Fic: Longer Than the Road That Stretches Out Ahead (pt. 2/4)
Part 1
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Friday 13 July 2012 (Day 27)
Boston is interesting enough, lots of brick buildings and ironwork and statues and plaques bearing the history of any given location, even if they tend to make the British out to be cartoon villains. She wonders if she can convince Sherlock to spend an extra day and go to the science museum (she thinks he'd like that, maybe, or maybe not at all).
He seems in relatively high spirits, which is good. He hasn't really said what he's looking for, just that he wants to find somewhere that he can get lost in permanently.
America is a big place, very easy to get lost in. No borders to cross (unlike Europe), meaning fewer favours Mycroft has to call in, but still troublesome enough to place Sherlock there, what with having to get Sherlock's status as persona non grata (he was vague about that, but it had something to do with the CIA and Jim) reversed. He’s accepting his brother's help (or taking it as his due), but not without making it difficult.
She doesn't mind that she's the intermediary, not really. Story of her life, so far.
She's not exactly happy that it's a job (more or less; she's being compensated [her flat's being paid for and looked after, as well as deposits to her savings to cover the part of Mum’s mortgage she helps pay] and she has an expense account to cover petrol and hotels and food), but it's better than the alternative (really, there hadn't been much of an alternative).
Even so, she's getting to travel, something she's never taken the time to do. Seize the day, and all that.
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Day 31
He gains a new respect for Molly when she talks her way into the restricted areas of the Whitney Medical Library. They'd gone to see the jars full of brains and she'd ended up chatting with one of the staff at the circulation desk, which was overheard by a professor (fifteen years her senior) who seemed a bit taken with her. She played it up in her sweet and earnest way, and there they were, being given a guided tour of the storage area for the rest of the collection.
She begs off when the man asks her to lunch, but gives him her email address (fake). He won't use it, he's already seeing two separate women (a post-grad and an older woman, most likely dating her for appearances after his second divorce).
As they walk back to the car he can't help but look at her like she's an entirely new person again. She wasn't acting and she wasn't telling the absolute truth, flirting without being obvious (did she even know she was doing it?), and it was all entirely natural for her. She used her awkward charm to her complete advantage, unselfconsciously so.
He's painfully reminded of John, but he shoves that aside.
"What?" she asks while unlocking the car doors.
She's driving because she's a terrible navigator (as predicted) and the GPS is next to useless. She still moves to let herself in the wrong side of the car more often than not, but she's otherwise adjusted easily to left-hand drive (automatic transmission is another matter, her foot always moves for the gearbox).
"Do you do that very often?"
"Do what?"
"That thing you did back there, with the professor."
"He was nice." She ducks into the car.
Sliding inside the car is like sitting in a lit oven, and sweat prickles uncomfortably on his back as he buckles the seatbelt. She slips on a pair over-sized Hollywood starlet sunglasses and starts the car, then fiddles with the controls on the dash.
He regrets informing her on how to both load mp3s onto her phone and plug it into the auxiliary jack in the radio (his first complaint was met with, "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole," and a triumphant laugh [a pop-culture reference she'd been waiting years to use, no doubt; he didn't ask because he didn't want to have to delete it later]) when the first strains of some hateful rock ballad fill the interior of the car.
"You don't normally act like that."
"Yes I do."
"No you don't."
"With strangers I do."
"That's backwards. Wouldn't you be more at ease with people you know?"
"Not really. You, um, you don't have to prove a stranger right or wrong, and it doesn't matter if you make an ass out of yourself because you'll never see them again. Which lane do I need to be in?"
"You're going south, so the right. Which was on the sign we just passed."
"That I couldn't read because the complete wanker in front of me doesn't know how to bloody indicate!" she shouts, then punctuates by laying on the horn when said wanker swerves back into their lane.
"Sorry," she adds.
"Quite alright. Do try not to get us killed, though."
Too much like John.
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Wednesday 18 July 2012 (Day 32)
Sherlock is too quiet. He had a nightmare early this morning, not that he'd admit it. She didn't mention it, even though he knew it woke her up. She wonders if that's why he doesn't sleep very much.
He hates her jokes and her pop culture references, and really, she's just grasping at straws, but he hasn't done much more than hum in indifference or dissent to anything she's said so far today. She's fairly certain he's never seen Jurassic Park, so he won't recognize the context (past the fact that they're in a museum milling around in front of a bunch of dinosaur skeletons), but the punchline is bad enough that he'll be compelled to say something.
"What do you call a blind dinosaur?"
He looks at her askance, obviously puzzling out what the hell she's on about.
"Do-you-think-he-saurus."
He looks straight ahead.
"What do you call a blind dinosaur's dog?"
His shoulders tense.
"Do-you-think-he-saurus Rex."
"How is that remotely funny? If the dinosaur is blind, he can't - by definition - see 'us.' Rex isn’t even a common name for dogs. Incidentally, 'Molly' is the most popular dog name in the United Kingdom."
"Really?"
He pulls his phone from his pocket and types something; a few moments later he flips it to show her the screen. It's a web page with a top-ten list of popular dog names. 'Molly' is number one for females. Wonderful.
"Why- why do you even know that?"
"For a case. Dog owners are a chatty lot and I spoke with four who had dogs named Max. It seemed like a statistical improbability, so I researched it."
"Ah," she says. "So, um, what was the case?"
