Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XXXIV: Genius loci
A/N: Thank you all for your patience - but you'll notice today's chapter is much longer than usual. I'll have to work on that, I know. Just to let you know, I disabled anonymous comments on LJ because I was getting so many of those weird advertisements that have nothing to do with what you posted and every time I was awfully disappointed to read something about hair dryers and whatnot instead of a review. You can still leave a comment about this story without being registered on FFnet and AO3 :)
The sentence beginning with "We reach. We grasp. […]" is a quote from Arthur Conan Doyle's The Adventure of the Retired Colourman;they are Sherlock's words.
...
Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"
Genius loci: the protective spirit of a place.
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
Chapter XXXIV: Genius loci
Keep warm, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
Eyes on the prize and I can't capsize this time
'cause there's somebody else in my boat
Poisoned. They were poisoned.
You jump, startled by the clip of scissors. Your head snaps up. You see Mary cutting flower heads from a bouquet in a vase, and putting them to float on water. But something isn't right. The flowers aren't yellow. Red. A dream, then.
Suddenly you feel a pair of hands wrapping around your neck. It could have been to strangle you, and perhaps it is. You feel your heartbeats accelerating and close your eyes. Maybe you're scared. Or maybe you're already irreversibly aroused by the scent of those hands and the curls you now feel against the skin of you left ear and cheek.
The sound of a vase crashing down to the floor, shattered.
There is glass and water and shards tinged in red - flowers or blood, you can't be sure. And always the feel of his skin against yours. "Goodbye, John." Something is falling. A red apple from a tree.
And just like that you are awake, without even a gasp. Something fell, but you're not sure what. Repressing a sigh, you slip out of bed silently and escape to the living-room.
You've been terribly worried about Mary since someone left poisoned apples on your doorstep. Because they truly were poisoned.
"They can't possibly be poisoned, John. This must have been some kind of joke, you're taking the matter too seriously!" Mary had said before you got the results from Molly. You'd had the very bad idea to express some concern.
"Why would anyone leave red apples in a basket on our doorstep, then? Enlighten me."
You'd snapped. You shouldn't have. Mary had nothing to do with this after all.
"Oh, I see. Playing detective again, are we?"
"I'm really not. Look, Mary-"
"You only miss the thrill! You want danger in your life, I know. But there's nothing dangerous, nobody's trying to kill me, John, I'm not Sherlock!"
Her words had hit you right in the face. Maybe because there was some truth in it. Nonetheless, you know something isn't right. Something is going on. Something like when Sherlock was alive.
The argument with Mary ended just like that, and when you got the results from Molly, she made no comments. She seemed to be elsewhere. It was better if she didn't worry too much anyway. You worry enough for the two of you.
Since then, you never stopped thinking about it. It has become your obsession - together with Sherlock, of course. It might well be one and the same.
Used to live alone in a tomb I made my own
"There must be a connection between the victims but we can't find it," Lestrade told you when you asked about the Snow White Case. There hadn't been any victims for months now anyway. The police considered there would be no more murders. "Surely there must be a connection."
"Wrong."
"What?"
"Maybe there isn't."
"Maybe there isn't what?"
"A connection."
Lestrade had blinked.
"Then why?"
"Maybe this is a game."
"John... Sherlock is gone."
Why can't they just understand that something is wrong with these apples you received? This isn't about Sherlock. This is, in fact, about you. About Mary. What if you had arrived too late? What if she had bitten into one of these apples? Every time you think of it, it makes you terrified and furious all at once. You're worried. You're terribly worried that something will happen to her.
So you decided to take measures yourself.
But now I've gone and given up my coat
"Hello."
"Hel... Oh."
Shinwell jumped to his feet when he recognized you. He hadn't been too hard to find - asking the Baker Street Irregulars, whose name you still did not know, had turned out to be easier than you'd thought.
"Dr. Watson," he said uneasily. "What can I do for you?"
"How's Molly?"
"Good... She's good." He scratched his head.
"Let's have a drink?" you offered.
"But I'm dressed like-"
"It doesn't matter."
He nodded meekly, and so you went.
"I need to know," you said after a while as he was taking a sip of his beer, "if you've heard anything the police do not know about the Snow White case."
"The Snow White case? That's old, man." You glared. "Fine, fine! Don't look at me like that. I know you got a basket full of red apples in front of your door."
"How do you know that?"
"Molly."
"Oh. Right. Go on."
He shifted a bit on his seat. "I also know it was a young lad who left them there, but we couldn't catch him."
"You... what?"
"The bloke keeping one eye on 221B saw a young lad come out of a car with a basket, go in, and come back not a minute later. But he left with the car before we could do anything."
"Wait a minute. Our flat is under surveillance?"
Only then did Shinwell seem to realize what he'd just said. You sighed with exasperation.
"God, even when Sherlock is dead Big Brother can't help sticking his nose in people's business, can he?"
Shinwell remained quiet, obviously embarrassed.
"The car number. Did you get the car number?"
"Didn't lead anywhere. Stolen car."
"You witnessed it and yet Mycroft couldn't trace it?" That was puzzling. Shinwell just shrugged.
"We couldn't get anywhere. All I know is that people have been talking about a woman."
You arched an eyebrow. He looked you in the eye.
"It's just a rumour. But it seems that the 'Evil Queen' really is a woman. Then again, I can't be sure this woman is behind the Snow White murders, or if she orchestrated this whole thing with the basket of poisoned apples for you. I don't know. I'm sorry."
