"But tell me, Mr. Holmes, don't you ever get tired of thinking?"
The man frowned, the dimmed light casting shadows over prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes. "Would you care to expound?"
The woman placed her arms on the table, fingers laced, gaze drifting somewhere just behind him. "I mean, do you ever just wish… you could stop? Stop analyzing? Stop contemplating everything? Stop the constant, rhythmic, curious flow of information? Do you ever feel as though a whirlpool of substance and facts are threatening to drown you?" She stopped for a moment and looked down, her eyes glassy in the candle's flickering glow.
"You speak as though you have experience," he spoke slowly. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, reflecting inner confusion.
"I think we both do, though I can only imagine how immensely more vast your exhaustion must be, Mr. Holmes."
The woman wore a red dress with thin straps, revealing shapely collarbones. She wore no necklace. Her earrings were two small cheerful reindeer, commemorating the upcoming Christmas season. Judging by the slight redness in her earlobes, she had debated whether or not they were appropriate for the occasion. She wore light makeup with a shade of lipstick that matched the dress. Her shoulders were relaxed, and from the way she held herself the man could see that her legs were not crossed. She had a very open air, and she made no attempt to hide her facial expressions.
Everything about her was quite open. Not trusting, but still open. Her hand reached up to brush a lock of brunette hair behind her ear, and her shoulders moved slightly upwards. She could tell he was observing her.
Strangely enough, her face did not slacken and her posture barely shifted other than her shoulders. She was making a strong effort to remain as calm and readable as possible. And strangely enough, the man felt much more relaxed than usual. It seemed she was trying to make sure he did not waste mental effort on trying to figure her out. He rubbed his temples, feeling the headache of one who needed a smoke. In his case, it was nicotine patches. He needed one much less often now, but was still working to break the habit. No one was monitoring him, but he felt like he needed to quit.
"How would you know how I might feel?"
"Oh, I don't Mr. Holmes. I have only experienced mental exhaustion the way ordinary humans might, such as after taking a significantly difficult examination or thinking too long about a certain subject. I pity you, Sherlock Holmes. You must face every day something far worse…" Lines of worry wrinkled her forehead. She was wondering if she had gotten it right, he measured.
"I… suppose. I wouldn't know if it was any worse, as I've grown accustomed to it even if it was any worse. But perhaps you are right in saying I can sometimes think… too much." He sighed. He really needed a nicotine patch. His headache was getting worse. It would help slow his mind down, too, he supposed.
"Hmm." The woman said nothing and turned her attention back to the spaghetti she was working her way through slowly. The man looked back down at his own appetizer of garlic bread and found he wasn't hungry. Again.
He'd lost his appetite two years ago.
If it weren't for his baggy clothes, one would have been able to tell how unhealthy he really was. His ribs showed and his arms and legs were very bony. His hair, even, was nearly always greasy and usually stuffed under a golfing hat. His face was bony and sunken, his eyes dark and shifting. He now hid under a pair of fake thick glasses, and he no longer sported a scarf. He was utterly unrecognizable. He had hated it, but now it was only second nature. He nearly forgot his disguise when he had run into John at the grocer's. He'd started to say his name when he noticed the man waving down a cab. Every time it was difficult. But he still couldn't leave London. It would be too difficult to leave his old life in the dust. He looked so different from the man once seen in the mirror that it was no danger to stay. "You miss him, don't you?" The woman's voice jarred him from his trance.
"Yes." He knew exactly what she was talking about. A mixture of pity and utter sorrow glazed her eyes, and he could see just how genuine it was.
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." Instead of pain, he felt the familiar surge of anger.
"Are you," he asked calmly, "Are you really? Do you really feel my anguish? Can you really know how this feels?"
Her expression shifted to one of pain. "No, Sherlock, no, I can't. I can only use my own experience to draw the conclusion that you must be hurting terribly. It hurts me that you hurt. I know you've never been one for… pity." Her eyes flickered. "You don't find it easy to understand others' sentiment. Sherlock, it's okay to be attached to things. It may not help, but can it really hurt things either?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered down and he cleared his throat. "It hurt me," he said quietly.
A small puff of air escaped her lips and her eyes widened. "Oh, Sherlock."
He found he was disgusted by this woman's empathy. Why did Molly tell him to see her? Was this woman really trying to understand how miserable he was? Did she think she could help?
"Sherlock, I'm not trying to understand how you feel." He blinked, wondering how she could have read his train of thought. "But being flatmates with John for a little while must have been more rewarding than not knowing him at all."
He pondered this for a moment. He had had the best times of his life living with John. But the pain of loss… how much were those fleeting memories worth compared to the pain? Human memory was unreliable, he had told John. But John had pulled out a photograph, he recalled. His fingers found the inside of his coat pocket and he extracted his wallet. Without looking down, he pulled a well-worn photograph out and ran his fingers over it. The soft feel of newsprint. Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Watson. They were wearing detective hats pulled low over their eyes, trying to escape the small press crowd that had gathered. It was his least favorite picture.
"Memories are painful," he murmured.
"I know."
"Was it really worth this price?" he asked, looking right at her now.
"I don't know, Sherlock. You tell me." She met his gaze unfalteringly. Her posture straight, her whole body facing him. So readable. So open. It was driving him crazy that he found no fear in her. No hesitation.
"Why are you being so open with me?" he burst out. It confounded him that this woman didn't seem to be trying to hide like everyone else who he met. Why was she purposely being so easy to read?
She frowned. "Well, you're the great Sherlock Holmes."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I've really got nothing to hide, do I?"
He pondered this for a moment. She had made a good point.
"I've met people like you. I'm a sort of a therapist, though not officially. When Molly described you to me, I could tell the kind of man you were. Intelligent. Unsympathetic. Exhausted. Sherlock, you think too hard. Your mind is above everyone else's, and you work too hard to prove just how… unordinary you are."
"But what am I if I am ordinary?"
"You don't need to be extraordinary to be someone."
"Don't I?"
There was a long pause, and a waiter came by to take away her empty plate. "Thank you."
"Tell me, what am I if I'm ordinary? If I try to stop thinking?"
"You are an intelligent, clever, and loyal friend to those you care about."
He winced. There was no one he cared about anymore, he had decided. "I don't have friends."
"You have one." Her brashness startled him. He started to open his mouth in protest. "You miss him. Sherlock, it's been two years. Go back to him."
"And why should I?" His voice trembled.
"Because he misses you terribly, and you undoubtedly feel the same. Because you won't be remembered by anyone who matters. Because Moriarity is gone, and you could live a quiet life with those you once knew now."
The bill was payed, and the cold night air greeted them abruptly as they stepped outside, hailing for cabs.
"What will I say to him?" It was a plea, not a question. His eyes looked imploringly at her. Sherlock Holmes was afraid.
"He's your friend, Sherlock. You'll know what to say."
"He'll be angry. Angry that I lied."
"That may be. But he will forgive. John Watson is not a man to hold grudges, Mr. Holmes."
A cab pulled to the side of the road and Sherlock unconsciously surveyed the driver. A young man, recently employed, unmarried. "Farewell. And… thank you." He stepped into the black cab and closed the door. He took a deep breath. "Baker Street."
He wouldn't knock. Wouldn't go in. John didn't even live there anymore. But it was a step. Perhaps one day he would see Mrs. Hudson again. Perhaps he would see John. He would like that very much, he decided. When he was ready, perhaps he would know his friend once more. A small flurry of snow was falling onto the pavement, a thin layer of ice already forming on the street. It fell softly, and the man found he had nothing to think about, nothing to analyze. All was quiet.
"Merry Christmas, John Watson."