I.
Bad Things
Bad things happen.
All of the time.
Bad things happen all of the time.
This is an irrefutable and unfortunate part exchange we mortals parry with on a daily basis. We live, therefore we chance a series of unfortunate possibilities everytime we step into the world beyond the doorstep. (Truthfully, there are many bad things possible in the confines of one's own home, but that's another story for another time).
We are humans who must interact with potential tragedies each day: traffic jams, unexpected hailstorms, a rapidly escalating stomach upset, a visible panty line (and far, far worse),but it is also a universal truth that many (if not most) of the bad things do not emerge until we chance upon a catalyst it is almost impossible to avoid.
Another human.
Like moths to a destructive (and often disgracefully unreliable) flame, humanity will insist upon seeking out some form of inter-social assuagement during its day; the bus driver, the coffee vendor, the receptionist at their place of work, co-workers with no commonality but their employment, fitness instructors at their overpriced gyms, the tired and disgruntled checkout worker at the end of a long shift. The list seems endless even before the greatest hurdle of all is breached.
Loved ones.
A heart that is given is a heart that is corrupted.
To love another is to be vulnerable and to be vulnerable not only allows Bad Things to make their inexorable march upon your citadel, but also gives out directions, keys and welcome mats to ensure your fate.
Distraction, confusion, longing and (inevitably) loss, all bring heartache, devastation and an all-encompassing swathe of loneliness that cuts across the human soul, rendering it null, void and empty.
Thus, people cannot be trusted and are weakened by their own primitive desires. Like children, like vulnerable animals, they do not learn from the historical pursuits of the others who came before them; of the others who tried but could not avoid the dissatisfaction, the untruths, the betrayals and the heartache.
So, Bad Things happen, and lives are ruined.
But perhaps -
Just perhaps -
They don't need to stay that way.
~x~
II.
The Anamnesis Institute
Just to the south of Hyde Park and a little West of Grosvenor Place, there lies a white, unpretentious stucco building which owes a little less to the 18th Century than its Belgravian neighbours and a little more than most realise to the happiness of those privileged enough to cross its cherrywood, porticoed doors. A small, brass plaque is its only inclination towards identity, for those that know of its design and purpose also know that anonymity is not merely a word, but also a currency here.
By invitation only, a guest (visitor is such an impolite term) is escorted through silent, beeswax infused, wood panelled corridors, where dust motes hang heavy in the pale shafts casting themselves through ancient sash windows. Busts of long dead benefactors stare out from marble pillars without candour, without judgement, for who are they to judge those who have discovered methods they could not?
Visitor's books are not welcome here, nor is unnecessary conversation. Staff are pleasant and discrete; efficient and calm.
Everyone has made mistakes.
Not everyone must bear their burden.
Do not feel shame for your decision.
Embrace the luxury of choice.
Welcome the privilege of ignorance.
Thus, defying all that is natural and expected in the world, The Anamnesis Institute will soothe your guilt and tremulous uncertainties and seep saline into your veins, attach electrodes to your head and extract, evulse and withdraw the Bad Things your heart no longer needs. You leave its panelled corridors and non judgemental benefactors as a smiling (yet helpful) staff member advises you against driving and operating heavy machinery for twenty-four hours, to stay hydrated and bids you good day. You canter down the smooth steps of the Institute, following the footsteps of many gone before you. How many, you might consider as you go about your day, how many might have stepped down so carefree and light of heart as I do now? For the effort of forgetting that which has ravaged your life can be so exhausting as to be untenable.
Sometimes in life you must forget, in order to go on living.
And for the right price, you can.
~x~
III.
The Detective
She did not look at ease.
Everything about her (four tells about the face, three about the hands and knees) told him the surroundings of his sitting room were not only unfamiliar but also a mite uncomfortable. Alleged to have come from landed gentry (the Saxe-Osbournes of Wetherby? Unlikely), she had none of the assuredness and politely contained entitlement of the upper classes. Nails bitten to the quick, hair poorly conditioned (he'd always known well-bred girls to have the swingiest, shiniest hair...for the most part) and she'd tried with the shoes, but Louboutin heels had quite the distinctive arch as they met the sole.