And it's cold outside but I'm just fine
In the end, you couldn't get anything else out of him. Irritated, you asked him to at least keep an eye on Mary; him, or any of the Irregulars. You want to be informed of anything suspicious that happens around her. And you want to know everything that's going on in the "underworld", too. Shinwell promised. But even now, you don't feel that it's safe for Mary anymore. You would never forgive yourself if anything were to happen to her.
You know she's been tired lately. But you've been trying to hide your concern so much, you've been so busy investigating this poisoned apples issue that you did not see this coming.
Could you have seen it coming, had you paid more attention? How?
As it is, you can just stare in shock, disbelieving and confused.
"Let's get a divorce."
You are mine to keep warm
"What?" you ask dumbly.
She smiles gently.
"Let's get a divorce, John."
You take one step back, still not letting go of her, but now finding the closeness too oppressive. "Why?"
She slips out of your arms with a sigh to get a glass of water. She drinks it as if it were a Bloody Mary; as if she needed to get drunk.
"Mary, why are you saying this all of a sudden?"
"It's not sudden. I've been thinking about it for a while."
You just stand there looking at her, stunned.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
It renders you speechless. Could you have been more clueless? Your eyes stop on the bags under hers. You shouldn't have believed her when she said all was fine. Of course it hadn't been fine.
"Stop right there," she interrupts. You shiver. Only Sherlock is supposed to be able to read your mind so easily. Why do they have to be so similar in some respects?
...and so different in others? Your head starts to throb.
"I don't understand," you say.
She smiles tenderly. Lovingly. Why?
"I didn't lie to you. I was happy. Actually, I am happy."
"Then why-"
"I love living with you. It's comfortable, it's... No, it's more than that. It feels like home."
You decide not to interrupt her anymore, because you still don't understand. Your gaze keeps asking. Why? She doesn't seem to notice. She's not looking at you.
"You know how I told you people love each person differently?"
Oh yes, you know. "This is about Sherlock." So much about not interrupting.
Mary smiles again.
"With you, isn't it always?"
You bite your lip. She's right, and you know it. You thought you were getting better, and that it necessarily implied that you could have a normal, healthy relationship with a woman. Before trying to off yourself with pills, you would never have considered having a girlfriend, not to mention a wife. But with Mary, everything seemed so natural... You'd forgotten you were already taken. Admittedly, she knew. She'd known from day one. But shouldn't you have changed your lifestyle for her, then? More than you did? Shouldn't you have tried to let go of Sherlock a bit more?
Just the idea of it stifles you. Your throat tightens and already you feel the pain you've come to know these past few months stir within you. It is no longer crushing, except at night when a bad dream rips your chest apart; but it is there, ever-present, like some natural appendage to your heart that will only stop with it. And as cheesy as the image may sound, this is physically what it feels like: something beating in your chest, sending frenzied signals of fear and agony at the mere thought of losing Sherlock again.
"Mary, I-"
"I'm pregnant."
This time words completely fail you. Pregnant? Did she say pregnant? You let yourself fall into a chair. This is too much all at once. Maybe you deserve it, but still it doesn't make sense. A divorce, and now a child? What in the world... Oh.
"So... does he know?"
Mary blinks. She is pacing the room nervously and you can tell she craves a cigarette. Now you understand why she stopped smoking.
"Who?"
"The father."
She stops dead in her track and looks at you, astonished. She seems about to cry, so you add quickly:
"It's fine! If you're telling me, there must be a problem, right? If you want to get a divorce because you don't love me anymore, fine. But if it's just because you got pregnant and the other person isn't ready to face this or something, I... What I'm trying to say is that... Well, it doesn't matter. Whose it is. I'm happy with you. I don't mind if-"
"What the... YOU are the father, John!" she explodes. Then her voice breaks. "Who else?!"
Oh. Great. Now she's furious. And you are even more confused.
"But then... why?" you fumble.
She gives you a heated look and you have no idea what to do.
"You thought I had cheated on you?" she asks rhetorically. "Well, I didn't. I can't. That's the problem!"
"That's the problem?" you echo, getting more lost by the second. She frowns and you can't help thinking she looks adorable.
"I don't want our child to be raised in this."
"You mean the flat?"
"No! This!" She waves her hand about, as if it made it any clearer.
You blink.
"Us!" she exclaims.
"Us?"
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, John. Us. You, in love with a dead guy."
"Mary-"
"Me, attracted to women."
You blink. She turns to you with her weird, wonderful smile.
"I love you, John. And I was ready to live my life with you, like this. But with a kid..."
"What does it change?" you ask softly, wrapping your arms around her. She smiles crookedly.
"I'm falling in love with you, John."
You furrow your brow. "I thought that had already happened."
She shakes her head. "Please, John. Don't play stupid with me. You know what I mean."
She doesn't escape your arms but leans into the hug and plays with your ear absent-mindedly. "I never thought I could help you get better or anything like that. But I still thought... I don't know, that me being around might help." She pulls at your ear as if annoyed by its lack of response. "But it doesn't. You don't need me."
"Mary, I-"
"Shh. It's okay. I fell in love with a man in love with another guy. You're not to blame here. And again, I am happy. It's just... I'm jealous."
You swallow painfully and close your eyes in defeat. "I'm sorry."
"Of you."
"...What?"
"I'm jealous of you."
"Of me. You're jealous of me."
She nods, unfazed by your bewilderment. "You're so complete. Sherlock's dead, and yet you... I respect you so much. I admire you so much."
