Conviction - Chapter One
London is in floods. The rainstorm has lasted all weekend and had continued through the night and into the afternoon, splattering the asphalt and pavement with the downpour. A chill is in the air, whipping and cutting with each gust of wind, and I tighten the grey winter coat around my ever-moving frame. I had visited this side of London, this particular street, once before. And, now that I look at it, I realise that not much has changed.
It is June, 2011. An unsurprisingly wet English summer. My hand reaches for the handle and, to my complete lack of surprise, the door to 221 Baker Street creaks open without so much as a push. Sodden from the rain, I rid myself of my coat and hang it on one of the free hooks in the entryway. I slip off my shoes, pushing them up against the wall, and make my way up the hall, creeping up the stairs, footsteps light and silent against the eighteenth-century staircase.
There is movement ahead. And I can hear the faint sounds of Mrs Hudson, bless her kind soul, pottering about her side of the building. Up the stairs, I stride forward and force the door of 221B open, walking into the less than presentable living room.
A blonde man, an unfamiliar face, lounges in one of the armchairs, his back facing me. A pile of post is stacked on the side table next to him. "Nothing but bills," murmurs John Watson, flicking through the letters. "Oh, no, wait," he mutters, waving one envelope in the air. "Dr. H. J. Holmes," he reads, gaze returning to Sherlock who is undoubtedly in the kitchen. "Who's this?" he asks, brows risen. "No, wait, don't tell me." He's clearly enjoying himself. "Another estranged brother?"
"That," I interrupt from the doorway, "would be me." It's not the entrance I had in mind, but it will do. I stride into the living room, plucking the white envelope from the blonde's fingers. I rip the paper open, peering down at the words in silence as the stranger sputters and regards me with confusion and alarm.
"Can I help you? he asks, rising from his chair. His eyes flicker over my dishevelled form, obviously trying to assess me.
The second man wasn't even in the room, but he needn't be - Sherlock always knew when it was me. "Don't bother," his rich voice calls from the kitchen, his body soon following it.
My eyes rake over his form and I nod my head in greeting to him. He's dressed in his signature clothing: black coat, slate coloured suit with no tie and slick black shoes. His face is topped with a mop of brown curls, face pale, his eyes piercing.
"Expecting me, Holmes?" I ask, offering him a faint smile. As I wait for him to respond, I take in the living room in all its mis-matched glory.
"Your ankle," begins Sherlock, dismissing my question. He sets a tea-filled china cup down on the table next to me. He'd definitely been expecting me. "Tennis or Squash?"
Ah. So he has noticed my slight limp. "Tennis," I say by way of explanation, waving off his faux concern. "Your brother is far too competitive when it comes to the sport." Sherlock says nothing. He merely hums something under his breath and waits for me to continue. I don't answer.
"You?" questions John, confusion settling in his eyes. He gestures to the now opened envelope.
"Henrietta Jones Holmes."
"Holmes?" repeats John. "You're-"
"My wife," interjects Sherlock, still reading his paper. He doesn't bother to look at us.
"Hang on," cries John, whipping his head to the right to stare incredulously at his flatmate. "Your wife? You're not married." He turns back to me and I look at him, my face set in stone. "You told me you're married to your work." It's rather amusing to watch the man flounder for an explanation. "And when you said you were married to your work," John continues, asking the detective, "you mean-
"Henrietta was one of my first cases," responds Sherlock, turning to face the doctor. The detective strips himself of his coat and drapes the heavy material over the arm of the sofa. And now that I really look at him, I realise that his raven curls are slightly damp. "I've known her all my life."
"I'm an English professor at Oxford," I supply most helpfully, faintly amused at John's surprise and apparent ignorance of Sherlock's personal life. I seat myself in one of the over-sized armchairs and fold my arms across my chest, holding the envelope aloft. "Mycroft's invited us to dinner," I tell Sherlock, skimming over the words once more, wondering how to approach the subject.
"We decline-"
"At the request of your mother." Silence pierces the air. The only sound comes from outside of the London flat: the scream of Mrs Hudson's decade old vacuum cleaner. I now have a faint idea of what the old woman's Christmas present will be. I watch Sherlock closely, wondering how he's taking the news. I've never been as good as him at reading people. But, then again, no one ever will be. "It's all here in the letter. Rosemary is-"
Sherlock cuts me off. "Pregnant again, I know."
I nod my head. "It's too early to-"
"It's a girl." Sherlock says this with such finality in his voice that I find myself doubting the medical professionals in charge of Mycroft and Rosemary Holmes' unborn second child.
"You don't know that-"
"Of course I do. Why else would we be summoned, Henrietta?" The way in which he says my name has my heart sink. His voice is strict and hard and leaves me no room to argue. Not that I want to. Arguments with Sherlock usually end in tears of frustration. "When is it?"
I look back at the letter. "This Sunday. Mycroft will send a car for us."
"And why does your mother-in-law address your letters here?"
I answer John's question with ease. "Because she thinks Sherlock and I live together." His look of confusion doesn't fade, and so I begin to tell him the story of how Sherlock and I met, and how we came to be married.