Dear Reader -
I had planned for this story to be published before New Year's Eve, but no such luck. It was just as well as finally, after all these months of considering how best to begin this tale, I had an epiphany on New Year's Eve itself, my mind racing with thoughts of Sherlock in lieu of the Season Three premiere. And so here it is. Here is the first chapter. I have grappled with this ever since I finished The Emptied House. I have written four different first pages and then gotten completely stuck. I am so happy to be un-stuck and back in the game. It is, as you know, something.
All I can hope now, really, is that you haven't lost faith in me, you lovely readers who stuck with The Emptied House or who have been gracious and absolutely knee-bending in leaving your impressions after the fact. I hope that you're excited to see this story up and running - so, so sorry about the wait! Above all I hope that you will enjoy it. I will endeavor to update it as often or at least as regularly as possible.
Affectionately,
Annie.
Chapter One
2013
October 5th
My brother Mycroft was often teased as a boy for being overtly serious in every situation, taking it with his unfailing dignity and never showing any signs of actually caring about what the other children would call him. In college he became part of a group of young men as focused as he that he found some form of camaraderie with, though I never could tell exactly how their bond was formed. Like-mindedness needs no further manifestation than a silent look or gesture of understanding, I suppose, and in each other these five young men saw themselves and their ambition.
Two of them have gone on to become highly decorated in the Royal Armed Forces, one sits in parliament and one is a foreign correspondent working within the most influential medium of our time – the news broadcast. And Mycroft ended up where he always strove to end up: hidden in the wings, running the entire production.
Mycroft has never sought accolade in the form of trophies or medals. He has never wanted to see his name on a gilt plaque of honour; he doesn't even keep his Oxford diploma in plain sight. He has methodically and with precision made certain that he is not a recognized face; that he doesn't draw attention, so that he may do his work the way it needs to be done – with discretion and efficiency. He is not a target because he doesn't mark himself out as one. He keeps no close company, he trusts no one with his secrets.
In that last respect, at least, we were always similar and shared, from an early age, in the understanding of this one true fact: that emotion blurs the natural sensibility of our faculties. This is something fundamental that I have carried with me for as long as I can remember.
Now I stand in my bedroom, buttoning my shirt in front of the mirror placed on my bureau, and as I watch my fingers in the reflection, performing their task with easy and fluid movements, it seems it should be an arbitrarily mundane thing to engage myself with, but for some reason it feels important to allow it to take a few extra minutes.
Caring is not always a weakness.
Your words. Still muddled by the undefined conviction somewhere behind your haltering presentation, some kind of explanation to it all hidden in your kiss.
My hands pause at the final button. I can't quite seem to get the right grasp on it and my fingers fiddle with the unexpected obstacle until I relent, leaving it and tucking the shirt into the hem of my trousers as I turn from the mirror. I meant what I told you not fifteen minutes ago: love is nothing but a chemical reaction in the brain – this is simple, scientific fact.
So why am I listening for your step on the stairs? Why do I still feel overheated and oddly out of breath, as though the room has grown too small for me and doesn't hold enough air?
Mind over body. A clean and proficient philosophy. One that has always served its purpose in an unfailing manner. Only it seems my body is currently refusing to see reason.
I crack the window open and instead of following my intent of walking back to the kitchen – in order to begin typing up my blog post on the chemical compounds of Moran's rather inspiring disappearing bullet – I am left standing where I am, enjoying the crisp autumn air filling my lungs.
I begin to listen to the city and remember a time when the sounds weren't so well-known to me, when the city was an adventure that took me away from green grass and endless fields into a world of steel and stone and glass. Away from my father's disapproving glance and Mycroft's jarring recitations of the latest Faulkner or Debussy or Dostoyevsky.
The soft noise of a floorboard creaking overhead sends my heart racing and I give a short scoff at the intrusiveness of the reaction, the suddenness of its jolting me back from then to now. But I also understand that I want there to be impatience with this flutter in my chest, I want that impatience to burn out all the rest of it and yet the scoff is a prelude that bears a striking lack of resonance. Because no matter how I may think to brush it aside, there is a difference to everything. There is a still and slow and undeniable wait. I am waiting for you.
I have a sudden, clear wonder in my head asking me if that isn't what I have been doing all along.