Oh, Mary. You really don't deserve this woman, do you? For once, you feel like she's the adult here and you are reduced to a small, small child to whom she is patiently explaining the depths of life and of feelings. You bring up her chin and kiss her on the lips gently. She bites you.
"I'm trying to have a serious conversation here!" she protests. But she's smiling. Even chuckling, now. God, you love her.
But how?
"So, here's the thing," she goes on. "I'm happy now. But I'll probably grow jealous of your completeness. And I won't be satisfied. I've been hit on lately, but I could only turn them down. It was frustrating."
You frown. She smirks. "You jealous?"
"No, I-"
"I knew it. Do you realize what your reaction was when you thought I had cheated on you? You weren't even angry. You were worried. Worried that I wouldn't be happy; worried that you'd done something wrong. You weren't even jealous. If that kid hadn't been yours, and if the father had left me, you would have been glad to keep me and adopt the baby, right?"
"Yes, of course, I-"
"See?" She shakes her head. "Irretrievable." Her tone is teasing. "I'm too young to have this kind of relationship with my husband, John. If we were in our seventies, maybe. Actually, it'd be perfect then. I would love to grow old with you."
You look at her strangely. This is something you wished you had told Sherlock before he died. Perhaps it wouldn't have changed a thing, because now you understand that surely Sherlock had a very good reason to jump that day, a reason that had nothing to do with the rubbish he told you on the phone. The moment you think about his call, his words start falling on you again. John. Turn around and walk back the way you came now. You stop the voice before it gets to the part you hate the most. The lies.
"You're thinking you would've loved to grow old with Sherlock, aren't you?"
Mary's voice snaps you out of your reminiscence and hits you like a bucket of cold water. How horrible can you be? Her tone is sad, gentle. You lack the strength to lie to her. Maybe you respect her too much for that. I'm a fake. The newspapers were right all along. The pain grows in your chest.
"Listen, Mary. I know that you must feel like I can't give you much. And it is probably true."
"It's fine, John. You never hid it. You were always fair to me."
You nod, and next to the pain in your chest and the unwavering sense of loss and attachment continues to spring another kind of warmth and affection.
"Then you must believe me when I tell you this too: there is much that I cannot give you, but all that is left can be yours. It doesn't matter if you live with another man, or woman. It doesn't matter what life you lead. I want you to remember this. Remember that I will always be there for you, and..." You sigh. "I'm not good at this, am I?" She chuckles. A soft smile spreads across your face and you go on, your voice assured: "Mary. Even if you are no longer my wife, and even if you marry someone else... I love you with all the love I can give you."
"I know, John, I unders-"
"I want you to be part of my life."
Her smile is warm; her hug, artless. She does not thank you, and murmurs instead: "You're so selfish, John."
As you stroke her hair, you find that there's nothing to answer to that. She is right. You stay like this for a while, feeling that maybe you've been through enough despair and craving to be an adult too in the field of sentiments, like the incredible woman you are holding.
"What do you want to do exactly?" you ask softly as you loosen the embrace.
"Well, I want us to raise the kid together. That's for sure. But maybe not live together. I don't want to feel like I'm cheating on you if I start seeing someone else."
"So you want your own flat. I understand."
She smiles and you wonder if there isn't a tinge of sadness there, still.
"Look," you begin tentatively. "Why don't we talk about it again when the child is born? You know we can't get a divorce now anyway. It's got to be two years at least."
"Ha ha, right!"
"I'm not letting you leave until you deliver."
"You're not being the midwife."
"Of course not! I'm not an obstetrician. Even if I were, I wouldn't want to do this... I'd probably faint."
"No you wouldn't."
You mirror her smirk. "Maybe not."
Your gazes lock and you start giggling like idiots.
"You'd better help me out a lot during the first few years. Babies are a hassle," she groans as she lets you hug her again. You play with her locks - ashes and amber - as you both end up snuggling on the couch.
"Mary?"
"Mm?"
She nuzzles up closer and you can feel her smile against the crook of your neck.
"For me, too... This feels like home."
Down down down I go
On a road that I don't know
And I ain't got a thing in my bag
"It's great to have you both for tea," Mrs. Hudson says cheerfully. You never came here to have tea together with Sherlock.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Mary replies with a smile. It sure has.
"Well, you come to have cake here every day, dear." Definitely something Sherlock wouldn't do.
"Are you saying I'm eating too much?" He never ate enough.
Mrs. Hudson serves the tea in prudent silence. Mary frowns. "John, am I eating too much?"
"Mm? What, no, of course not, dear."
"He just called you dear. Things are going well, aren't they?"
"No, he just isn't listening."
"I am!" you protest.
"He isn't?" Mrs. Hudson asks, blatantly ignoring you.
"Thinking about Sherlock," Mary comments with a grumble.
"Now I remember why I don't usually come for tea. You two together are just terrible."
Mary sticks her tongue at you before biting into a muffin. Sherlock would have been dreadfully bored leading the kind of life you lead right now. You actually enjoy it. Just this, being with Mary and Mrs. Hudson.
And...
"Mrs. Hudson, there's something we wanted to-"
"Do you think Mrs. Turner will rent her flat again?" Mary cuts in.
"Excuse me?"
You're as startled as your landlady. What in the world...?
"Well, I'm not sure. You know she is very affected - she loved the boys so much and..."
