Postman's Park is a small green space in the center of London, within easy walking distance of St. Bart's hospital. Sherlock Holmes, for some reason he had yet to fathom, had lately come to find himself sitting on a park bench in the cool green space, contemplating life going on around him. Holmes wasn't much, really, for contemplating his own life. He considered that a waste of time. One should use one's intellect to learn, to discover, to investigate. Heaven forbid that that investigation should extend to one's self.
The park was small, by many standards, and surrounded on all sides by buildings, many of which were steeped in history. The park itself had originally been the churchyard of St. Botolph-without-Aldergate, a name he had found quite intriguing when his mother had brought him here as a child. Without what? Tombstones from the co-opted burial ground were still displayed within the park. But its most famous attraction was the shrine, made of beautifully crafted Royal Doulton tiles, to individuals who had died trying to save others.
Molly Hooper, his friend and pathologist, had sat with him on one of the benches opposite the wall of plaques one day, and said, with a glint of tears in her eyes, how happy she was that he was not on that wall. That they had managed to pull off his "death' without a hitch, and that his friends, for whom he had taken that leap off Bart's roof, were all alive and well. She then finished the container of coffee she had bought to ward off the chill, and returned to her morgue, to deal with others who were not so lucky.
That had been months ago, and since that time, Sherlock had taken to stopping in the park on occasion, when he had the need, or the desire, to be in the neighborhood. Since the weather had gotten warmer, Molly would sometimes join him there, bringing her lunch. Sherlock didn't eat much when he was working a case, but when he wasn't working, he would share these meals with her. But today he was alone, sitting on a bench, watching pigeons, and thinking about his life.
He was not unhappy. To be unhappy, one would have to consider what it felt like to be happy. And Sherlock had not felt truly happy since he was a child. He would say that, after years of solitude, drug use, and desperate bouts of boredom, lately he had come close to being happy. "Content", he thought, would describe his state. He had friends, which he never thought would happen. He had accepted that his elder brother, annoying though he could be, really did care for him. He had worked his way out of his self-imposed isolation, and into a slightly more social environment. But something was still missing. It's not that he was unhappy, or even discontent, merely restless, perhaps anxious. And this is what brought him to the comfort of this quiet retreat.
As the detective was lost in his own contemplations, his mind became aware of the approach of an elderly couple. His attention was drawn to them because they were arguing. Well, not arguing, per se, as the man was doing all the talking. His voice was raised, and he was gesticulating with his hands. The woman almost seemed to be ignoring him, merely glancing in his direction and nodding occasionally. She was carrying two containers of coffee, and had a large purse slung over her shoulder. They made their way to a bench almost opposite the detective and sat down.
"Here, drink your coffee. Although I really don't think you need any further stimulation!", the small woman said, thrusting the container at her companion, who didn't take it immediately.
"It's hot!"
"Of course it's hot! So imagine how much it will hurt when I pour into your lap. Now take it, I need my hands free."
The man begrudgingly took the container, and studied the woman's movements. "Oh, bloody hell, not again, Ellie! You know they are nothing but flying rats, don't you!"
The woman merely smiled and removed a bag of seeds from her voluminous purse. "Do shut up, will you. Need I remind you I have a thing for rats," she said, smiling and sneering at the same time as she looked meaningfully at the tall man sitting next to her on the bench. When she started tossing the seeds about, dozens of pigeons appeared at their feet. The woman smiled and cooed at them, while the man made kicking motions with his well shod feet.
"Careful, you git, you'll hurt them!"
"I'm just trying to protect myself from vermin, pestilence, infections…"
"That's what you say when I ask you to clean the dustbins!"
"Who the bloody hell needs clean dustbins? They are designed to hold garbage, and refuse, and trash. They are, therefore, meant to be dirty…"
"They also reside in my kitchen, a fact you would be familiar with if you ever entered the kitchen to, say, wash a dish or cook a meal…"
"I can't cook, Ellie, you know that…"
"You managed to learn how to build and design buildings, and bridges, and belfrys, and…", she hesitated.
"Run out of alliterations, have you? Your vocabulary seems to be shrinking!", the man said as he kicked at yet another pigeon
Sherlock studied the two intently. They seemed to be a couple. The woman, while her words were sometimes sharp, were always spoken with the hint of a smile, and the warmth of a long-held affection. The man, however, was just cantankerous. They appeared to be in their late sixties, perhaps seventy. They both seemed fit enough for their age, and reasonably attractive. The man was tall, rather distinguished looking, and dressed as befitted a person of some means with a successful business. The woman was delicate looking, with a kind of beauty which wasn't obvious, but which, once recognized would never be forgotten. She dressed for no one but herself, a blend of color and comfort, which Sherlock found familiar and attractive.
The pigeons were now gathering in earnest, and the man reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a bag of what appeared to be chunks of dried bread. "What have you got there?", the woman asked, with some suspicion.
"I'm merely going to assist you, my dear," the man said rather archly, "they do look a bit hungry, after all." And he started to chuck large bits of dried bread at individual targets, aiming for their heads. The missiles couldn't really hurt the cooing little monsters, but the aggressive act seemed to satisfy the gentleman to some extent.
"You aim is improving, Bill"
"I've been practicing on the cat, Ellie!"
"I thought he was becoming a little skittish of late. He is getting a bit old, you know. Perhaps you should lay off…"
"I, too, am getting a bit old. He's a slower target, but my eyesight isn't as good as it once was. It all evens out."
The couple settled into a routine of feeding and targeting for a few moments of silence, when the woman spoke once again. "Remember we are having dinner with the Millers on Saturday…"
"Must we? They're so boring. All they talk about are their grandchildren."
"They are our friends, Bill…"
"They're your friends. I don't have friends…"
"Yes you do. Stop being so melodramatic! And soon enough you'll be able to bore them with stories of your own grandchild, in any case."
"God, I hope the child looks like our Beth. Imagine a grandchild of ours with a nose like that interloper's.'
"He's hardly an interloper. He's our son-in-law, and hopefully will continue to be so, unless you run him off…"
"I never tried to run him off, Ellie…"
"You tried with all off her boyfriends, Bill. Tom was the only one you weren't successful with!"
"I still think she should have held out for a doctor," the man said with a snort.
"Just like you did?" The woman smiled up at him, not really expecting a reply. The gentleman in question rose from the bench, brushing crumbs from his hands. Without even looking at the petite woman, he extended his hand, and, when she reached to grab it, he closed his fingers around hers and smiled. A smile that was all about, and for, her, even though he knew she could not see it. The woman rose from the bench, pulling her purse over her shoulder, and the two people walked off together down the pathway, the man only occasionally muttering and kicking pigeons out of his way.
Sherlock Holmes watched as they slowly moved away, still holding hands as they left the small park. And he now knew what was causing his restlessness, his ennui. He had had a glimpse of what his life could be, as opposed to what it was. He reached for his mobile. But this time he would not text. He needed to hear her voice, to hear her say his name. He quickly hit the button, and was suitably rewarded when Molly Hooper answered immediately.
"Hello, Sherlock. What do you need?"
"I'm on my way, and I'll tell you when I get there." He quickly signed off, and returned the mobile to his pocket as he made the short trek to Bart's morgue. He had a smile on his face that was only for, and about, his Molly, even though she could not see it. Yet.