Her eyes darted about his room, from elegant paired sashes to jack-knifed letters atop the mantle and the newt experiment in demijohns populating the kitchen. Then, of course, there was Billy...
"More sugar?"
She'd already had three lumps, but nodded vigorously. Definitely south of the river. Leaning over with the crystal bowl, he noted the tiny pearl of a tear swelling across her lashes and suppressed another sigh. Predictable as day following night, May blossom in Regent's Park and John Watson ordering Dim Sum every second Friday of the month.
"He never returned?"
She sniffed, nodding and stirring, a quiet dignity despite her lack of lineage.
"He took everything. My post office book, my laptop, my gold necklace …"
"Your heart?" John Watson, as deft with a sharpened phrase as he could be with a scalpel, offered a tissue to staunch the veritable Niagara his words evoked.
"John - "
Ignoring his flatmate, John patted her shaking shoulders, and kneeling before her in a kind of benediction, he offered:
"We'll do everything we can to find him, Lucy."
"We will find him," decreed Sherlock Holmes, blandly. "But do try not to hold out for a happy ending."
Sobbing.
The two men exchanged looks (Sherlock's said Help me).
"I don't want the stuff back! I just want … I just want … "
"You just want to forget him," supplied Sherlock Holmes from the safety of his armchair, feeling as removed from humanity as Lucy was from her errant lover, and being distinctly grateful for it.
~x~
8pm. They'd had dinner (something with chicken?), he'd reduced the saline solution in the demijohns by 23%, rain had started pattering across the windows with intent, and Mrs Hudson had been wittering about the guttering for some time…
Sherlock looked up suddenly. Mrs Hudson was no longer at the door and John Watson was rather noisily reading the newspaper.
"I said they'd last another winter," announced Sherlock.
More rustling, no words.
Sherlock put down his pipette, taking in the set shoulders and awkward wrists of his flatmate. Something was amiss, but what? (he hated not instantly reading John; John was a virtual Ladybird book of body language)
He stood up.
"To Mrs Hudson. I said the guttering would last another winter. Where is she?"
Rustle; significant page turning. Sherlock walked around to the front of John's chair, standing before the ridiculous shield his friend was, for some reason, holding before him. At length, John lowered the paper. His furrowed expression told a story.
"Mrs Hudson left half an hour ago. I take it you didn't notice?" Definite sarcasm, with a mere soupcon of resentment.
"You're angry - with me?"
Dark navy eyes met his own and Sherlock immediately regretted the newts; how long had this simmering pottage of annoyance been brewing? All evening perhaps? He was really off his game. Luckily, John never dodged a direct question.
"You were a heartless sod this afternoon, with Lucy Saxe-Osborne."
"Unlikely that was her na- "
"No, Sherlock (paper cast down, John standing), you were. There was sympathy to be offered and you, as her consulting detective, should have offered some."
"I'm no lonely hearts column John. I merely listen to their story, offer a solution and then pocket my fee. It's what I do."
John Watson, limp emerging as it did under stress, striding to the fridge and wrenching it open to the chink of bottles, suddenly turned, beer in hand and face a strange mixture. Anger, certainly, but also … something else.
"Yeah, Sherlock (turning the cap, using his left hand, sign of tension and anxiety), but it shouldn't be. You could have offered her something more than a tactless summation and an invoice!"
"I certainly did not - "
John took a swig and Sherlock took a moment, retreating from his usual justification. He then took a breath.
"You feel I should have shown more - empathy?"
John shook his head. They had had this conversation before and Sherlock suddenly recognised that look.
"Be kinder, Sherlock. No-one wants you to offer tissues, but just - (putting down the bottle on the bench) - You are privileged, genius, assured, and right almost all of the time, but … just … just have a heart sometimes too, yeah?"
It was pity.
~x~
IV.
Genius
Heart notwithstanding, Sherlock Holmes was certainly top of his game in the City that summer. John barely had time to transcribe his notes to the laptop before another visit resulted in a trail to be followed and a conundrum to be resolved, leading to another ream of notes needing blogging and, in turn, critiqued by Sherlock.
"'The Case of the Copper Gin Stills'?"