Mrs. Hudson trails off, fleetingly averting her gaze. Mary doesn't notice. You do, because you are always on that wavelength anyway. Whenever someone thinks about Sherlock - no, whenever the thought of Sherlock crosses somebody's mind - you know it. You're suddenly connected. Someone falling silent, or looking away, or just pausing in a sentence. Sometimes, there isn't even the slightest sign. But you know. You're like a radio catching the waves. "Sherlock" must be a certain wavelength that you automatically catch whenever it is emitted near you. Idly, you wonder if you would notice it while talking to someone on the phone. Probably. You noticed it in Molly's emails after all.
"But why do you ask?"
Mrs. Hudson's voice snaps you back to the present. By reflex, you look up at the clock. The hand showing the minutes hasn't moved. Your gaze drifts towards Mrs. Hudson again. You've given up trying to understand how it works. Time.
"Oh, you know, just in case. I like their flat," Mary replies off-handedly.
"What do you mean, dear?" Mrs. Hudson insists. Then suddenly appalled: "Are you planning on moving out?" she asks the both of you.
"No!" you exclaim.
"Yep!" Mary asserts.
Of course you and her answered simultaneously.
"Well, it's just..." you begin.
"Eventually though. Not now," she finishes.
"She means her. Not me."
Mrs. Hudson frowns as she puts down the tea pot.
"You have lost me, dears."
"Sorry."
"Sorry."
You exchange an amused glance with Mary.
"Please, go ahead," you offer as she says "You can tell her."
"Oh, kids! John, you speak."
"What? But... Fine. Mary is pregnant."
"What? John, that's not what she was asking!" Mary protests. She pouts. "I wanted to tell her about the baby."
"This is wonderful!" Mrs. Hudson exclaims. She sounds sincerely happy. She is. You love her for it.
Would Sherlock have been happy? Idiot. Why would he have been happy? You don't know. Happy about what? Having a kid? Seeing you with a kid? Don't be stupid.
"Since when have you known?"
"Yesterday," you reply.
"For a while," Mary says. "What we wanted to tell you, though, is that we plan on getting a divorce."
Mrs. Hudson almost drops her cup of tea. "You what?"
"Well, you see..."
Mary explains. You think she's very good at explaining things. Sherlock was too, of course. In a different way. You smile. A very different way. What they're talking about on television right now, for instance.
"The body of a young drug dealer was found this morning in the Thames. The police..."
Yes, that would have been right up his street.
"See? It would be unhealthy! I wouldn't want our child ending up like this one!"
"Oh dear, what are you saying?"
"He mustn't have had great parents, dying so young."
"Drug dealing has become such a problem nowadays, and young people are unfortunately getting involved."
"See?"
"How in the world is that relevant to anything?" you ask, laughing.
"Oh, shut up. You go back to daydreaming about Sherlock and let me do the talking, darling. Won't you?"
It is in those moments, when her voice is so sweet and her words so sharp, that you feel like kissing her.
Often, it is in such moments that she pronounces it. Sherlock's name.
Some things you cannot plan
Like your hand in mine
Just put your hand in mine
"I like the white one," Mary declares, pointing to the catalogue. You look up from the brochure you've been flipping through.
"Sure. It's nice."
She pouts.
"You don't really care, do you." It isn't even a rhetorical question. It's a statement.
"What? No, I do! I just think the white one is nice."
"Yes. Just like the cherry one, the coco one, the -"
"Well, I'm sorry I don't have any preference as to the crib we buy!"
Mary closes the catalogue sharply. Your breath catches in your throat as you meet her eyes.
"We don't even know whether it's a girl or a boy," you argue meekly.
"It's a boy."
You stare. Her tone is serious. It is most of the time, which is the reason she is not only funny, but comical too.
"Why?"
"Because I want one."
You burst out laughing and leave your armchair to join her on the couch, wrapping your arm around her shoulder and kissing her on the cheekbone.
"Let's talk about names then, if you don't care about the colour of the bed."
"Mary..."
"We're not calling him Sherlock."
"I wouldn't want to!" you protest. "That'd be awful. Not to mention unhealthy."
"You mean it'd be terrible for the kid. I mean, Sherlock? I wonder what his mother was thinking when she... Sorry."
"No problem, darling." It's not the name I fell in love with.
"Darling?"
"Sorry."
"Any name you like?"
"Mmh... The boy version of your middle-name?"
"John!"
"What? It's not that I don't care, it's just that I have no idea! What do you like?"
"I like Lucas. Or Blake."
"Blake? That's kind of... old-fashioned?"
"Because Sherlock isn't?"
"But I never said anything about Sherlock!"
"JOHN!" You and Mary jump at the roar coming from the staircase. You just have time to exchange a look before the door to the living-room is slammed open. Harry. Soon followed by Chris. "John, how dare you-"
She freezes upon seeing Mary in your arms, the baby furniture catalogue still on her knees.
"What's going on here?"
"What's going on? Harry, what are you doing here?!"
"Well, I heard that..." She glances at Chris nervously; Chris gives you a sheepish smile.
"I told you you should have talked to her yourself, John," she reminds you, her smile only faintly apologetic. Her eyes are twinkling at the scene. But Harry seems completely lost.
"Chris told me you were getting a divorce."
"Sorry, I couldn't stop her coming," Chris adds. "You know how she is."
"That's... fine," Mary answers, tilting her head tentatively. "We are getting a divorce. Well, eventually. It's got to be two years since the wedding to-"
"But why?" Harry interrupts, apparently not bothered in the least by the rudeness of her behaviour. "And you!" she goes on, her glare accusing, "how can you divorce the woman who bears your child?"
"Harry!" Chris exclaims.
"Can I not divorce your brother just because I got pregnant with his child?"