"Doesn't matter," he says, shuffling away to stand in front of the next exhibit.
Well then. At least she got him to talk a bit, even if she probably made his mood worse.
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Day 36
New York continues to rank highest on the list of places he thinks he could live, even if the corners are too square and the cabs are the wrong colour. They're only going to stay another day; he's not ready to settle. Molly busies herself with being a tourist, snapping photos and buying trinkets to send to her family (it's allowed, even encouraged; it makes her cover story more authentic).
They're in separate rooms on separate floors; it's New York, and the corresponding dates can be attributed to merely coincidence, should anyone ever make a connection. They won't be able to do the same thing again for some time.
There's a bit in the news about a murder in Tribeca (locked room, no apparent motive for any of the suspects, previous report by the victim of stolen artwork), and it's tempting (more like a scab that won't stop itching until you peel it off). He can't though, he knows he can't, and so they have to leave.
It's entirely too easy to get his hands on anything he wants, as well; the only one to try to stop him is Molly, and she couldn't if she tried. She'd be disappointed, though.
They'll start west tomorrow, away from cities. He needs to be awed, see something bigger than himself to gain perspective. He's always appreciated the beauty of the natural world, only he's not usually very vocal about it (no way to put that feeling into words that a thousand poets and philosophers haven't already thought of; some things are best kept to himself besides).
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Tuesday, 24 July 2012 (Day 38)
Sherlock is still too quiet. He participates in conversations, but he's talking without thinking. Museums are of moderate interest; his eyes skate over everything and some things actually intrigue him enough to pull out his phone and do a bit of googling, if only to prove something about the object's description wrong. He's done that twice, so far.
She's happy in those moments, when he resurfaces. He's fine, otherwise, scarily polite and considerate (relatively speaking; objectively he's still a git). She tries to draw him out, a little at a time, by making wild guesses at what someone does for a living or what the rest of their life is like, but it doesn't work. He rattles off details like reading a shopping list, and she knows he's taking no pleasure in his own cleverness.
Sometimes his eyes slide sideways to gauge her reaction, and there are moments when he realises his gaze is aimed four inches too high and his posture locks up for a split second before course-correcting to a point in the middle distance.
It breaks her heart.
She doesn't speak with Mycroft directly, which is a small mercy. He expects weekly updates. She's emailed him once so far, mostly to say that Sherlock was sleeping and eating (not lies exactly, though she did stretch the truth and he probably knew it). There's not much else to tell, really. She's not to give specifics of the places they visit.
She's tempted to ask after John (the others too, but mostly John), and she almost does in the second email, but she thinks it's better if she doesn't know, because if she knows, Sherlock will know, and if it's something bad... Best not to think about it.
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Day 39
The decision to see Niagara Falls wasn't a good one. He remembers falling (flying), the roar of the water like the blood in his ears, Reichenbach (he'd never been, had privately thought he'd want to go after seeing the painting [doesn't now]), Rich Brook.
Molly sees it, she understands what's happening in his brain even if she doesn't know, and her tiny fingers dig into his arm hard enough that he will bruise (he doesn't bruise easily). She bites her lip, thinks about calling Mycroft (the last things he needs).
She tugs his arm but he can't stop looking; vaulting over the railing would take a second, another to spring (calculations; topography, height, speed, trajectory). He'd survive, but not from here. Wrong angles, he'd shatter on the rocks.
Molly is behind him, her arms around his waist, her mouth pressed against the thin cotton over his shoulder blade. To anyone around them (tourists; spotty bored teenager mooning over her secret boyfriend [mother {social worker, likes her job} knows, doesn't approve; father {transportation engineer, hypertensive} would take away her car {blue varnished nails tapping on the key on the ring hanging from her bag (got it last month, proud, on display)}], older couple [empty nesters, both retired secondary school teachers {her biology, him art}], lone child [boy, seven, thinking of the same thing he is]), it would look like a lover's embrace.
Her mouth moves over his shoulder, her chin digging into his scapula as she speaks through his skin. "Don't you dare, Sherlock, don't do this in front of me, don't make me tell your brother--"
He crosses his arms and takes one of her wrists in each hand, preparing to dislodge her (forcefully, if need be, she may know how to cling like a limpet but he's got strength, size, and skill on her).
"-He'll kill me - really kill me - for letting you, you can't--"
It's a sickening thought as well as effective emotional blackmail, since there's the possibility of truth to the statement. Mycroft could easily have her killed for failure to perform her duties. His brother is not often a vengeful man, but when he is, it is intricate and untraceable (light from the headlamps, dry-cold desert air, Goodbye Mr. Holmes, Oh--); and the only person who could outmanoeuvre him would be dead. More likely he wouldn't have her killed, only make her wish she'd died.
Then again, it's hard to say exactly what the grief might do to him (for all that he knows his brother, there are some things beyond predicting [vague memory of Mycroft telling him Mummy was gone, split knuckles carefully bandaged]).
His fingers relax, cover the fists bunched in his shirt, then interlace with hers. Unmistakably intimate, he's never held someone's hands like this, tangled up and unable to move properly (but that's what it is, isn't? Tangled up in people, slowing him down, holding him back from destroying himself [destroying the world]).
She doesn't know Morse code, but he taps out thank you on her radial styloid process with the tip of his right index finger anyway.