Your nearness earlier, that soft heat that radiated from your hand as it moved behind my neck... The sensation is vivid enough to make me close the window with a rather harsh bang just as the doorbell rings. One fairly long press of a rather strong finger. Male client with a slight desperation about him. I glance at the ceiling briefly before I leave my bedroom for the sitting room.
x
I hear the doorbell, but no steps on the stairs, and take it Sherlock opted to let Mrs. Hudson answer the door. I'm seated on the much too hard chair by my desk, barely daring to shift my weight, as though moving now in any way would tip the already overfilled scale of impressions in my head. I am trying to think of how to act normally as I go down to face my friend again. It's only a little past eight in the morning – I will have to go down and face my friend again.
What has kept me rooted firmly to the chair has been my skin prickling alarmingly at the mere thought and it is troubling me to realize how suddenly I don't trust myself. I'm worried that my voice will waver; I'm worried that there will be a stutter or an odd look in my eye or that I'll have trouble looking at him at all.
But then I hear the base of Sherlock's voice from somewhere below. It only takes a few moments of listening to the low steadiness of the sound for the tension to begin to lift off my shoulders. This is not a burning building or a ticking bomb or a gun to my head. This is me in my home with someone as familiar to me as breathing.
And it just so happens we seem to have a client.
x
"Have a seat," I say and steer the man – a Mr. Cubitt – into your armchair, ignoring the goose bumps spreading over my shoulders as I hear you enter the room behind me. "And let me introduce you to my friend and colleague," I add, glancing over at you. "Dr. John Watson, Mr. Tyrell Cubitt," I finish.
You give a nod and approach. I find myself studying you, looking for a clue that will tell me how you relate yourself to the situation of being back in this room. You seem normal to a fault. I take it, then, that whatever took place here twenty-six minutes ago was a singular event and shouldn't be lingered on. But I notice your handshake with Mr. Cubitt is stiff, your shoulder and elbow locked and your grip tight. You're not relaxed. My eyes follow you as you ask Mr. Cubitt if he'd like some tea and, getting a yes to the question, remove yourself to the kitchen.
"Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Cubitt asks and I turn my eyes in his questioningly.
Realizing he expects to tell me his reasons for coming I take the seat in my chair opposite him, crossing my legs and giving him my full attention, which momentarily shifts at the sound of something shattering in the kitchen. I crane my neck to try and assess the damage: you're picking up broken china out of the sink. Muttering profanities to yourself, no doubt. My brow furrows. You're usually not so clumsy. You have the steadiest hand I know.
"Mr. Cubitt," I then say, looking back at the client. When he seems slightly nonplussed, distracted by my distraction, I add: "You may begin."
Mr. Cubitt raises his eyebrows in an 'ah' expression, but then hesitates for a moment, seemingly searching for the right words.
He is mid- to late thirties. Judging by the expensive watch, his nice haircut and finely trimmed nails he makes a good living. He doesn't overspend, however. His shoes have been worn well. I can always tell a lot of a man by his shoes. You wear comfortable, well-manufactured, bargain ones that you keep neat, cleaning them once a week. It isn't that you're all that fastidious, but rather that you have been taught to care for things and they will last longer.
"My wife..." Mr. Cubitt begins. "No, I should go further back than that," he stops himself. "I have been building a small business since college. Last year we had an idea that was big. Really big. My partner and I started developing it and it was right around that time I met Eleanor."
"Your wife," I fill in.
He nods.
"We fell in love. Sort of crazy in love, you know."
I'm fairly certain I don't, but I make no comment.
"We got married after three months. I mean, everybody said it was insane, but I just wanted to be with her, you know."
I'm fairly certain that I really don't, but as these questions are clearly rhetorical I merely steeple my fingers together, waiting for Mr. Cubitt to continue. He wears a wistful expression, getting lost in his own sentiment as he says:
"She's wonderful. I'm at my best with her. I'm myself with her... That's why... Well, when we met she asked for a clean slate. She asked that whatever her past was, I didn't ask about it. She said she didn't want to have to lie."
He looks up at me, something desperate there. I have no reaction to give him yet, however.
"I accepted it," he states, unsurprisingly.
I am about to open my mouth and bid him skip the details so easily derived from the wedding band on display on his left ring finger – there is no doubt that he chose to attach himself to this woman – but something stays the urge and instead I lean back in my chair. Perhaps there will be some detail, something of import that I shouldn't chance missing merely because I find his story telling slightly tedious.
