Why is Sherlock Blue?
Sussurous waves of violin music undulated through Molly Hooper's flat. She had no clue what the music was named, but she could tell it was Italian, slow, and immensely sad. It wasn't quite a dirge – it sounded like the end of a Shakespeare tragedy. Of course, the music was coming from his retreat in the lounge, where he had been holed up for three months, coming and going. He never told her where he went or how long he would be gone. She hardly expected him to come back whenever she heard the door slam.
The music ceased suddenly and there was the unpleasant, uneven sound of the strings being tuned again, harshly, she might add. He seemed to take out his frustration on the instrument, which she'd purchased for him at a second hand store after he'd complained incessantly about missing his.
Hesitantly at first, the music began again, wafting back through the halls, a recognizable tune in any British household – the Doctor Who theme, melancholy and more heavy than the original. That meant he was thinking about John. John loved Doctor Who, and Sherlock would never have admitted it, but it had grown on him a little. Molly wondered if John secretly thought Sherlock was some rogue Timelord at times. He just lost his fob watch. She thought so too, once in a while.
Just as quickly, he'd switched songs again. This one sounded like one of his own compositions, and it was surprisingly light, even in its sad sort of way. Molly though she'd found her new favorite song. It reminded her of taking a walk in the country on a misty morning.
The violin screeched and the song ended. "Just come in, Molly," Sherlock stated as he opened the door, violin still in hand. His voice was low and his eyes were red, from sleep deprivation she would guess, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't sure of anything about Sherlock anymore. "I can't concentrate with people listening over my shoulder."
"Oh, umm…" Molly started to turn away down the hall again. "Sorry, I'll just go…"
He opened the door wider, and gestured with his violin that she should enter, "No, I mean… you're welcome to listen. But not behind the door, if you please." His voice was so quiet, he didn't always sound like the same person she'd known three months ago.
"Oh!" Color blossomed in her cheeks, then she remembered the teacups in her hand, "I made you a cuppa."
Sherlock looked at it, but didn't take it, "It's cold."
"I'll heat it up…" She'd been standing there for quite some time.
He took it from her quickly and took a sip awkwardly. "It doesn't matter." He offered her a smile that was genuine, despite his rather obvious apathy for the cold tea.
Sherlock was making an effort.
Molly sat opposite his fortress of pillows, books, papers, and cigarette butts. He slumped down and wiggled his way into a comfortable position, lifting the violin to his chin. He set the tea on the table.
Sherlock Holmes was living in her house. It still made her a bit bonkers. "Would you play that last song again?"
He seemed content enough to fulfill that request, though she had an inkling she'd very nearly overstepped an invisible boundary she was ignorant of.
When the last note was played, she applauded him nervously. "That was lovely. Is it one of yours?"
Sherlock put away the instrument and sat with his fingers folded beneath his chin. "No, it's not mine."
"Oh…" Molly floundered to keep him in conversation - she was always afraid he'd slip away if he stayed silent too long. And she felt like she owed it to John to try. "What's it called?"
His eyes fluttered upwards and fixe on her, "Meri." The sad face he always hid from John was back.
"Well, it's very beautiful.
"She was."
Molly froze. "Who?"
"Meri." Sherlock stared at the cold cup of tea in front of him, then looked at her. "As much as I'd like to forget, it's one memory 'it'," he pointed to his head, "won't let me delete." His fingertips were turning white where they pressed together. "Have you ever felt guilty, Molly?" He rubbed his fingers nervously through his hair several times as he asked, as if trying to assault the brain lurking underneath the mop of dark curls.
She wasn't sure what had brought this on, but she wasn't about to let the opportunity pass her up. "Of course."
"So guilty, you'd do anything to stop it? Cry, beg for mercy, murder? Have you ever felt that?" His voice fell to a deep baritone that betrayed his deep and sudden emotion. "Have you?"
"No," she had to answer.
"No." He swallowed, then chuckled. "Well, Molly Hooper, pray you never do."
"Is this about John?"
For a moment, he looked at her the way he sometimes looked at Anderson, but he covered it and only said, "If only."
"So… who is Meri?"
"No one," Sherlock answered, then stood and began to walk away, the conversation over.
"Sherlock!" Molly had a moment of undeniable courage. He always intimidated her, but she had moments of pure clarity like this when she could say what she was thinking. "Sherlock, I've told you I know about your sad face, then one you try to hide. And it doesn't matter if I see it now because I've seen it before. And I've never been exactly sure what it's from, but you know I care about you, and I don't care if you think I'm an idiot or a snoop…"
"I don't think you're an idiot," she heard him whisper.
"But I do know one thing I am to you, and that is a friend. Friends don't let friends keep the hurt pent up inside. Friends are safe places to be yourself, where you won't be judged or revolted. And I know that you aren't just the bloody brilliant exterior everyone sees. You may be amazing and a genius, but you're still human, and humans need friends. So, Sherlock Holmes, as your friend, I am telling you to stop hiding from your guilt and let me help you if I can."
Three seconds later, the door slammed shut.
Molly ran to the window. What was he thinking going out in broad daylight? Someone would recognize him!