He breathes deeply through his nose (water, hot concrete and metal, sunblock, cotton, sweat, Clinique Happy), lets the tension leave his muscles. Molly shifts, ready to step back, but he keeps her in place. It's entirely too hot to have another person this close, but for once (just this once, he can't let her think--) it's nice to be... held. He’s been hugged before (both as a child and an adult, what a shocking revelation that would be to some), and while usually annoying and invasive, sometimes it was welcome.
She understands, presses her cheek against his shoulder and sways a bit (too fluid a movement to be conscious [maternal instinct; also displayed in romantic partners to provide comfort, theory suggests part of the mating ritual to prove nurturing capabilities {thereby fitness for the rearing of offspring}, irrelevant]).
The moment passes, as all do, and he lets go of her hands. She stands next to him at the railing, leaning over a bit herself to look down, and he can tell she's seeing it all in her mind's eye; the fall, the body (his body, a broken heap on her table; she may do [did, past tense] post-mortems but no one is immune to every horror); the curiosity, if it would be better to follow or to wait for Mycroft to send someone for her (it would be quick and relatively clean; wrong-place-wrong-time scenario, mugging or the like, not important enough to waste too many resources on); acceptance and resolve.
That... He doesn't like that (wrong). Molly has been willing to follow him this far, and now he knows exactly how far she'll go. He's broken everything else, and now her.
His apologies are meaningless; he covers her hand on the railing, leaving it for a moment before he takes it in his and pulls her away.
They won't talk about this, he's sure; she's been suppressing the vestiges of her infatuation (she'd given up hope long before the fall, Christmas was the last nail in the coffin) and wants very much to keep the status quo.
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Thursday 26 July 2012 (Day 40)
She dreams of falling. In it, she's him. It's slow, more like floating, and it starts at the top of the falls and morphs into London before turning into a hole in the ground. She never lands, simply moves on to another part of the dream. She's still Sherlock, but she's also Molly, and Jim is there, but he's off to the side and not important. She's covered in mud (that's also acid) and she needs to wash it off before it eats into her (Sherlock's) coat. There are too many people around for her to be naked.
She wakes up confused, then realizes Sherlock is in the shower and the sound must have filtered into her unconscious mind. His bed is made, but the duvet is rumpled. He didn't sleep again. She was an idiot for falling asleep. Her laptop's been moved off the bed and plugged into the charger. She knows she didn't do it, so Sherlock must have.
He's trying to make up for yesterday.
God, she doesn't want to think about that. It was easier not to when she was driving, or later, when she was finding more things for them to see, anything strange or silly (the world's largest glass paperweight had amused him, probably more for the technical process and the planning of its creation than the actual object, but it was a starting point; she was looking for more things like that, fruits of strange obsessions and dedicated labour), anything low to the ground.
She still doesn't know what to think. She doesn't know what he was thinking (well, jumping, but past that). She probably could have handled it better, but she hadn't really thought much past the fact that she had to restrain him and the security guard was looking and the last thing they needed was her doing something strange to attract attention.
And then the bit after, when he held her in place, and then held her hand (like a lover the first time, a friend the second), and it was... There was a moment when she'd realized that she would always pull him back from the edge, no matter the cost to herself, and if it meant that...
No, she can't think about it. If she thinks about it, she'll start with all her romantic notions and the wanting will rear its ugly head again, and it will make everything unbearable.
He's her mission, she's his handler. A bit like The Bodyguard, except the other way ‘round, like if Kevin Costner fell in love with Whitney Houston first, but Whitney Houston didn't love him back and they didn't sleep together. Not very much like The Bodyguard at all, really, when she thinks about it. It was on telly when they were in New York and she indulged herself a bit since she had a room to herself. Maybe she should make him sit through Dirty Dancing if it came on sometime; he wouldn't be able to resist a cutting remark and he would be like his old self for a bit.
She groans at her weirdness and mornings in general; she needs coffee.
Sherlock pokes his head out the door, steam wafting out around him. He's half-dressed, jeans riding low on his hips without his belt, chest bare, towel draped around his shoulders. His toothbrush hangs from the side of his mouth. She should really be immune to it by now, she thinks.
He leans back in the bathroom, spits, then hangs out the door again.
"Coffee maker's broken. I was just getting ready to go out."
Of course he read her bloody mind. Then again, he probably knows all her breathing patterns and sighs and movements by now; he's continuously observing everything.
I makes her uneasy that he's being so nice. Before, she knew that he was trying to weasel something out of her, and that was fine; she'd take anything she could get from him. Now... well, that hasn't changed, as such, since she still enjoys simply being near him, but it's unsettling all the same because she thinks he's trying to stave off... something. Her disliking (betraying?) him, maybe. As if he hasn't already given her a million reasons to, and yet she comes back for more every time.
It's that, the insecurity; it's wrong on Sherlock. It's always been there, deep down (easy to spot when you see it in the mirror every time you look), buried under all his cleverness and the puzzles he was the only one able to solve; now all that has been scraped away and he's a bit pink and raw and vulnerable.
There's really nothing she can do for him; they just have to keep going until he finds something, she supposes.
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Day 41
Detroit is a broken, abandoned place trying to struggle back to life. Post-apocalyptic, with the odd freshly-painted building or mural (like the first flowers poking through the ash after a wildfire). The crowds are too young and hip and too old and world-weary for him to be comfortable there.