Consequences.
I completely block out your voice in my head as I listen to Mr. Cubitt carry on with:
"I didn't care what had happened before."
Clearly.
"She wanted to be with me, build a life together, so I thought whatever she had left behind – however bad it was – it didn't matter."
Obviously.
"We could start from scratch. And we did and everything's been amazing. But then a few months ago..."
I smile a small smile. Here we are getting to the true heart of the matter then, at long last.
"Your 'idea' began to get noticed," I say.
"Yes," he confirms. "And we started a collaboration with the government. It led to interest of a merger from The Winger Corporation."
You come over with a tray, setting it down on the table as you ask:
"The Winger Corporation. They're IT, aren't they?"
"One of the largest IT companies in Britain," Mr. Cubitt nods, accepting the cup of tea you hand him.
"And what is it that you'll do for them?" I wonder.
"I can't..." he looks apologetic. "It's classified."
"Oh, of course," I brush it off.
"But my wife... Something has happened. With her. Over the past few weeks she's become..." He takes a nervous sip of the tea, searching for the right phrasing. "She wants us to leave the country," he then says bluntly. "She keeps saying that it would be better to start over somewhere else. That I should sell my share of the company to my partner so that we can take the money and see the world."
He sighs, rubbing his eyes. There are lines around them: fine, new; and his pallor is indicative of not only days spent indoors, but nights spent awake.
"This merger... Well, possible merger. It's stressing me, I can't deny that," he restates what I have already deduced for myself. "I haven't gotten a full night's sleep in almost two months now. And she uses concern for me as an excuse, but it's not me. I know it's not me. I'm not the cause of this. She keeps saying that everything's fine, but I can tell she's... She's making herself ill. I don't know what's wrong. She won't talk to me about it. Something's happened in the last month that has made her feel this need to run as far away as possible. Please, Mr. Holmes. Can you help me figure out what that is?"
I meet your gaze at this question. I can tell by your slightly raised eyebrows that you want to know if this counts as more than a seven. I tilt my head a little at how easily you communicate this to me, for the first time feeling fully aware of it, and suddenly your gaze flickers to the side as you clench one hand the way you do when something bothers you. I furrow my brow again. Am I bothering you?
"Yes," I then say, turning my eyes back in Mr. Cubitt's, "we will help you."
x
I retrieve the teacups and bring them with me into the kitchen as Sherlock follows Mr. Cubitt downstairs. I turn on the faucet in the sink and wait for the water to get hot, hearing Sherlock come back swiftly up the stairs, entering the room. He gives a soft sigh as he stops by the kitchen table and I reach for the nearest cup, nearly dropping it, swearing to myself.
"Everything alright?" he wonders.
I don't turn around, but simply start washing the cup out.
"Fine," I reply, a hint of annoyance in my tone that's directed at myself, not him.
My fingers keep shaking.
"Need a hand?" he asks and this time I turn to him.
He's looking quizzical. His offer is genuine enough, but there is something else there. Some other wonderment that makes my chest constrict dangerously and I answer:
"No, I have two that work pretty well."
He smiles then and I immediately go back to my cup. I wash it for about three minutes, which is clearly two and a half minutes too long, but I can't quite seem to stop the motion of my hands once they start rinsing it out. The warmth of the water is soothing. Something to focus on. I'm beginning to regain control of myself and my hold on the cup is growing steadier by the minute. No more shards for the bin. I can feel his eyes on me, however, and I don't quite know how I'm supposed to move from here.
I thought this would be simple – this deciding to go back to the way we've always been. It shouldn't be difficult when I have felt more normal than in a long time over the past few weeks with him. Having him back. Having us back. But I meet his gaze now and I feel startled and exposed in a way I never have before. I don't know how to work around it. How to get rid of it. And so I keep my back to him.
"Did you read this?" he asks, flipping open the newspaper that's been sitting on the kitchen table.
Of course, he's completely at ease with the whole thing and goes about the day as usual. I'm irritated by how simple it is for him to ignore the things that aren't important enough to him to acknowledge, at the same time as I'm trying to ignore the stupid numbness I feel at him clearly not being even a little bit stumped over what happened this morning. Barely two hours ago. Because isn't it simple proof that I was right in my decision? I must let this go.