John swatted him away. Sherlock never missed an opportunity to purposely misinterpret his case titles. They were the literary flourishes he most enjoyed about the writing up process. Half the fashionable bars of Mayfair had been duped by the fake 'botanicals' swilling around an almost fatal mix of ethanol and sugar syrup and had been extremely grateful for the adroit conservation of their reputations. As per his habit, Sherlock had seemed disinterested once the chase was over, merely commenting that "mummy will be relieved".
"You certainly know your juniper berries." He lowered the laptop lid in an effort to shield his words, but Sherlock was already walking away.
"Alambique."
"Sorry?"
"The correct name for a copper distilling unit for gin. Alambique."
"That's not going to be a title to attract Joe Public."
"How very gratifying."
Then, later.
"'The Adventure of the Navel Tattoo?' Oh, for goodness sake John!"
That time, a thrilling (yes, he admitted his addiction) descent into the grimy underbelly of smuggling via undercover aliases and intriguing disguises (Sherlock's gold tooth had been a particular surprise). A gang had been using young girls to transport diamonds camouflaged as body art. Sherlock had been suspiciously expert with a tattoo gun, leading John along some fascinating mental scenarios regarding his friend's past. He didn't quite believe the 'YouTube video' explanation but decided he'd bide his time.
By July, when Mr Jonas Oldacre had been arrested and over thirty grateful householders wanted to shake Sherlock's hand, John flat out refused to share the title of his latest oeuvre.
"Show me."
"No."
"John, just let me see - "
"You'll mock."
"When have I ever - ?"
"Every. Single. Time."
Eventually, when he realised the futility of his petulance and gave in to what he felt sure would be inevitable scorn, John Watson was pleasantly surprised.
""The Case of The No-good Builder.' Excellent John. Direct, clear and devoid of attempts at the banal. I like it."
And there it was.
Sherlock Holmes; privileged, assured, genius and right almost all of the time was also (on occasion) unpredictable.
And that was kind of OK.
~x~
V.
Forbidden
A flurry of Saville Row, Brookes Brothers, rolled umbrella and Brylcreem erupted forth from the black front door with some considerable force, almost causing John to totter as he was reaching up to adjust the knocker (again). Used to a certain degree of reptilian charm and patronising tolerance, he was quite shocked to see the expression on Mycroft's face as he strode hurriedly into the waiting Daimler.
He was furious.
As John gave a cheery wave to the retreating swoosh of expensive tyres he bit down a certain shiver rippling through his chest. He had seen (and heard) excruciating exchanges between the Holmes brothers on many an occasion, but he had never before seen such dark ire in the drawn brows of the eldest, and certainly never lacked a greeting thereof either.
He looked into the open doorway and up the darkened stairwell, half expecting smoke to be drifting down from their quarters, but all was eerily quiet. Something had happened though, and it one hundred percent had something to do with Sherlock.
Affecting casual as he chucked his keys onto the table, John busied himself with the kettle and was quite pleased to note no duelling pistols smoking on the table nor pentangles drawn across the floor. In fact, Sherlock was lying across the sofa, dressed in pyjamas and alternating between flurried scrolling and lightning texting. His face was a focus of concentration and John could smell another Blog entry on the breeze as he filled the teapot.
"What's up with Mycroft? Have you hacked into his WeightWatchers account again?"
Still texting, brows drawn into a crease.
John poured slowly, biding his time. He had the whole evening since dates had been thin on the ground these recent weeks.
"Nicked his Action Man in 1982 and he's just found out?"
Click, click, click.
John sipped his tea, blowing first.
"You've refused a case haven't you?"
Sherlock stopped texting, looking up at his friend with a strange glitter to his pale eyes and a slight flush across his cheekbones. John smiled; this could easily be a nine, or even a ten.
"On the contrary John," he was getting up, pulling off clothing at the same time as walking towards his room.
"I've been forbidden from taking one."
And John just had time to catch the merest twitch of a smile at the corner of his flatmate's mouth before the door was slammed shut and the sound of drawers being wrenched open could be heard, with a muffled addendum:
"Call a cab, five minutes. The Anamnesis Institute "
The game, it seemed, was most definitely on.
~x~