It's also a reminder of John, who loved Motown music with an undying passion (dancing about the flat, pulling faces into a spoon while he lip-synced to Gladys Knight or the Jackson Five), who keeps creeping into his thoughts despite the memories being locked away.
He's happy to leave.
Molly decides to make a detour south instead of going straight on to Chicago, to a tiny nothing of a city (Lie-ma, not Lee-ma, she corrects gleefully), just so she can take a picture of the 'Now Entering, Population, Home of' sign. It amuses her, so that's fine. He drives so she can gawk to her heart's content. He won't let her near the radio, though, repeating imperiously, "Driver picks the music, and shotgun shuts her cake hole, I believe?" which sends her into a fit of hysterical laughter. It's infectious, and he smiles to himself periodically on the way to Dayton.
They stay in a motor lodge outside Indianapolis. One bed again, but it's fine. Molly is small and doesn't take up much room; they've been living practically on top of each other for two weeks (longer, if one counts her flat) and there's no mystique left when it comes to cohabitating with a woman (exactly like a man, only slightly less noxious). They both need to sleep; he hasn't had more than an average of two hours per day (fine on a case, not so much now) since they left New York and Molly has a fairly typical circadian rhythm.
The window unit rattles as loud as a jet engine, but it serves to drown out the traffic from the interstate, as well as the amorous couple in the next room over (an affair, she's older [first time cheating on her husband], he's younger [makes a habit of this type of arrangement]; it won't last for more than a month) and the office supply sales rep (middle-aged, obese, sleep apnoea, dead in six years) on the other side.
Molly cycles through periods of stillness and restlessness; every time he begins to drop off she shifts or makes noise. He thinks about taking his pillow and sleeping in the car, but it's too hot for that (another record-setting day, a mass of hot air stuck over half the continent [climatology is dull], worse than the year before).
After getting kicked (she needs to clip her toenails, they're like bloody talons), he switches his pyjama bottoms for jeans and goes outside for a cigarette. He crouches with his back against a concrete planter of wilted geraniums and idly studies the cracks in the pavement by the buzzing yellow sodium light of the car-park.
Mycroft has let him alone so far, only texted when they crossed over into Canada with a warning not to treat the Mexican border so lightly (relations are strained with his people after the recent elections, apparently; if Molly weren't along he'd drive straight to Matamoros out of spite).
Molly. Something is different between them now, easier. He supposes every friendship has a point where it solidifies and sets like concrete; Niagara was theirs (John shot a man, but that's apples to oranges). He thinks he could do or say (almost) anything and she'd take it in stride. She doesn't nag him about the cigarettes or when he drives too fast (she hardly has room to talk, there), and she doesn't look at him like he's a monster when he points out a harsh truth of human nature, she accepts it as she does everything else.
He's trying to be kinder to her in return, thinking before he says something terrible that might hurt her feelings (which is much easier to do now that he knows to give anything related to sex, love, her personal life, or her appearance a wide berth), and so far he seems to be doing well.
She said something about St. Louis, seeing the arch from underneath. They can put Chicago off for a bit, they've got nothing but time.
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Tuesday 7 August 2012 (Day 51)
It's odd, she thinks. She always assumed Sherlock to be a dyed-in-the-wool city person, but since New York he hasn't wanted to stay in the same one for more than two nights, more interested in the open road. Detroit, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Kansas City, Omaha, Davenport, Chicago (that was three nights, but there was a lot she wanted to see and she kind of badgered him into it, thinking maybe there was something there for him; there wasn't). Tonight Milwaukee, tomorrow Madison.
Honestly, they're all beginning to look the same to her. Maybe to him as well.
"Mars Cheese Castle, next exit," he says, enunciating each word.
She really doesn't care what's there, she likes the silly name. She's going to buy something emblazoned with 'Mars Cheese Castle' and keep it until she dies, and when her nephews are sorting her things for the charity shop they'll think she was a bit batty, and then someone like her will see that knick-knack sitting on a shelf somewhere, lonely and unloved, and they'll buy it because it's a bit odd. Cycle of life.
His head is tipped back against the passenger seat, lolling slightly to the side so he can gaze out the open window. He's been dragging his thumbnail slowly over the ridges on the cap of his water bottle for the last forty miles.
It's going to be one of his quiet days, she thinks. It's still fairly early, just gone ten; they've been on the road for less than an hour. Maybe this will drag him out of it for a little while.
He should be medicated. He refused the single time she brought it up, before they left London. She couldn't force him to do anything and any plea she would make would fall on deaf ears. She's doing the best she can and every day she's reminded that it's not enough.
She would cry, if she were ever alone long enough to do it. He'd still know, though.
The Mars Cheese Castle isn't really a castle, only built with a façade to vaguely resemble one, but it is full of cheese (and cheese- and cow-themed merchandise). She wanders the aisles aimlessly, basking in the chill of the air conditioning. The car has it, but she never uses it when she's driving; it makes her sleepy.
Sherlock finds her after he's finished his cigarette. She knows he's thinking of Mrs. Hudson as he eyes the pastry case. It's a softer look than when he thinks of John, sad in a different way that she can't really explain, but it's a bit like when her brother and sister talk about Dad.
She's not usually a physically demonstrative person, and she's still a little afraid to touch him (she can count on one hand the number of times she's done so intentionally), but she wants him to know that she understands and it's okay. She lays a hand in the middle of his back; his posture stiffens and he turns to look at her.