Mary's simple question seems to calm everyone down. All fall silent. Unwittingly, you take May's hand in yours. She presses it back. Harry averts her gaze awkwardly.
"What do you think of Blake?" Mary asks.
"Blake? What's that?"
"Baby name," Chris whispers.
"Oh. Uh... bit old-fashioned?" Harry answers truthfully, still oblivious as to good manners.
"But so was Sherlock," Chris comments.
"God, who said anything about Sherlock?!" you snap. "I am not naming my child Sherlock!"
"That would be a little twisted, I suppose," Chris admits somewhat awkwardly. You realize she must be remembering the dreams you'd told her about and blush like an idiot. It gets worse when you catch Mary's smirk.
"Mum and dad would have been happy that at least one of us gave them a grandchild," Harry muses, as if talking to herself. You look up in surprise.
"Well... Maybe we should go, now," Chris says in a quiet voice, gently pulling Harry towards the door. "Mary? Blake is nice. It means fair-haired, doesn't it?"
"Fair-haired? Isn't that a stupid name? What if his hair is not-"
"Come on Harry, let's go. Call us, you two. Let's have dinner some time when you've figured out baby names." Chris winks, and with these words, both are gone.
You wait until you hear the front door close; you wait until Mrs. Hudson dares knock on the door with hesitation, asking if everything is all right, she's sorry dear, but it was Harry, and Christiane was there too, so she thought it might be just fine to let them in, and suddenly Harry was so lively, but oh she's glad everything is all right, and Mary dear you look quite pale you should rest a bit, John take good care of her won't you? She's having tea with Mrs. Turner today and she'll ask her about the flat. Mary walks her to the door. Yes. Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson. Let us know about the flat. Nothing urgent, though. No, not before a year at least. Yes. Thank you.
Blake means fair-haired?
"Yes," Mary answers evenly. "Problem?"
"Did I just say that out loud?"
"Uhm… Yes, John. You just did."
You sigh.
"It's a coincidence," she says as she goes to the kitchen and puts your tea cups in the sink. "I really do like that name. Always have. My dream was to become a governess, remember? I was always old-fashioned."
"You're not old-fashioned to me," you murmur, hugging her from behind. "You know, about the child... We should definitely tell your parents, this time."
She stops washing the cups at once.
"Oh, you mean like: 'Hey mum, hey dad, actually the person I married was a man, now I'm pregnant and we're getting a divorce - but we're the best of friends and I'm moving in next door so we can be close and especially when the brat is a baby because alone that would be a hassle - I mean, even more of a hassle'. You're right, love. I'm sure they would be o-ver-joyed..."
"Right. Sorry. But we don't need to tell them about the divorce just ye-"
"John." She turns to look you in the eye. "Close your eyes." Although slightly bewildered, you comply. You've got used to her quirkiness after all. And you love it. You think Sherlock wouldn't have hated it either, although you cannot be sure. "Who do you see?" Your eyes snap open and widen. Your voice gets stuck in your throat. You cannot find the gut to answer her. She knows.
"We are getting a divorce," she murmurs. And her smile is adding soundlessly: Q.E.D.
And it's cold outside but I'm just fine
You are mine to keep warm
Yeah it's cold outside but I'm just fine
You are mine to keep warm
"You are what?"
"Pregnant. And getting a divorce."
"Mary, what the-"
"I didn't order a Bloody Mary, Jerry."
"That's even more disturbing!"
.
"What did you say?"
"Mary is pregnant. And she wants to get a divorce."
Lestrade's jaw almost drops. You take a sip of your beer.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Then why?"
"Maybe that's why."
.
"How can he have accepted so easily?" Jerry growls.
"He's smart. He knows it's for the best. And he loves me."
"Then what's the problem? Don't you love him?"
"I do. That's the problem."
.
"So... This is about Sherlock, in the end."
"I'm not sure. Well, yes, probably. Just not the way I'd expected."
"Had you expected it?"
"...No. I guess I took it for granted."
"It?"
"But hasn't your life changed drastically as well? Since his death, I mean."
"Of course," Lestrade replies. "I lost my job. I was transferred out of London. Many things changed. But John: I'm not in love with Sherlock."
To this you can only answer with a weak smile.
.
"So what are you going to do?"
"Buy the white one, I think."
"White is rather dull! What about the cherry one?"
"You think so?"
"Yes, it's warmer, and it would be good for a boy or for a girl."
"But it's going to be a boy."
"Right. Well, cherry is nice anyway."
.
"Probably Blake. Mary loves the name."
"Blake?"
"It means fair-haired."
"..."
"'Sherlock' meant fair-haired, too."
Greg bursts out laughing.
"How unfitting! He never told me."
You smile. "He probably never knew."
.
"I'm so glad I can discuss such things with you, Jerry. John is not interested at all!"
"Isn't that good, though? You'll get to choose the name."
"I would've liked him to like it..."
"Oh, I'm sure he does."
"Because of the meaning?"
"Because it is the name you have always wished to give to your child."
Mary smiles unconvincingly.
.
"There are so many things he never told me."
"Same here. And I was his flatmate."
"Yeah... You know, John, even if you hate Mycroft, you should probably go and talk to him."
The sudden change of tone puzzles you.
"Why?"
"He misses him, too."
You snort.
"And he forgave me," Lestrade adds quietly.
"What was there for him to forgive you?"
You meet Lestrade's eyes, and the crushing emptiness there almost engulfs you.
"You should talk to him," he repeats.
You waver a moment, then put your hand on his shoulder, gingerly; wordlessly.
