The heavy rains from earlier in the day had finally subsided, and a thick layer of clouds continued to roll across the sky - the sun futilely trying to shine through. Water snaked its way down the window. First as multiple different streams, only to eventually all begin to join together. It was hard to believe that summer had passed so quickly. It seemed like only a few days ago it had been unbearably hot and dry.
"I'm going out John," Sherlock said starring out the window, his gaze never turning. He had stood there, hands clenched behind his back, shoulders pulled high, starring blankly for several minutes.
"Now? So suddenly, and in the rain?" I quickly replied, instantly regretting ever having asked.
"Its as good a time as any. I can't stand the sight of this flat any longer," he retorted growing increasingly agitated. Spinning he grabbed his scarf and jacket, quickly making his way down the stairs.
By the time I had made my way downstairs to join him, he had already hailed a cab, and was sitting silently in the back waiting for me. Sensing that I had already delayed him enough as it was, I quickly made my way around and into the backseat. He sat as rigid as he had stood at the window. His fingers quickly tapping the armrest, as though something were bothering him. Without a word the cab lurched forward and down the narrow lane.
We drove quite some time, the cabbie expertly maneuvering through the city, as we sat quietly in the back. Sherlock's tapping never stopping, rhythmic, consistent. I wanted to ask where we were headed but knew better than to interrupt his train of thought. When he was ready to share, he would. In the meantime it was silence - painful, deafening, uncomfortable silence.
I had hated the last several weeks. There had been no cases of any significance; the weather was either cold and windy, or raining, or some unpleasant combination of both; Sherlock complained constantly of his boredom, resulting in the most dramatic and unexpected of mood swings. He had taken comfort in his violin, though over the weeks his playing had grown more somber, more thoughtful.
I was lost in thought starring out the window as the cab pulled to the curb and stopped. The sky had once again become grey and a think mist had begun to fall. It was only Sherlock's brusque, "We're here," that brought me back to the present. Even before I could turn to look toward Sherlock to ask where we were, the door flung open. Hurriedly I jumped from the cab in an effort to keep up.
We stood before the Anglican chapel serving as the entrance to Highgate Cemetery. The gated archway was swung open, the cobblestone path soaked and slippery, the peaked roof veiled in the heavy mist. The weather had rendered the cemetery almost deserted. It was eerily quiet save the faint random calls of birds. Sherlock stood motionless, his collar turned up against the mist, surveying everything before him.
"Well…" he started, "Shall we?" Turning with a quick glance toward me. Not sure what exactly to make of the situation I motioned toward entrance, following a step or so behind.
We made our way to the ticket counter through the nearly empty reception hall and were greeted by a young woman, much younger than one would expect working at such a place. Without so much as a greeting, and before she had a chance to say much more than "Good afternoon," Sherlock rather tersely asked for two tickets. Subtly he glanced over his shoulder toward me. It was a look I had become all too accustom to, a look that had rather come to annoy me. Quickly I stepped around Sherlock to the counter and pulled my wallet. I couldn't help but stare knowingly at Sherlock while paying for both of our tickets.
We entered the East Cemetery, as Sherlock had no interest in "listening to an undereducated, overpaid, historian blather on about the importance of those buried here." We slowly walked down the narrow paved paths, periodically stopping long enough for Sherlock to read a head stone, utter something under his breath, and continue down the path. He was unusually quiet, and I knew better than to press him to share. I knew it was better to let him have this time to himself.
As we walked the mist became more of a fog. The large trees filling the cemetery had already begun to change color with the season, and in spots fallen leaves covered the path. We passed, without stopping, the tombs of Marx, Caulfield, and Mary Ann Cross – more commonly known by her pseudonym 'George Eliot'. At these sites I took a moment to pause, inevitably falling behind and needing to catch up. It wasn't until we had nearly made our way through the whole old cemetery that Sherlock diverted off the path and made his way toward a small, nondescript headstone. It was faded white like so many of the other stones around. Weather and time had rendered it worn. A small crack meandered through the stone from the top, splitting it almost entirely in two. What struck me most was that this stone should not have been so weathered for its age. It was dated September 8th, 1997. The rest of the stone was out of view, blocked by Sherlock and his oversized coat as he stood leaning over it, his left hand resting on the top. It struck me as odd, for he hadn't taken such an interest in any of the other headstones. Finally his head dropped, but only for a moment. Quickly, remembering I was there, he stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and hastily he turned - pushing his way past me headed for the exit.
"Sher…" I started, but knew there was no point in going any further. He was already making his way quickly down the path. I glanced back at the stone, just long enough to read the name – Mary Russell. Looking back at Sherlock, he was far enough ahead of me that he had already begun to disappear into the fog, and for that moment there was nothing I can do but stand there. So many questions running through my head, thoughts jumbled, one overlapping the next.
When I made it to the exit of Highgate, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I continued to look, knowing already that he had hailed a cab and taken a solitary ride, eventually, back to 221b.
Frustrated and overwhelmed I reached for my mobile, quickly scrolling through my contacts and pulling up Mycroft. "Who is Mary?" my fingers pounded out, quivering slightly as I sent the message.