A flicker of guilt passes over his features, like she'd caught him doing something he shouldn't have been, before his face goes carefully blank. She withdraws her hand and he tells her he's going to wait in the car.
He needs a minute to himself, that's fine. She hunts down her perfect knick-knack (sadly less to choose from than she thought; she can't decide between a shot glass or a magnet, so she gets both) and selects a few different kinds of sweets (she can afford more sugar in her diet since she's picked up Sherlock's habit of skipping meals), then chats a bit with the lady at the till (her mother-in-law was originally from Kent, a war bride); everyone seems to think her accent is a reason to make conversation. The woman smiles and wishes her a safe trip, which is nice.
Sherlock is leaned against the car; he pitches another cigarette aside and swings into the driver seat. It's going to be a full-pack day, she thinks, judging by the way he's been so far.
She's glad Jodi quit when she was pregnant with Connor. She really needs to phone them soon; tonight maybe. No, this afternoon; the time difference. At least she has 'work' as a plausible excuse for not phoning.
When she gets in the car, Sherlock rifles through her handbag (nothing new there, no sense of boundaries, but it's fine) and extracts her phone. He plugs it into the radio and scrolls through her playlists (she's better at setting them up now) until he finds something he knows that she loves and he finds barely tolerable. She takes it for the apology that it is, though she knows that she's not the one he's really apologising to.
She wishes she could just tell him that it's okay for him to grieve what he's lost and that he doesn't have to keep shoving it away. She doesn't want to be the one to bring it up, though.
She unwraps a lolly and jams it in her mouth, then tosses him the packet. He could use the calories. She thinks she might be pushing her luck when she cranks the volume up, but he'll only turn it down if it's too annoying.
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Day 54
While waiting for Molly outside the 'rest area' (hardly restful, two dingy loos separated by a bank of vending machines; he told her she'd regret the second cup of coffee and successfully predicted within two minutes when she'd start squirming), he browses the wall of tourist-trap brochures. Apparently the Midwest is home to not one, but three of the world's largest balls of twine, along with innumerable theme parks and roadside curiosities. He's already been dragged to a good number of them, thanks to Molly's love of odd things (and her incessant need to fill every second of every day to keep him occupied).
It's half-ten in the morning and already in the mid-eighties; he's tired of the heat and the sun and how far away everything feels. He hadn't slept enough again, only three hours or so, and he aches down to his bones with exhaustion. There's a dull throb in his temples that's been there for days.
Molly comes out of the of the rest room with her phone pressed to her ear, worrying her bottom lip. It's Mycroft; she hadn't finished drying her hands before answering (second call, must be important).
"And they're sure. Okay. No, he told me doesn't want to know." She cringes.
One of the snipers. He should feel something, relief or fear or anger or something, but there's nothing. Hollow, blank, like holding your ear to a seashell.
He's trying not to picture their faces in an attempt to illicit a reaction from himself, but his brain is pushing those images at him on purpose, each one worse than the next, a slideshow of every brutal act and atrocity he's ever seen superimposed over John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson.
Jim Moriarty's face as he pulled the trigger. The ground rushing up at him.
His stomach churns (greasy diner eggs and coffee thick as tar) and he swallows against it but he knows he's going to be sick; he makes it to the bin just in time. Molly lays a hand on his back and he pushes her away roughly. Her phone clatters to the ground, then vibrates with another incoming call.
Mycroft can go fuck himself.
He spits, wipes his mouth, staggers into the building without looking at Molly, heads for the mens room.
He washes his hands and face, rinses his mouth, rubs a wet paper towel over his neck and throat. The feeling from the first day returns and his muscles are too-tight and weak at the same time.
He should be in London, doing the job himself. It would be finished by now if he started two months ago.
He stares at the face in the mirror. Sherlock Holmes, you are a coward.
Sherlock Holmes is dead.
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Saturday 11 August 2012 (Day 55)
It's a new day, she tells her reflection in the mirror.
Sherlock is still sleeping, thank god he's sleeping, thirteen hours and counting. He made her press on to Devil's Lake after the bit outside the toilets. He wasn't content to meander the waterfront.
She panicked a bit when he climbed atop a rock formation (thirty feet high at least); she didn't have the skill to follow him up. She was relieved beyond measure to see more hikers (university age, three girls and two boys) making their way up the trail.
They spotted Sherlock ("Oh wow, you guys! There's some dude standing up there!") and watched in awe as he climbed down. He looked at one of the boys and said "Wouldn't try it," while gazing pointedly at his left ankle, then swanned off as though he hadn't almost made her have a heart attack.
Keeping up with him was difficult; her trainers were designed for aesthetics and walking on pavement rather than the rugged outdoors. He was well ahead of her when he reached the top of the trail; he doubled back and fairly dragged her the last hundred feet or so and steered her to the overlook, right up to the edge. He kept his hands on her shoulders while she took in the view.
It was amazing, of course; pale blue sky, green trees, a band of grey rocks, deep blue water. For a split second she thought it could be the most romantic moment of her life, even if it were fantasy.
Then she looked down the steep slope, more rocks and trees all the way to the bottom. One step, one push, one desperate grab--
God, that was a terrible thought, and she tenses at the memory of it.
Her body reacted unexpectedly to the fear, a sudden pang of desire hitting her low in the gut and racing to her fingertips and toes. Thankfully she was wearing her smooth-cup bra; her nipples could have cut glass. It was the adrenaline making her brain mistranslate the heat and the scent of him and the feeling of his huge hands cupping her bare, sunburned shoulders; that's all.