"What?" I wonder, putting the first cup down and getting to work on the second.
"They're building a new motorway."
"Mh," I mumble. "Fancy that. The nerve."
He doesn't respond. He's reading the article, no doubt. I finish the second cup and decide that I can't be standing around all day, so I rinse the third one quickly, shut off the water and grab a towel, drying my hands as I turn to him. He's leaned over the table, eyes scanning the two-page spread and when I toss the towel on the counter he straightens up, hands on hips, looking thoughtful.
I have the urge to leave the room for the refuge upstairs again, but this is no way to live my life and so I draw a short breath and instead ask:
"What's so important about the motorway?"
He meets my gaze and then smiles briefly:
"Probably nothing," he deflects, closing the paper and folding it once before holding it out to me in a beckoning way.
I accept it from him, feeling as though it's a loaded weapon I don't quite know how to use and I'll be damned if I back away from the challenge I feel from him to see if I will even try to manage it. I'm almost certain this notion is all in my head and that this overwhelming need for defiance that trails behind it stems from something deeper, all to do with me, not him. But either way I still stalk over to my chair and sit, rather demonstratively unfolding the paper, finding the right page and beginning to read the article.
I hear him potter about the kitchen. He puts the cups away, but seems to change his mind as he opens the cabinet again. Soon the kettle's boiling. When he goes to the landing and cries out for Mrs. Hudson the loud interruption to his quiet meandering makes me jerk. I throw a look his way, shaking my head at him.
"Biscuits!" Sherlock yells. "Bis-cuits!" he tries again, Mrs. Hudson clearly not quite hearing him. "For Heaven's sake," he mutters. "Why don't we ever have any biscuits of our own?"
"Go to the shops," I offer, not taking my eyes off the page before me.
He makes a noise between a groan and a huff in protest to that suggestion and moves to the counter instead, collecting our cups and coming over to me, handing me mine before sitting down in his chair. His eyes are on me. I can feel them like tendrils of heat around my nerve endings and it's unsettling me now in completely new ways, but I feel like I want to make him wait. Wait properly for my response. Because I've spotted something.
Finally I close the paper and lean back, meeting his gaze.
"The Winger Corporation," I say. "They're responsible for building this motorway."
He takes a long sip of his tea, eyeing me expectantly.
"They're building it partly with government funding," I continue tryingly. "And... other funding."
He smiles then, crookedly.
"Yes, they're enlisting the help of Red Line Crossing and, of course, as an American company Red Line Crossing is into oil, diamonds, gold and generally depleting the Earth of its resources."
I narrow my eyes questioningly.
"And you see a connection where?"
"I don't, other than all of these moving parts beginning to come together around the same time," he replies matter-of-factly. "Collecting data, John. The basis of any investigation."
"Right," I agree.
He keeps his eyes in mine, watching my face as though looking for more from me, some information I can't provide, some answer I know I don't have, and under his gaze I begin to grow self-conscious enough to rise.
"Biscuits," I say.
I feel like a bloody coward leaving that room. I'm disappointed in myself as well as slightly terrified at it being ruined. At my having ruined everything I have with Sherlock just as I wrecked what I had tried to build with Audrey. And in a moment I'm missing her; missing her kindness and friendship. For over a year she was my closest friend. I want more than ever to ring her, to allow for some sort of safety net in all this madness. Of course, I don't. What could I possibly say to her? About this damned situation, this damned ache in my chest.
I mustn't let this affect me in such crippling ways. Only trouble is – Sherlock has always affected me. I was pulled into his company, drawn to him as though he was a beacon on the horizon of a vast and black and desolate ocean and for better or worse it's steered me here. It's brought me right here. And now...
I pull my jacket on as I exit the flat, flipping the collar up against a gush of wind that seems to press in on me from all sides.
Now nothing.
x
I have the strange urge in my chest to follow you as you leave. I'm unsure of whether it's rooted in an irrational fear of you not returning or in my growing curiosity with your behaviour. You seem slightly erratic in your movement patterns which would indicate that you're nervous and you barely seem able to look at me for longer than four seconds before having to look away or, better yet, it seems, occupy yourself with a task that will ensure you won't have to look in my direction anytime soon, indicating this nervousness should have some, if not all, to do with me. The only thing that could have possibly had an impact on you that it would cause such a change from the easy conversation that flowed between us while we were having breakfast this morning, is how breakfast ended.