Throughout the duration of my cab ride back to 221b, I tried to get my head around what I had just seen. My friend, my best friend, a man I thought I knew, had so expertly kept this secret from me. What else didn't I know? Obsessively I checked my phone only to be disappointed at not having received a response from Mycroft, each time becoming more frustrated by his silence.
Stepping out of the cab I stood before the entrance of the flat, I needed composure. I couldn't blame Sherlock, yet I couldn't let him see my frustration. Deep down I knew there was no front I could put up that he wouldn't eventually see through. It really wasn't a matter of if, but when, or perhaps, rather, how quickly. I slowly climbed the stairs to the flat. Opening the door, and as if on cue a low chime came from my pocket. Finally Mycroft had responded.
"Perhaps we should talk. See you in an hour. – M"
It wasn't long before my phone rang, three times, then silence. Grabbing my jacket I shuffled down the stairs. The moment I stepped outside a jet black Mercedes pulled to the curb. The door opening from the inside; I stepped in.
Twenty-five minutes later I found myself entering yet another isolated industrial warehouse. Mycroft stood from his chair hanging his umbrella from his forearm, while extending his hand in greeting.
"No. Don't try to be cordial. You've asked me to look after him Mycroft, yet you knowingly hid aspects of his life from me. Quit the act. Who is she?"
"He wasn't always this way you know? In the larger picture his current state is relatively new."
"Who. Is. She?"
"Come on now Dr. Watson. It's relatively obvious isn't it? Surely you already know? Denying the fact won't change it." And he was right. I didn't want to admit it, but deep down I had known since the minute I had seen the tombstone.
"I want the details. Who was she? How did she die?"
"He's always been observant, noticing the smallest of details… But never obsessive. Never sociopathic… He loved her. Perhaps she's the only woman he's ever loved - intimately. She found him fascinating, complex, enjoyed the enigma. He took her death hard. It changed him…" he trailed off.
For a moment we stood silent, starring at each other. I didn't know what to say, and Mycroft didn't know where to start. He just sort of fiddled with his umbrella. "She was an investigative journalist – The Daily Telegraph," he continued, "Long story short she was murdered. Cornered in a park… Beaten, then shot… Execution style." Though Mycroft certainly had conveyed such stories before in his position, this one made him cringe, though he tried to hide it, I noticed. "It's the only murder ever to perplex the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes."
"How come you'd never mentioned this to me? How am I just finding out about this now, after all theses years?" I demanded an answer.
"John, when Sherlock asks that an event not have occurred, then it doesn't. Her death hovers over him, consumes him. In fact for months he didn't leave the flat. He never shaved, nor bathed. It was then that he first detached himself. Broke. He built a sanctuary wherein he couldn't be touched. Couldn't be hurt. Most importantly – couldn't' suffer." A small smile creeped across his lips, "Let it go John. This too shall pass, and he will return as the Sherlock we've come to know."
"You say it like its easy Mycroft. I have to deal with this as much as Sherlock does. I can't just watch my friend suffer. He needs my support, my love. Can't you see his pain?"
"I'm sorry John. I really am. But there is nothing you can do for him. Please, for his sanity, and yours, let it go." Again he smiled slightly before turning and walking toward the rear of the warehouse. "Give Mrs. Hudson my regards John!" He called back twirling his umbrella.
To be honest I don't remember much of the ride back to the flat. It all went by in a blur. Mycroft's answers and cavalier attitude had shaken me to my core. Really the next thing I truly remember is standing at the door to the flat, my hand on the knob and my forehead pressed against the glass, lost in thought. Only when Sherlock beckoned from within did I find myself pulled back to where I was.
"John can you hand me a pen," he called again as I stepped into the flat. He stood hunched over a table full of polaroid's, documents, reports. "John, a pen. Quickly."
Instinctively I hurried to the desk and grabbed one of my pens. Having passed it to Sherlock I stood a moment, looking upon the man I once thought I had known. Though he was the same, it was as if I had just met him for the first time.
"Sherlock, shouldn't we…" I couldn't even finish the sentence before he cut me off.
"Take a look at this John," he said circling a portion of one of the photographs he was examining.
"Sherlock," I repeated, "I think its best we discuss what happened earlier." His hands gripped the edges of the table.
His body stiffened and his voice becoming low and direct. "Nothing of your concern happened earlier." Turning to look at me directly. "Stop asking. Stop prying. Just stop! There is nothing you could ever understand."
I just stood there blank, hurt. I wanted to help my friend. I wanted to be a rock for him and this small sliver of humanity he carried with him.
"She died. She's gone. There's nothing that can change that, and there's nothing that you can do to bring her warmth back into this world. Just leave! Get out of my sight. I need quiet. I need to think!" He shouted, growing more and more agitated the longer I stood there, bewildered.
Silently I turned toward the door to leave. Sherlock paced back and forth before the table. It was clear he had already begun to slip away into his mind palace. It would be some time before he would be ready to speak with me again. I decided it best that I try to sort my own thoughts before returning.