"I can hold my breath
I can bite my tongue
I can stay awake for days
If that's what you want
Be your number one
I can fake a smile
I can force a laugh
I can dance and play the part
If that's what you ask
Give you all I am…
But I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
Your words in my head, knives in my heart
You build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human
I can turn it on
Be a good machine
I can hold the weight of worlds
If that's what you need
Be your everything…
But I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
Your words in my head, knives in my heart
You build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human…
I can take so much
'Till I've had enough
Cause I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and i break down
your words in my head, knives in my heart
You build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human."
Human – Christina Perri
"Sherlock, have you been listening to me?" John asked peevishly.
I sighed heavily.
"Nope."
"So just what have you been doing over there?"
"Dying."
"C'mon, Sherlock, really."
"I'm really dying."
"How."
The easiest man in the world to impress had become jaded. Hm.
"I haven't eaten since Christmas."
John stood up, poised to unleash a deluge of sailor's words. I yawned. I was also trying to sleep, but John was being too loud for that.
"Why haven't you bloody eaten since bloody Christmas?!"
"Mrs. Hudson is on holiday."
"And?"
"And she isn't here," I said slowly.
"If you're making a point, I'm missing it."
Yes. Yes, you are.
I unfurled and sat up.
"Mrs. Hudson. Does. The. Shopping."
"And you couldn't be bothered to go yourself."
"I don't like people, John."
"Yeah, and people don't like you either, so you're even."
"Well, now that that's settled." I stood and moved towards the stairs.
"Wow. Doing your own shopping, then?"
"'Course. Why not?" John pulls out his mobile and snaps a picture. "What was that for?"
"I may only see this once and Mary and Greg won't believe me."
"They still won't believe you; I'm just standing here."
"Yes, but you're standing with purpose."
"No, just standing."
"Shut up, Sherlock."
We go downstairs and I hail a cab as John pulls his bike upright.
"I'm going to Tesco."
He stares at me, then nods.
"Yes, well done."
"I'll wait for you." About 27 minutes, judging by how long it took you to get here. Maybe 34 since you're fatigued.
"Nope."
"What?"
"I'm going home."
I blink.
"Why?"
"Mary's got dinner ready."
I briefly consider making a grand, unannounced entrance at the Watson residence, but one look at John dismissed the thought.
Tired.
Long day at clinic.
Mary hates cooking but made it a proper supper.
Texted him to ask him home.
Surprise supper?
No, tonight I will be human and let them alone.
"So what am I to do?"
John smirks.
"The shopping."
I wait outside Tesco for 42 minutes in the event John found supper disagreeable.
Evidently this was not the case.
I roll up my sleeve and stick on a fifth nicotine patch. I'm shaking, but not from the chemicals seeping through my arm. A child across the street stares at something just above my head and I realize I've put on the hat out of habit. Habit. Since when did I not think about my actions? I pull it off and stuff it in my pocket. It begins to rain and I retreat inside. I realize I'm still staring outside when a woman with a backpack runs by and comes in. She twists and pins up her hair, muttering to herself, then pulls a few notes out of her back pocket.
Student at uni.
Protected laptop and mobile.
Night job—and day job.
On a budget.
Mature.
Responsible.
Coloured hair.
Aesthetically appealing by society's standards.
Beautiful.
I shake my head.
Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models—
No.
Beautiful.
She picks up a basket and strides in.
Purposeful.
She takes a day planner out of her overcoat, flips it open, and disappears into the produce section.
Good time management.
I follow at a distance, picking up an item or two along the way. I don't know why I'm doing that.
She walks down an aisle, sets down the basket, steps up on the bottom shelf, and reaches up for a pack of foil. I remember that she had only come up to my shoulder when she had come in out of the rain.
Petite.
No, short.
HELP HER.
Before I can think, my hand passes hers and grabs the box. I hand it to her not knowing what to say because John says I put people off.
"Thanks." She drops it into her basket and steps down. "It's about time tall people started helping us shorties, yeah?"
"As long as you agree to pick up things we drop."
The words are gone before I can stop them.
That wasn't off-putting, was it?
She laughs and starts to cough and wheeze.
"Deal," she chokes out.
Of course.
Prescription for medication in day planner.
Bag of lozenges in basket.
Red waterlines.
Swollen nose and cheekbones.
Excellent use of cosmetics.
She picks up the basket, still wheezing.
"Are you alright?"
"Oh yeah, thanks. Just a cold."
She turns to leave, and I don't want her to.
"Would you like to have dinner?"
She turns.
"What?"
"Would . . . would you like to have dinner? With me?"
