up at you. You give her a nod. You don't like to sing, but you know she loves it when you do, and it is very hard not to indulge her. She begins to play the song as you rock Blake in your arms, standing by the window.

"My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky. It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by; for every night at teatime and before you take your seat, with lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street."

If the brother has a green ladder...

"Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea, and my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; but I..."

You look at Mary. She snorts and continues in your stead: "...but I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do..." You roll your eyes and go on with her in unison: "O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you."

The scene is almost too perfect to be true. You like Mary's voice a lot; it is low and she doesn't sing especially well, but there's a nice ring to it. Through the window the sunlight is pouring over you. Blake looks a little dazzled, and, in your eyes, is definitely dazzling.

"For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, and Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; and oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, o Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight."

Your eyes catch Mary's and you finish together: "O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight."

Outside, it starts snowing.

And I miss your kiss
On a Christmas night like this

Christmas has come and now both Mary and Blake are sound asleep. Wearing your new jumper - red - you are sitting alone near the fireplace, writing in your journal. Because you have started writing a journal.

It is constructed as an echo to Sherlock's, really, and so it doesn't look like a journal at all. Every day, you put down in it remarks about what Sherlock has written in the Mathematics notebook from 1985 and 1986. Observations, hypotheses, anything. Sometimes, when you're just too tired, you simply complain and ramble about stupid cryptic mad geniuses.

But there are some things you have now understood, thanks to some research you've done on Google - and in libraries.

Sherlock seems to have had a certain sense of humour - to some extent. For instance, his "Moral: don't forget" right under the d'Agapeyeff cipher can be interpreted as a rather ironic remark. It is to be noted that he doesn't appear to have tried to break the cipher himself - or at least no such attempts appear in his notebook. But since d'Agapeyeff, the one who created the cipher, later in his life confessed to have forgotten how he'd done it, it makes sense that the moral of the story would be: don't forget. Still, it still sounds like a funny comment to me.

Other than that, I've been looking up polyalphabetic substitution. But there is no way I am going to try to make a tabula recta with bloody ideograms instead of letters. What does he mean "Could be fun"?! Did Sherlock speak Chinese? I'll have to ask Mycroft.

… Scratch that. I'm never asking Mycroft anything again.

The last conversation we had was so strange. It's too bad, he might have been of some help to understand the quotes. I'm still not sure why Sherlock wrote them there, they seem out of place.

"You have beguiled me with a counterfeit
Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried,
Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;"

What does it mean? It seems unlikely that Sherlock would have written them in his notebook randomly, or just because he liked them as quotes. Surely it must have been referring to something specific. What is the "counterfeit" he is talking about here, I wonder? And then again:

"'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won."

So clearly won? So something Sherlock took for granted but then lost? I wonder if it has anything to do with that Victor Trevor guy, the one from the article. It seems they had been friends to some extent, but then they fell out. Or maybe not. Maybe he was just a client. I have no idea. And I'll probably never know.

You put down your pen and look at the fire burning in the hearth. The third quote is hovering at the periphery of your consciousness and you try to keep it at bay. But of course that makes you think about it, and so you fail to ignore it. We reach. We grasp. And what is life in our hands at the end?

Did Sherlock think of this before he jumped in front of the man whom he claimed to be his only friend? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow - misery.

In the end, death is something we must all face alone. Sherlock must have been scared before he jumped. He must have felt unbearably alone.

Averting your gaze from the fire, you close the notebook and your eyes.

On a Christmas night like this

.

.

.

tbc

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