She shrugged him off and stepped past him, trying not to touch him. Her legs were shaking from more than exertion as she picked her way back down the trail, Sherlock ambling behind her. At least by the time they reached the bottom she could blame her unsteadiness on muscle fatigue and a touch of dehydration.
She was doing so well, keeping herself in check. She gave up hope long ago, but she's resigned herself to her feelings. How can she not? The more he lets her see, the more she loves him.
It's almost like a betrayal of his trust to still feel that way, sometimes. It's complicated; there are so many layers to her affection now, more than hero-worship and lust. Shades of anger and resentment and envy are tangled up with tenderness, sort of like the complex love she has for Jodi and Neil, but she cares more about Sherlock's comfort and happiness than theirs (she's a terrible sister).
It doesn't matter. As long as they can keep going, nothing matters. He'll find whatever he's looking for and she'll help him get himself sorted, and then... Well, whatever happens then. She's more concerned with the first bit.
It's just after ten, checkout is by eleven. She'll go to the office and secure the room for another night and find something for breakfast. One foot in front of the other. Right.
She opens the bathroom door and Sherlock's right-bloody-there, his eyes alert (completely at odds with the bed-head and red spot on his cheek from where it had been resting on his forearm) and clutching a bundle of his clothing in front of him.
Then again, he didn't get up since he collapsed on the bed after his shower and he drank the better part of a half-gallon of water right before that, so of course he's impatient.
She apologizes and scurries past. She'll pack their things and be ready to go by the time he's finished dressing. Or showering, which apparently he's doing again. She supposes she'd want to as well, if she slept that long.
*
Maybe he simply needed to sleep, she thinks. He smiled earlier, when she'd clambered up to sit on the Large Green Chair (good thing she decided not to wear her sundress today) then offered (offered!) to use her phone to take a photo for her family.
He was trying to be nice, and it was weird and not him, but he was more animated and not lost in his head, so she'd take that as a small victory.
They're both tired of pre-packaged snacks, diner fare, and sandwiches; they only have casual clothes, so fine dining is out of the question. They eat at a quirky little vegan café with dark purple walls and strange mosaics (beercaps, buttons, stones, doll parts, scraps of paper; all kinds of things) under thick, clear resin on the tabletops. A duo (both female, mid-twenties, pierced and dyed and dressed like 'fucking hipsters' [according to one of their friends]) play ukuleles and sing silly but melodic tunes while a small crowd cheers and laughs; it's fun to watch.
Sherlock is bored out of his mind by it. She asks him to tell her about the crowd to keep him engaged and in the moment. He points out who's sleeping with whom, which one is a barista and which one is a bike messenger and the three that work in offices but pretend that they don't, one who participates in Anonymous actions, two who eat dairy on the sly and another who doesn't hide that fact; the list goes on and on.
It feels good to have him back. She knows better than to get her hopes up that it will last.
They'll leave tomorrow, she can see it in the way his eyes glaze over as they walk back to their hotel. No matter; one foot in front of the other.
---------------
Day 57
There is a dream-like quality to everything as they stumble on through Minnesota. Molly is more interested in the forests and the farms and the low red-brick buildings of small-town Main Streets, the picturesque scenes that America tries to present itself as. The day before they left the motorway and took back roads, bought sandwiches in the morning and spent most of the time simply driving.
She's keeping a mental tally of how many cigarettes he smokes in an hour, a day, using them as a barometer for his mood. He could get patches, but they're not nearly as satisfying.
She left him in the hotel room to go shopping last night. On a whim, she decided she wanted to try camping. She'd been to Glastonbury twice with her sister when she was a teenager; she'd liked it then.
They pass tents already set up in the clearings between the trees; two families of seasoned outdoorspeople and a trio of students. Having fulfilled his obligation as pack mule, he leaves Molly to it and sets off down to the lake.
He follows trails aimlessly, winding nearer and farther from the water, over rocks and through trees. When he was young, six or so, he wanted to be an explorer (refined from wanting to be a pirate; same spirit of adventure, more scientific [he'd been devastated when he'd realized the kind of pirate he wanted to be hadn't existed for almost two hundred years {or at all, really, he'd bought into the romanticism of it until he'd learned about scurvy and lice}]). He wanted to be the first human in history to ever set eyes on something (anything); it had seemed possible when he was that young, before he intellectualized that people have been almost everywhere by now, places changed over time and civilizations ebbed and flowed.
He finds a dead tree toppled into the lake. He toes off his shoes and socks, rolls his jeans up to his knees, and walks along it. The wood is smooth and grey and sun-warm under his feet. He sits where it disappears into the water, lets his legs dangle. His toes scrape the algae-covered rocks of the lake bottom.
Nothing is ever new, time marches on, all that, and that moment of realization is always depressing (no matter how many times one is reminded of and struck by it). One life - famous, infamous, or mundane - means nothing in the grand scheme of things. If one person doesn't discover something, someone else will eventually. If society is ready for an idea, they'll let it advance; if not, it's lost to the ages (natural selection, more or less).
He thought he mattered. He had mattered, to the people important to him (and to the ones he helped, but that's all been undone now), and those people are important to other people, but in a hundred years, they'll all be names and bones and nothing more.