Sables and wine till the end of time, you give me much more than that
Diamond rings and beautiful things
Oh you give me much more than that
When you smile
In the end, it is because of the notebook that you go to see Mycroft. Sherlock's notebook. The one from his school days.
It's cryptic.
And that's an understatement. It's not a journal. Thinking of it now, you wonder how you could have ever believed that Sherlock, of all people, had written a diary. It looks like any notebook for school, and there's even written (or rather, scribbled) Mathematics on the cover.
On the first page too, with a date: 1985-1986.
On the second page, there are equations; you've forgotten all about it now, but you doubt this is Key Stage Three level.
And then, chaos.
There are some equations still, and notations that must have something to do with chemistry, for you recognize some signs from the periodic table.
On some pages, carefully written, a name, an article, a book:
Marsh J. (1836). "Account of a method of separating small quantities of arsenic from substances with which it may be mixed". Edinburgh New Philosophical Journal 21: 229-236.
McMuigan, Hugh (1921). An Introduction to Chemical Pharmacology
Then, almost unreadable, what you construe are notes about said book or article. Maybe. Or thoughts. They are almost taken in shorthand style, and even when you recognize some words, you cannot make sense of it.
On other pages, just a sentence.
Phenomenology is not science. Experimentum crucis.
.
Remember Keith Simpson.
.
Delete Hume. Whewell more useful. Not to mention Darwin.
Even if you look up all these people, how are you supposed to make sense of this? Obviously, Sherlock had never written in the idea that someone, other than him, would ever read him.
Sometimes it is slightly more elaborate, but no less cryptic:
75628 28591 62916 48164 91748 58464 74748 28483 81638 18174
74826 26475 83828 49175 74658 37575 75936 36565 81638 17585
75756 46282 92857 46382 75748 38165 81848 56485 64858 56382
72628 36281 81728 16463 75828 16483 63828 58163 63630 47481
91918 46385 84656 48565 62946 26285 91859 17491 72756 46575
71658 36264 74818 28462 82649 18193 65626 48484 91838 57491
81657 27483 83858 28364 62726 26562 83759 27263 82827 27283
82858 47582 81837 28462 82837 58164 75748 58162 92000
Moral: don't forget.
Beale's. Don't lose the book. Take a book many would have but none would think of (Magna Carta or Bible would be stupid). And stupid is dull.
Polyalphabetic substitution. Try tabula recta with ideograms instead of letters. Could be fun.
When reading such pages, you end up despairing. Even using Google doesn't tell you what his train of thought had been then. Doing some research helps, of course - understanding that Sherlock was talking about ciphers there, induction, famous cases in criminology... Goethe. Wittgenstein. It's eclectic. It makes no sense as whole. Personal notes, written by Sherlock for Sherlock, and for nobody else.
And yet sometimes, a few familiar words. A quote, for instance.
"You have beguiled me with a counterfeit
Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried,
Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;"
"'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won."
Did he like Shakespeare? Why these particular quotes?
...and why did it have to be King John?
And then there are some recurring patterns. In the top right corner of many pages is, often, scrawled something that looks like a title, sometimes with annotations.
GZur Farbenlehre
LWRemarks on Colour
JPFThe Complete System of Police Medicine
JBA manual of the operations of surgery - historical, but is in the Library
CWLegal medicine
CWCause of Death
SSMostly Murder
FCPractical Forensic Medicine
WDer Ring des Nibelungen
AKOn the Use of the Indian Numerals - not of solely historical interest
Thanks to the books that have something to do with your profession, you understand that the capital letters at the beginning of each are in fact initials. Works that Sherlock was reading at the time? That he planned on reading? But the annotations indicated that he had, most likely, already read them. Recommended books, perhaps? You smile. As if. Who would have recommended such things to a twelve year old? And who would Sherlock have listened to anyway?
You have no idea. In fact, this notebook tells you nothing. Yet Sherlock seemed to have been saying many things in it, as is sometimes made clear by unexpected comments among incomprehensible scribble:
Plaintext Key = Ciphertext
Ciphertext Key = Plaintext
Ciphertext1 Ciphertext2 = Plaintext1 Plaintext2
(Plaintext1 Plaintext2) Plaintext1 = Plaintext2
Plaintext1 Ciphertext1 = Key
MS 408 - mere drawings. All idiots, could as well be Enochian - and why not? The language of angels... Idiots. The only angel in the matter would be Serafini.
Surely Sherlock seemed quite excited and irritated here. Or bored, perhaps. In any case, in these words something like an emotion transpired. Feelings. There were, surprisingly, feelings in the notebook. And humour, too, as you realized when you googled the few Latin inscriptions written in bold on key pages: the third one (Hoc affer tecum:"take it"), followed by the fourth (Cave canem:"beware of dog"); and then, the very last: Nulla imago habeo: "I have no idea."
Well. You didn't either. Except that maybe, you muse, Sherlock had considered the possibility that someone would read this notebook after all, and had made sure to prepare everything to ridicule said person.
You flip through the pages. There is another recurring pattern - or something you believe to be some kind of recurring pattern, although you can't be sure. You only think so because it is always placed at the bottom of the page on which it is written, centred.
ETAOIN SHRDLU
.
QRGYWUZ RWF SYI SP EBEWZ
UDGXZKE DZM HXT HP WYWZE
QTWPUNY TUO XPS XF ZVZUY
.
VRLKXYCRXNJKNTWBMBXM
.
ZI PP BB GI BM NP RG AY QY BN
.