He was standing there on the sidewalk, trying to flag down a cab.
She turned away from the window, too embarrassed to watch. There was no way he would ever come back now. She'd found the line and jumped clear over it.
There was a squeak as the front door opened. Molly spun around, beyond surprised to see him back in her doorway. He grabbed her coat off the rack and held it open for her, "Come on, the cab is waiting."
She slipped her arms in quickly. "Where are we going?"
"I need your help, Molly Hooper. One more time."
The cab was utterly silent. Sherlock watched out the window, and Molly tried to decipher where they were going. And the route seemed strangely familiar. "Are we going to the cemetery?"
Sherlock's old blue scarf crunched around his neck as he nodded. "Molly, what I am about to show you is not something I'd like spread abroad, for reasons…"
"Sherlock, I won't tell anyone. I promise. You can trust me."
Sherlock relaxed.
The cabbie dropped them off, and Sherlock paid him. Surprisingly, he didn't give Sherlock a second glance, but Molly still wondered what had possessed Sherlock.
He set off with long strides instantly and Molly walked quickly to keep up.
They stopped in front of a plain black marker. The one with his name on it. A bundle of dark pink roses lay in front of the tombstone. Molly wondered if John or Mrs. Hudson had put them there. "I made sure they'd put me here."
"Why here?"
He smiled down at her, "You didn't notice either?"
"Notice what?"
"Course not – funny little brains, only comprehending one fact at a time. One thing holds your attention and you don't stop and look around at the bigger picture."
"Sherlock, just tell me."
He pointed to her right and Molly looked down. A little grey tombstone barely rose out of the grass, but the name was clearly inscribed.
Merrick Holmes
1992-2010
There was no superscription, no remarks. Just her name and the date.
Merrick. Meri. Wife? Mother? She did the math and scratched both those theories.
"She was my sister," Sherlock began, his voice soft and low.
"Your sister? I had no idea."
"That's how I wanted it. After her death, I wanted her to be a secret. She would just be more ammunition for my enemies. More reasons for people to pity me, or hate me, or distrust me, whatever they chose. I chose to ignore her."
"Sherlock, that's terrible."
"It was necessary," he corrected. "She wouldn't have wanted to be remembered anyway."
"How can you say that? I'm sure she would have wanted you to move on, but she would want to be remembered."
"Molly, I know it's very hard to understand us Holmes', but trust me. I know."
"No one wants to be forgotten, Sherlock!"
"Then why did she end her own life?" Sherlock yelled at her. Molly took a step back, recoiling. "If she wanted me to think about her, why would she choose to leave me such terrible memories? All she has left me is guilt." His lower lip trembled.
Molly couldn't answer.
"As I was standing up there, waiting to fall," he continued, "All I could think was, "Is this how she felt?"."
"And how did you feel?"
Sherlock sighed, "More guilt. Because I knew it could hurt John. I knew exactly the pain he was about to experience, because I've suffered it. I know the pain of survivor's guilt. But I'm not dead, I didn't die, I didn't end it, even though I wanted to. But it doesn't make any difference because he doesn't know."
Molly started, but didn't interrupt.
"But that's exactly what she did to me." A tear slipped down his cheek. "And… and, and it makes me realize how much she must have hated me to do that. That's the only possibility, Molly, the only logical one – she must have hated me to purposefully cause me such agony. And that's why I'm guilty, Molly - I drove my sister to kill herself. I killed her, O God!" He walked away quickly, trying to flee with his tears to solitude.
"Sherlock!" She followed him and wrapped her arms around him so he couldn't go any further. "You don't have to run away whenever you think you need to hide. You're the strongest man I know, but when you cry, it just means you're human, just like me. And you need love, just like me. And that's nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud you loved someone enough to cry over them."
"Molly…" he whispered, but nothing else came out. The consulting detective only cried.
When his shoulders ceased their heaving, she asked, "What was she like?"
Sherlock still clung to her. "She was the most remarkable girl. She was brilliant. And it drove her insane."
"Worse than you?"
He actually chuckled. "Worse, actually. On top of her brilliance, she'd been diagnosed with ADHD and bipolar disorder. She was one constant yo-yo of unending stimuli. She saw everything, everything, more detail than I pick up on. And she was miserable."
"Didn't she have some kind of medication to help?"
"Oh, Mycroft found a lovely home for her with all the amenities, and the best doctors." He sighed. "We treated her as if she was some kind of burden. And we abandoned her to do our more important work." He shook his head with regret. "And now I think I understand how she felt now."
"And?"
He didn't answer, but he stood up straighter and looked down at Molly for a moment. "Little Meri." He stroked his scarf, "She gave this to me. She always remembered birthdays, tried to get Mycroft and I to get along. One year, she made us one of those wire and can telephones painted blue, hoping that we would talk to each other. We always gave presents to each other when she was alive, but when she was gone, we stopped getting presents. That's when we realized she'd been the one behind it. We practically gave up on birthdays after that."
Molly fingered the scarf. "I always thought blue was a good color for you."
"Blue. Meri said that lonely people should wear blue. Blue keeps you company." Sherlock shook his head, "She said the most nonsensical things." His mouth lifted just an inch. "Sometimes, you remind me of her."