She smiles. I think I'm smiling, too.
"That's sweet, but you don't even know my name." I stare blankly and she nods. "But I suppose I could do worse than Sherlock Holmes."
"How—"
"Sorry. Tabloids. I don't read them, but one's gotta stare at something in the queue."
"They aren't—I mean, it's not-"
"I figured. They're usually not. Truth doesn't sell well."
"Tonight?"
"Sure. Where?"
"My flat—no, maybe not. . ."
The brain in seawater on the stove may put her off.
"Oh! Um, were you, uh . . . going to cook?"
We both look at what I'd acquired: cabbage, pasta, jammy dodgers, and black coffee.
I don't even drink coffee.
I look back up at her.
"No."
She smiles.
"You don't cook, do you."
"No."
"No worries. If you buy the groceries, I'll cook at my place. Deal?" I nod dumbly. "Are you going to use the cabbage for anything, though?"
"Nope."
"Mind if I take it?"
"Please."
"Thanks. Haven't had stir fry in a while."
"Sounds wonderful."
Is this a conversation?
"It'll take a while; are you okay with that?"
"Of course. I'll have time to learn your name." She blushes and looks away. "Sorry, did I do it wrong?"
"No . . . no. . . I'd say you did it right."
"Why did you colour your hair?"
She smiles.
"Do you always begin a cab ride this way?"
"No. But there's no crime scene, so my usual topics of conversation are moot."
"I see. Well," she sighs, "it's odd you should ask about my hair. My mother's been harping on me about it. She's convinced there's some 'underlying reason' why I suddenly have this 'obsession' with dying my hair. She's convinced I've set out to murder my blonde hair."
"Did you?"
"No, I just gave up on it. My hair was getting darker and I didn't feel like keeping up with highlights." She shrugs. "Just thought I'd try red."
Definitely an underlying reason.
"Simple enough."
"Thank you."
"Do you . . . still live with your mother?"
"God no. I love my family, don't get me wrong, but it was time for me to move out."
"Are they close?"
She shakes her head.
"No. Breathing room."
"I can understand that."
"Do yours try to micromanage you, too?"
"No, that would be my brother."
"How sweet."
Sarcasm?
"Mm."
"It's always charming when they decide four days is an eternity, isn't it?"
Sarcasm.
"Always. Particularly when they try to involve you in little projects."
The cab comes to a stop in front of a row of townhouses. I pay the cabbie before she can because John always pays for Mary's cabs. She picks up her backpack and I take the grocery bags, waiting for her to take the lead. She fumbles with her keys in the dark, and I don't like the street.
Rubbish streetlights.
Drug house four doors down.
Entertaining triple murder next block over six years ago.
Lestrade's former beat.
UNSAFE.
"Sorry." She opens the door for me. "Upstairs and the first door on the left. Should be open; the locks are being changed out."
Open?
"What?"
"The landlord isn't exactly quick about anything."
My heart pumps cold blood and I knew John would have said something about my face. I start up the stairs and nudge the door open with my elbow. Even the doorknob is gone.
"It's a mess, I know," she says, coming in behind me. "Make yourself comfortable, move whatever you want. Just put it somewhere I can see it."
"No shelves, then?"
She smirks, flicking on the lights in the kitchen.
"I'd be forever grateful if they were kept at or below my eye level."
I move some fashion magazines from the couch onto her desk. There's a photo of her family next to a mug of coffee: a brother in military uniform – head and shoulders above her – and a sister of similar build, but tanned and casually dressed compared to the others. There was another photo behind it, her and a friend – and another, who had been cut out.
But she still has the photo. . .
I scan the room: eight other pictures were set around on shelves and tables; three of them in which someone had been cut out. In all of them, she was blonde. I glance into the kitchen.
"Need any help?"
"Sure, wanna chop the cabbage?"
"Course."
I take the knife from her and look at her hand.
A broken engagement.
"So what are you studying, Ada?"
"How'd you know my name?"
"Diplomas in the study."
"Oh yeah. . ."
"You've already earned a baccalaureate degree in literature. And in mathematics."
"Mmhmm." She shrugs, chopping an onion deliberately, her face focused, her eyes dry. "I've always loved cosmetology."
"How'd your family react to that?"
Motive?
"I basically work full-time, so they didn't mind. My mom wasn't thrilled, but she didn't make a fuss."
"And you coloured your hair yourself."
"Yep." She grins. "I was cheap and used a box dye. Left it in too long and it turned this kind of mahogany plum colour. I ended up washing most of it out."
"It looks lovely."
She smiles up at me.
"Thank you."