And so on. Finally, on the last page where such a pattern is written, emphasized in red ink:
IFANVDPFMQHPAHLEKGKA
...
TI AI UO YI UZ RI BI CN ER MU
These inscriptions remain a mystery. In fact, most of the notebook remains a mystery. And yet sometimes...
Sometimes, a few terrible words. Words you wish were in quotation marks.
We reach. We grasp. And what is life in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow - misery.
In the end, only Mycroft remains. He was the one in possession of the notebook after all. Maybe he has the key. Not to the pages that remain cryptic even after having done some research. No, the key to the notebook as a whole. The key to Sherlock.
Of course it isn't only that. There's Mary too. The apples. Questions that Greg cannot answer, but to which Mycroft, the British government, may well have the answers.
As you silently wait in the hall of the Diogenes Club, you wonder whether this was a good idea after all. You wait, and you feel the profound, feral loathing slowly rising within you.
"Dr. Watson?"
Your eyes snap up. You never heard that voice. Mycroft had the sense to send someone to greet you and lead you to him, rather than come himself. You take a deep breath and follow the man who introduced himself as "Wiggins".
When you enter the room the first thing that hits you is the smell. The same as the one that filled the place on the day before Sherlock died. You close your eyes briefly, trying to collect yourself. You think of Lestrade's eyes, and their emptiness. You think of Mary, apples; her obliviousness. You think of Sherlock. And then you walk in.
At first neither of you utters a word. The tension is palpable, and you feel the urgent need to crush it.
"Hello, John."
Of course, he beat you to it.
"Hello."
You still can't find it in you to utter his name.
"Please have a sit."
You carefully avoid the couch and take a chair instead.
"I have questions."
"I guessed as much."
"You guess?" you ask before you can stop yourself.
Mycroft smiles thinly. He has lost weight.
"I guess, yes."
"Sherlock never guessed."
"He said he never guessed."
You nod a little stiffly. You did not come here to play games.
"Right," you say, "and we both know you are smarter so you at least recognize it, naturally. Now can we move on to the questions?"
"How are you?"
His words catch you off guard and you just stare, speechless. When you realize you're gaping, you cough a little and look away.
"I'm good. Thank you. You?"
The triviality of the exchange fails to dispel the sense of unease. Because your eyes are fixed on the door, you miss whatever expression Mycroft has upon hearing your answer, and are relieved when he simply replies:
"Good. Thank you."
Silence threatens to settle in again and you have to muster all your courage to break it. This room is sickening you.
"I read the notebook."
"Anything interesting?"
"You tell me."
You look at him again and see that he has been watching you the whole time. A sudden fury flares up in your guts. You very much feel like throwing it all in his face: surely he must see it. Go ahead, read. Read me, Mycroft. Observe. See. Did you suffer nearly as much? You wish he could read it all. The first week. The shopping to find a wig that would fit and the disembodied puppet. The smiley face above the toilet. The wine. The pills.
Well. He is well aware of that part already, isn't he?
You hold up his gaze, but he does not look away. He does not fight it, either. His face expresses nothing. Not even indifference. It's blank. Unreadable, but absolutely so, as if there was nothing, never would be anything, to be read on that face. It pains you. In his eyes, stable, something like a glimmer, that may be sending some message. Or none. Maybe it's just a glint; the reflection of an exterior light on cold iron.
"Where did you find it?"
He smiles.
"In his school stuff."
"You looked through his school stuff?"
"I think I just stated that quite clearly."
You groan. Does he have to start being insufferable so soon? He seems to sense your annoyance and continues evenly:
"Interesting you should mention Sherlock's notebook first, of all things," he muses. "I can see your priorities-"
"You know nothing of my priorities, Mycroft." Suddenly you feel very tired. "Forget the notebook, then. What about the apples?"
"You want to hear about the notebook."
"Is there anything you can tell me about it?"
"If you want the key to Sherlock, then no."
In this very instant, you hate him like you never have. Good thing you left the gun at the flat.
"So it really is just scribble? Personal notes he took, as reminders?"
"Or keepsakes."
"Keepsakes? Sherlock?"
"You know his mind, John. You know he only forgot what he chose to forget."
"Then what?"
"An enigma."
"For whom?"
"Everyone. Himself included. 'Nulla imago habeo.' I am sure he meant it."
"But what did he have no idea about? What is the enigma about?"
Mycroft averts his gaze thoughtfully, looking out the window. "Himself, probably."
"I thought the Latin quotes were just him being cheeky."
"Yes, that's right."
"But then why is it an enigma?"
The elder Holmes smiles indulgently.
"What was he being cheeky about, John?"
"Well, it said 'take it', but then 'beware of the dog', so it was like saying 'at your own risks', right? As if the notebook could actually bite. But then at the end it said 'I have no idea' and..."
Oh.
"Yes. Can you imagine? A notebook carefully hidden - never actually hidden or put away, always lying around with so many worthless other notebooks and textbooks, the front page a cardboard paper trompe-l'oeil. The only thing that might have revealed something about Sherlock's mind, his reflective thoughts. His consciousness. He tried. He played the game, though not by the rules. So we too look for him, throughout all those pages, asking 'Who are you?' And in the end, his own answer: Nulla imago habeo."
A shiver runs down your spine.
"So he knew it would be read?"
"He guessed."
You swallow with some difficulty as Mycroft starts pacing the room.
"This was his only attempt at writing anything personal. After the answer he had brought to the problem, or perhaps the problems, evoked in this notebook, he seems to have brushed them off and focused solely on scientific experiments. This notebook isn't a cipher, John. It is a question mark. There is no key, because there is no keyhole."