"She sounds very sweet."
"An angel. And now she's on the side of the angels. Always was, I believe." They walked back in the direction of the grave. "You know the last thing I said to her was she need to stop complaining and put her talents to good use. To tell the truth, I was just jealous. Jealousy is a strange transformer of character." He bit his lip, then continued, "And she said to me, "It would be easier for you if I were just gone." I told her that was ridiculous. That that wasn't the answer and she was being absurd and dramatic and impossible to deal with. And she replied, "Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."."
Molly recognized it as something she'd heard Sherlock say before, and realized the weight behind his words.
"Well, her truth turned out to be an overdose that left her in a coma for a week before slipping away."
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry, it isn't your fault, it's mine. One I will have to live with."
"You really think she hated you?"
Sherlock stared down at the grave. "Yes."
"You're wrong."
Sherlock started, then the turned to stare at her. "What?"
"You may be the most bloody brilliant man in all of England, but you are dead wrong, Sherlock Holmes."
His eyes narrowed and there was a gentle shake to his head as if she couldn't possibly understand something he didn't, but he listened anyways, "What do you mean?"
"If she died to make your life easier, because she was tired of being a burden, then she must have loved you immensely, Sherlock. Can't you see that?"
He was quiet.
"And I think you don't feel guilty because you think she hates you. It's worse than that – you feel guilty because she loved you, and you don't think you loved her back. You're sorry you didn't love her more. You think that maybe if you had loved her more, she wouldn't have done this."
She had expected him to blow up at any second. But he was still quiet. He fingered the scarf. "Bitterness is a paralytic. But love is a powerful motivator," he said the words as if he was attempting to convince himself, but unwilling yet to believe it. He bit his lip. He shut his eyes.
"Remember why you faked your death, Sherlock, why you sacrificed everything to take Moriarty down. Because you loved your friends. You sacrificed yourself for them. If you go back to those feelings, you'll know exactly how she felt about you. And she doesn't deserve to be ignored anymore."
Molly was immensely surprised to find Sherlock had slipped his hand into hers. "Molly…" He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "I honestly don't know what I would do without you."
She squeezed his hand. "You would think of something."
"No, I don't think I would."
A car pulled up behind them, and Molly turned. "It's Mycroft."
Sherlock let go of her hand and turned with an exasperated sigh. "Where's a blanket when you need one?"
Mycroft came bundling over, pointing his umbrella wildly. "What were you thinking Sherlock? Get in the car before somebody sees you!" he seethed. He looked beyond them then and saw the tombstone. The umbrella lowered and he scowled. "You told her?"
"Obviously."
"Really Sherlock, you don't think you should have asked me first?"
"No, not really. You're not my mother."
"Sometimes I think I am."
"Have you been eating donuts?"
"Oh, just get in the car, Sherlock, for heaven's sake."
"Just a moment, Mycroft." Sherlock looked down at Molly and gave her a knowing look. "What color were Merrick's eyes?"
Mycroft hesitated, then blinked. "I'm not sure…"
"Blue, Mycroft." Sherlock hopped in the backseat. "They were blue." He turned to Molly. "I told you we tried to ignore her."
"But she was an excellent cellist!" Mycroft said as he slipped in behind them. "And a ridiculous ginge!"
"Like you before you lost all yours?" Molly asked, and she saw Sherlock's eyes open wide with surprise, then he snorted in amusement.
Mycroft merely grumbled under his breath. "I am NOT a ginge."
Two weeks later:
Sherlock set the white flowers on Merrick's grave. Asphodel, which looked like lilies and gave off a sweet smell, were his flowers of choice. It was midnight, and he stood looking down at the little grey tombstone for a long time. "You know, you were the most amazing woman I've ever known. You were brilliant, you were humble. You were sweet, and witty, and clever, and beautiful, and I know that all you ever wanted was my approval. And the thing is, you had it. You always did. But my pompous head always hid it, and I was afraid of…" He twisted to look over his shoulder, then returned to the tomb and asphodel. "I was afraid of you. But I can't carry this guilt anymore, and I know that you wouldn't want me to. The angel in you wouldn't let me. And I will try, hard as I might, to be the hero that you would want me to be. I promise you, Meri." Again, he glanced behind. No one was there. He turned back and offered a smile to the empty space as he twiddled the end of his scarf. "And I love you. I wish I had told you."
He bent down to set his hand on the tombstone, sentimental as that was, but he thought it was appropriate. And in the moonlight, something white was sticking out of the ground that caught his eye. Sherlock bent down further and pulled at it. String, white string, stuck in the dirt. He looped it around his finger and gave it a yank. A whole clod of dirt came up with the string. Attached to a blue can.
Dazed for a moment, he recovered, and dug the rest out. The string ended in another can, dingy blue. By the looks of them, they had been buried for a few years. Where had they come from?
Sherlock quickly covered what he knew. Only he, Mycroft, and Molly knew about the telephone cans. Molly couldn't have put them there. Mycroft wouldn't have – that would be sentimental. And he obviously hadn't. That eliminated the impossible, which only left one person.
…to be continued