You seem, however, to elude discussion on the matter and, quite possibly, it will resolve nothing verbally communicating any reactions I may have had or experienced, or trying to put into context whatever effect your kiss had on me. Clearly you would rather not speak on the subject or you would have taken one of the many opportunities offered in the lull of Mr. Cubitt's departure. Leaving me to conclude the best way to proceed is to forget anything out of the ordinary took place and simply carry on as before.
It seems a perfectly sound analysis of the circumstances, and yet my palms are growing sweaty for some inexplicable reason and I rub them together, deciding it's best to ignore the physical entirely as it's nothing but irritatingly perplexing and concentrate on something more productive for the mind.
Red Line Crossing.
I have read of it before, the millions of dollars that are being invested in the building of a motorway to ease the delivery of goods between the North and the South and help with the detested congestion. A noble enterprise, thoroughly tainted by the fact that the head of operation at this multi-billion dollar trade company – Mr. Richard Smart – is on many of Mycroft's lists. There is a very real possibility, though there is also a complete lack of any proof, that he is tangled up with the Syndicate – Red Line Crossing acting as one of their many fronts and hosting yet another cell of the network.
It would seem the perfect fit. The Syndicate itself operates like a secret society, nestling into every nook of power, decking its resources out in the prestige of the exclusive, catering always to those of the same ilk and gaining in riches with every minute that passes.
I rise abruptly at the thought.
I was so sure that I had Moran cornered. I was so convinced that I was gaining on him. It still grates how he not only eluded me, but used my weaknesses for his own gain. Through me he not only murdered the people blackmailing him, he also effectively erased Mycroft's investigation into the Collective. With the casino gone, Mycroft's leak was exposed swiftly enough, but he took poison five days back and will be divulging no secrets. And the Syndicate have not even felt a tremor of it.
How do you reach the unreachable?
"Woo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson owls her way into the room and I turn to her, mildly dismissive as she begins to clear the breakfast tray.
"You're very good at that," I then compliment.
"At what, dear?" she asks, straightening up, tray in her hands.
"Housekeeping," I reply with a side-ways grin before turning my eyes out the window.
She tuts her annoyance, leaving the room without closing the door behind her. I don't mind. I move the curtain aside, looking at the empty pavement below. You should be arriving back any minute. It never takes you more than fifteen minutes to walk to the shops. You've been gone fourteen.
I release the curtain, my eyes going to the wall that before held a smiley face in yellow and bullet holes. For a moment I wish I had a gun. But the moment passes and instead my pocket buzzes. I retrieve my mobile.
Meeting. Now. My office.
Mycroft
He seems to be in a mood. Dumping carbs again, no doubt. Perhaps we should bring him some biscuits.
I smirk at the thought, looking your number up and dialling.
"Sherlock, I'm there in ten seconds!" your voice exclaims in my ear, slightly distorted: you're running.
The fearfulness in your tone has me immediately tense.
"What's wrong?" I demand.
"'What's wrong'?" you repeat, catching your breath and I surmise you've come to a complete halt. "You're calling me," you say as though that should explain it. "You never call. You always text. I thought something..." You trail off. "But everything's okay?" you ask.
"Yes, fine," I confirm.
There's a rather tense silence and I furrow my brow, increasingly uncertain of how I should behave.
"Don't do that again," you say, hanging up.
I lift my eyebrows, looking at the phone as it goes black in my hand. Why did I call you? Why didn't I text? You're right, I prefer to text, I always have. It's direct and efficient. No need to worry about small talk, no need for distracting anecdotes about little Susan's growing patterns or how far you have to go to find a good cheese monger these days. A text sidesteps the expectation of social interaction and keeps communication clean and simple. I called you because it felt like the thing to do, a moment's impulsiveness, to have your voice in my ear.
The front door opens. You truly were only seconds away then. Your feet are on the steps of the stairs. My pulse begins to quicken and I grow still.
Breathless.
Waiting.
You enter through the kitchen door, placing the plastic bag on the kitchen table and removing your jacket.
You seem perfectly yourself. In every respect.
"Got a text from my brother," I say and you immediately start putting your jacket back on.