His mind is stagnating. There's enough new data to keep him from going under again, but it's qualitatively unimportant. It will take more time to delete all the meaningless trivia than it did to (unintentionally) learn it.
Before the work, he had the drugs. Before the drugs he was young and still trying to force himself into the spaces everyone else carved out for him. Now he's got 3.1 million square miles of a place that can never be home (3.9 if one counts Alaska, Hawaii, and all associated territories) and Molly Hooper.
It's only been a month, but it's starting to wear on her. What she once pretended was a long holiday with an open-ended return date has now become an exercise in filling time while worrying over the state of her companion's mental health. He's already dreading the moment (he won't see it, she still hides her most private thoughts so well [decades of practice]; he'll know by how it will ooze out of the cracks in her veneer) when she decides that this isn't enough, it's a chore and her sole burden to bear. She'll want to leave and he'll do everything to make her stay because the thought of being alone again is worse than anything.
It's more than that, though, and that's the most troubling thing. He looks forward to her often-silly (but sometimes eerily insightful) observations, and the way she can anticipate his needs. He's caught himself thinking of her on more than one occasion, cataloguing and categorizing the myriad ways she laughs and the slope of her nose in different lighting conditions. He feels a kind of soft fondness for her that makes him temper his responses, much like he'd done with Mrs. Hudson.
It's not a romantic interest. He doesn't have those, full stop. Irene Adler was an anomaly, his equal in will and cunning, and for a while he thought... He had loved her, which is painful to admit to himself, even now (dangerous disadvantage, losing side).
She was perfect, the archetype of everything he associated with the word 'woman' (aristocratic bearing, flawless and sharp beauty, impeccable taste; she made herself untouchable and that only made him want to put his dirty hands all over her), but she proved to exemplify the worst traits of a woman (cruel, manipulative, duplicitous) as well.
Knowing her profession was both exciting and terrifying. He hated to lose any kind of control in front of other people, and she would happily break him to pieces (less like shattering a mirror and more like cutting a diamond, skilled precision and intent, shaping him into something beautiful and just for her); what's more, he thinks he would have liked it. It wouldn't have been safe (or sane, or consensual), but the idea of finding new limits was always thrilling.
They couldn't have had any kind of lasting relationship. A series of encounters, like two jaguars crossing paths in the jungle to fight and mate--
Damn Molly Hooper and her stupid pop music (four nights previous, folding the laundry while he flipped through channels on telly, made him go back to the video ["The song references wolves, why are they in Sri Lanka? They don’t have any wolves there." "Indiana Jones." "Ah." {more pop culture, didn't really care to follow that line of enquiry further}]). Although it was amusing to watch her try to keep herself from dancing, as though he would be personally offended if she enjoyed herself.
He picks at a crack in the log, his thoughts derailed by that stupid song (and the ones after it, a medley of Madness and Simple Minds and god-only-knows what else [tuned it out when she composed herself {not as amusing}]); he digs at a splinter of grey wood with his thumbnail. His feet and legs are cold but he's sweating.
He's not ordinary (continuously trying to erase the newer connotation, as everything Moriarty), but he's beginning to see that it's not as black and white as he once thought. Ordinary people do extraordinary things all the time (strange and meaningless, usually, like making scale replicas of entire cities from matchsticks or winding a two-tonne ball of twine), build their identities around those things; in that, he is very much the same.
Parts of his sanity are stretching thin, he knows this. He longs for a thrill, a chase, danger. Calculated risks with a very slim margin of error.
There were train tracks behind the motel they stayed at two nights ago, after Devil's Lake. He thought about waiting for one and jumping aside just in time (too easy, not enough [cigarettes and coffee instead of cocaine], but something); Molly might have woken and would have noticed his absence and her sidelong glances would eat their way into him.
He hates the responsibility he feels for her now. John understood perfectly his need for danger, Mrs. Hudson clucked over it in a 'boys will be boys' sort of fashion, Lestrade envied it, Mycroft thought it juvenile; Molly is afraid of it. He doesn't like that, and the why of it bothers him.
He gave her a taste of the vertigo and the urge to fall (technically the second time; no railings or guards, though, only them), and she reacted with terror. Not outright, she was stronger than that, but he felt the pebbled flesh of her forearm when he brushed it with his and watched her try to stay upright on wobbly legs as she picked her way down the trail.
He can't do that again. He wants to, though. He wants her to crave it like he does; she understands so much of him but not that and a terrible part of him wants her to be as sick as he is.
Fresh sweat breaks out on his back, his throat, his scalp. He's not a monster, he's not Moriarty.
He digs his nails into the wood beneath his hands, forces himself to breathe. It's too hot and too bright and too still and too fucking quiet.
He empties his pockets (wallet, phone, keys, cigarettes, lighter) and puts everything in his shoes. He slides off the log and into the lake. It soaks the cuffs of his jeans, but he doesn't care. He turns, sucks in a breath, and falls backwards.
The cold water is a shock, even though he was expecting it. He twists to face downward, keeps himself under until his lungs burn, surfacing only when his base survival instinct takes over and forces him onto his back to gulp air. It's not enough, but it's something.
------------
Monday 13 August 2012 (Day 58)
Camping was a stupid idea, but she's running out of ideas.