"What about the ciphers inside it, then?"
"He did research ciphers. He found them fascinating."
"Are the inscriptions at the bottom of the pages ciphers?"
Mycroft's smile becomes a little forced.
"Indeed."
"Did you decipher them?
"I did."
"Well?"
"It would be of no interest to you."
"Mycroft."
He sighs, perhaps a little too dramatically.
"It says: 'Mycroft, you are an idiot.'"
Your eyes widen.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"You're serious? That's what it says? All of them?"
"No. The first one is a nonsense phrase. It is as if Sherlock was announcing: 'NONSENSE'. After that, yes, all of them are the same, but always with a different encrypting method. And the last two..."
"The ones in red ink?"
"The ones in red ink. They are special."
"I had gathered. Because?"
"The encrypting method is different. For the first line, he used the Vigenère square. Then, with much humour, what we call the Playfair cipher."
"How are these methods different from the others?"
"They encrypt using a keyword. The keyword can be anything, but in this case, it was meant to be part of the message. Cocking a final snook, I suppose."
"What are the keywords?"
This time, his smile is as cryptic as many pages of the notebook, and you know he will not answer.
"I am sure you will keep reading the notebook again and again, John. Perhaps you will find something that I did not," he says, his tone clearly telling the contrary. "Have you not come to ask about the apples?"
You repress a sigh and give it up. This is Mycroft, after all. You won't make him tell you what he does not want to tell. "What do you know?"
"Not much."
You cannot help suppressing a doubtful snort. He sends you a look. You tilt your head innocently.
"The one who put the apples in front of your door was a young drug dealer. His body was just found in the Thames. Obviously he was just paid to do it, then killed to leave no trace."
Now you are genuinely surprised.
"You mean they actually did manage to leave no trace? Even for you?"
"I am flattered, John, but I'm afraid I cannot tell you much more than Shinwell Johnson."
You fall silent. "So you really know nothing?"
"Only one person is behind all the murders, but he or she never performed them himself or herself. It is even unlikely that this one person was the one who then killed off most of the murderers, if not all."
"So someone is just orchestrating it all from the dark?"
"It is not excluded that he or she committed some of the murders."
You get a sinking feeling. "But why?"
"Why, indeed."
"It feels like it's a game. It feels
like..."
"Jim Moriarty is dead, John."
"I know! I know. Still... Why would anyone do that?"
To this, Mycroft does not seem to have the answer.
"Why Mary?" you ask more quietly, darkly. "Is she a target?"
"None of the victims were mothers."
You don't even ask how he knows Mary bears a child. It doesn't matter.
"Will you keep an eye on her?"
Mycroft's gaze weighs on you. His scrutiny would wear anyone down. You look him in the eye.
"You owe me that."
"Oh, yes," he replies lightly. "Maybe I owe you."
You don't know what is so amusing. But even though you don't appreciate his entertained tone, you decide to shrug it off. You do have priorities.
"There's something you are not telling me. You don't have to, I suppose. I am no Sherlock, and I would be no use in investigating anything. So keep your secrets, Mycroft. But ensure my wife's safety. If you hid something from me today and any harm comes to her, I will kill you."
Your tone is conversational. You do not swear. Mycroft is not one to be threatened: a simple statement will do.
"Naturally," he replies with one of his infuriating little smiles. You stand up.
"Leaving already?"
"You won't tell me anything more, will you? About the notebook. About the Snow White case."
"Do you have any other questions?"
"You met Mary."
"Yes."
"Did you tell her something?"
"Whatever do you mean, John? We talked for about two hours, naturally I-"
"We're getting a divorce."
"Oh. Yes. I heard."
"Of course," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you walk to the door. "I'll be going, then."
"John?"
You look back and meet Mycroft's gaze. The glimmer is still there. Or the glint. His expression is grave again.
"Sherlock is dead. There may still be repercussions, people playing, but-"
"I know, Mycroft," you interrupt. "I know."
You are mine to keep warm
And it's cold outside but I'm just fine
Alone on the couch tonight, you vainly try to fall asleep.
You've taken up the habit to sleep here when Mary feels like having the bed all to herself. She sleeps on the first floor, of course. It's safer. You sleep next to her when she says she wants "a teddy bear" or "a warm pillow". You don't actually sleep together anymore, but you do not miss it. It was never about the sex with Mary. You care about her much more than that.
Turning onto your side, you let your gaze wander about the living-room. It's full of memories. Fond memories, painful memories... This place is your life. There is Sherlock's stuff, yours, Mary's. It's not dead. The room keeps on living, and you catch yourself imagining how it will look once the baby is here. Mary might move out, but still this room, this flat, would change again. When you had come to visit it for the first time after Sherlock's death, you had sworn you would never return. It was dead, deader than dead. You shudder. That day is still engraved in your very flesh, Sherlock's touch invading your every dream, your every nightmare, his voice laced with each and every one of your thoughts. You are possessed. You are haunted.
When Blake will be born (will it be Blake? Will it even be a boy?) this room, this flat, will be transformed again.
But always Sherlock's presence remains, and will remain. Of that you are certain. Perhaps because his presence isn't so much in the flat as in your own mind. Still it feels like the warmth in the room is also Sherlock's; hugging the silence, you know it will never stop hurting.
But this pain is also proof that Sherlock once lived. You close your eyes and let the pain and the inexhaustible, choking affection crush and swallow you.
You wouldn't have it any other way.
You are mine to keep warm
.
.
.
tbc
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