My chest feels lighter, then compressed as she slides the onion off the cutting board into a pan and I see the band of pale skin on her ring finger.
"I'm so—" I stop and she looks up expectantly. "I'm sorry I'm such a rubbish cook."
She laughs and I relax.
"I've seen worse, believe me."
"I've never had better stir fry, Ada."
She blushes.
"Well, thank you. You did help make it, remember."
I nod and sit back, trying to choose my words.
"You've grown your hair much longer."
She cocked her head.
"What? Since when?"
"Er, the photo on your desk," I say, pointing.
"Oh. I've thought about chopping it all off and getting a pixie," she says quickly, twirling a strand around her fingers. She chuckles nervously and coughs. "But I can't do it. I'm an utter coward."
"I wouldn't say that."
Stop.
She raises an eyebrow and her eyes light up.
Curiosity.
"Oh?"
"No."
"And why not?"
I look down.
"I shouldn't have said anything, I – I tend to put people off."
She smiles.
"I've got a thick skin. Tell me what you see, Sherlock Holmes."
I stand.
"I can see that you're more intelligent than the average person. I can see that you've made it a point to be independent. You're open to friendships, but you remain guarded and only have a select few friends, judging from your photos." I hesitate, but she nods.
"Spot on."
"You . . . are not a coward, Ada."
"Okay, but why?"
"I can see by your left hand that you were recently engaged. An abuse reporting hotline number's posted on your refrigerator. Somebody's been cut out of several of your photos." Ada stares up at me, her face neutral.
I know that face: I'd worn it before.
"You don't mind physical contact or crowded areas, but you've retreated emotionally. He . . . must've liked long, blonde hair," I say, trying to be sensitive. "That's part of the reason you dyed it."
"Getting him out of my hair," she murmurs. Her mouth twitches and pulls into a small, sad grin. "Literally."
I nod and sit back down across from her.
"You ended an emotionally abusive relationship," I say, leaning forward. "You are quite brave, Ada Harper Darby."
There was silence. Her carotid bulged and she shut her eyes.
"Thank you."
"Pardon?"
She opens her eyes. "For that." She crosses her legs and studies me. "You talk like you know what that feels like, to be . . . cut off. Dead."
"I do."
"Because you see what people try to hide?"
"More because I see it and then I say it."
She shrugs.
"I don't know, I'd rather know that someone knew something so I could set them straight instead of them pretending they don't know while creating a back story for me while I'm clueless about it."
"So . . . you don't want me to shut up?"
"No, not if you've got something to say. But don't take that as an invitation to chatter incessantly about just anything."
I smile.
I like you.
You're not boring.
"What do 'normal people' do on a date after they've bled each other's hearts out, then?"
She laughs.
"Usually they watch telly, but I haven't got cable. I've got Netflix, though."
"What do you normal people watch?"
"Normal people watch mind-numbing 'reality' shows, news, and horribly-written crime shows where murders are solved in 47 minutes."
"What do you watch?"
She grins and chews her lip.
". . . Doctor Who."
My brain is throbbing, overflowing with new ideas and thoughts.
If the TARDIS . . . The Elephant in the Room . . . no, no . . . well . . . when you have eliminated . . . no, that's just . . . no . . . the universe is rarely so lazy. . .
"How is it bigger on the inside?"
I look down at Ada beside me on the sofa. Her cheek is pressed against my arm and her legs are tucked under her. She snores softly and snuggles closer.
She doesn't know she's doing that.
I don't mind. Actually . . . I think I like it. Do I? Why do I like it?
My mobile vibrates.
Lestrade: Homicide at 556 Hawthorn. Coming?
On my way.
It's only then that I notice the time.
03:46.
Oh.
She is boring enough to have a job.
I look down again at Ada. Her eyes flicker under her lids as I slide my arm out from behind her shoulders. She begins to stir, so I lay her down and prop her head up on a pillow against the arm of the sofa. She shifts into a fetal position.
Why?
Childhood trauma,
abuse,
mental il—
She runs a hand up and down her arm.
. . . Cold.
I pull a light quilt over her, and she relaxes. I straighten and catch my reflection in the window. I'm grinning like an idiot.
Why am I absurdly happy about this?
I cast around for her mobile. No, she's probably got it in her pocket.
I open a notebook on the coffee table and scribble a note. Thank you for dinner. I hesitate. I'm sorry I kept you up late. Text me when you wake up. 07544680989. I leave the book open.
I turn off her television and stare at where the doorknob should be. I pull an end table in front of the door, open her window, and start to climb out.
Wait, why do I want her to text me?
I don't know.
I'll ask John.
No.
I'll ask Gordon.