Four hours yesterday, out wandering around, then he came back soaking wet, smiled an easy-fake (familiar) smile at the boys (Jason, Tyler, and Mike, all going into their senior year at the University of Minnesota, two for engineering, one for education) as he draped an arm around her shoulders like he was marking his bloody territory (Tyler had given her a beer, singular, and he might have stared at her chest a bit but he was ten years younger than her and not the least bit predatory and it was nice to be noticed), then didn't string more than two syllables together for the rest of the night.
She wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him, scream in his face that he has to- has to something. Snap out of it. 'Get his shit together,' in the native dialect.
He'd probably just stare at her.
God, she wants to cry. If she starts, she doesn't think she'll ever stop.
It's all stop-gap measures. He's going to find a way to kill himself and he won't know that that's what he's actually trying to do until... Well, he won't know, because he'll be dead, but she'll know.
He thinks he wants to feel alive, but that's not it. He's the clever one, why doesn't he see it?
She's been up most of the night, lying on top of her sleeping bag in the thick, muggy heat (made worse by the lack of ventilation and the combined warmth of their bodies). The inside of the tent reeks of nylon and 'new thing' smell, sour beer sweat, lingering traces of cigarettes, and the dead-vegetation scent of lake water. She needs fresh air.
The problem is that Sherlock's stretched out in front of the door and it would require a feat of gymnastics like something out of a spy film with a laser hallway to get past him without waking him. And she shouldn't wake him; he needs to sleep. He's a bit better when he's slept (or he fakes it better, at least).
Sod it, she thinks. He gets to run off and do whatever he feels like and make her bloody worry about him constantly and it's not fair that this is all on her and she deserves to be able to take ten minutes for herself to go watch a sunrise and splash in a lake.
She grabs her jeans and starts to slide off her sleep shorts, and of course it's when she's got her shoulders dug into the ground and her hips in the air with her t-shirt slipping down her stomach that he inhales sharply and rolls his head toward her.
"Molly?"
His voice is rough with sleep and he's so fucking gorgeous that she hates him.
"Go back to sleep." It comes out a bit sharper than she intended. She focuses her attention on getting changed, refusing to look at him.
So of course he props himself up on his elbows and bloody watches her wiggle into her jeans. She doesn't think for a second that he can't see every freckle and mole on her skin in the weak pre-dawn light. Fine. It's not like he cares about what he's looking at. It's like changing in front of her cat (in the six months she had a cat).
She sits up and crosses her legs under her, pushing up on her knees. She grabs the rest of her clothing, then strips off her t-shirt and puts on her bra (not the sexy way, clasping it first then threading her arms through the straps, but the real way, arms first and bending forward with a little waggle to get everything straight and snug before clasping it; quick and efficient); she tugs her top over her head and swings toward the door.
It's an awkward knee-shuffle past him to get out, but she doesn't bloody care what she looks like right now. He has the grace (or the sense) to pull his legs out of the way and keep his mouth shut.
Pine needles bite into her palms as she crawls out of the tent. She stands and brushes the debris off one foot before jamming it into her shoe (left outside because feet and rubber were two layers of scent they didn't need inside), then the other. She picks her way down the path to the lake.
She strides to the end of the dock and sits facing east. She dangles her legs over the side, but she can't even skim the surface of the water with her toes.
Her anger leaves her gradually as the sky goes from blue-pink to blue-yellow-orange. It's cooler over the water and she leans back, weight resting on her palms. She closes her eyes, tips her chin to the sky, and breathes; the ends of her hair drag and catch on the weathered boards of the dock.
God, she's an idiot. Flouncing off like that.
She hears footsteps crunching down the path and her pulse speeds up, thinking for a moment that it's Sherlock.
It's not (silly, stupid girl); it's Mike (she thinks; no, he was the shorter, stocky one, so- oh, who cares?).
"Mornin'," he greets quietly, nodding.
"Morning," she answers.
He kicks out of his flip-flops as he drapes his towel over one of the posts.
"You, uh, mind if I-" he gestures to the lake.
"Not at all," she smiles.
He takes a few steps back and gets a running start before cannon-balling into the water. He surfaces a few moments later and whips his wet hair out of his eyes, grinning like a schoolboy. Christ, he practically is a schoolboy.
She gives him two thumbs up and he laughs, then paddles over.
"Where are your mates?"
"Still sleeping. Lazy bastards. Where's your, uh... that guy?"
"Still sleeping, the lazy bastard," she parrots back with a little laugh.
He's not; he's probably slouched against a tree and sucking down his morning fag, brooding.
"So, you guys live here, or you just on vacation?"
"Bit of both, I suppose," she says vaguely.
"Cool," he says, then ducks back under the water.
They continue chatting (and she's once again the cultural ambassador to Great Britain, which she didn't mind at first but it's starting to get old; she reminds herself he's only a kid and answers his questions and he's really very polite about everything) until the other two come staggering down to the dock. She exchanges good-mornings and excuses herself, then heads back to the campsite.
She won't admit it, but she misses the anonymity of London. Here she's a stranger in a strange land, a curiosity. The only normal, constant thing she has is Sherlock, and that being considered 'normal' is patently absurd.
It's only temporary, only for as long as he needs. He's what's important.
He's leaned against a tree in front of their (now cleared) campsite, lit cigarette in one hand and bottle of water in the other. He shoves the water at her and stalks off toward the car park without a word.
Well, she got to see her sunrise and watch someone splash in the lake, so there's that.
One foot in front of the other.
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Part 3