It is Friday evening, already dark. The dry hardwood floor creaks beneath my weight. Rain patters against the windows. John drew the drapes an hour ago. Went straight to the tele when he came home from the hospital. Must be entertained when he doesn't feel right. He never feels right when it rains.
I am standing in the kitchen. Steaming chemicals fog my protective eyewear. The light above me is quivering, occasionally flickering. It disturbs me.
"John." With vague awareness I hear my voice utter words. "Add light bulbs to the list. This lamp will be out by next Wednesday."
I don't have to look over to know he turns to face me with a slightly startled look. My voice startles him when it starts up after a long stop. "Hm? Sorry."
So I repeat myself. No, I don't remember the last time I spoke to him. Not even a 'goodnight'. He seems to be used to it by now, doesn't complain. This case—and many others, respectively—plague me. Almost taken care of. Waiting for this solution to prove the suspect's alibi wrong. A lie. Fabrication.
The canned laughter of John's tele program and the soft thud of feet on the stairs. John is completely unaware of it. My focus remains on my beakers, but I hear the knock on the door.
"No."
John is already pushing himself out of the chair. "What?"
"It's Mycroft. Leave him out there."
He frowns at me; I can feel it. Of course he lets Mycroft in. I watch the liquids move, colors change, temperature. Soft sound of bubbles bursting.
His presence is as swollen and smug as his face. He doesn't greet John properly, doesn't ask about work or offer to shake his hand. Merely struts towards me, leaving John to shut the door.
"Must be pressing for you to forget your manners," I say with bite.
It takes him a moment to remember himself. "My apologies, John." He offers his hand at last. John takes it, now standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
"It's alright, Mycroft."
I look up and meet John's eyes with a pointed expression. It's not alright. Turn back to my chemicals. "Go on."
He folds one hand into his pocket. The other rests on his umbrella like a cane. "There was a body found on my property this morning." Now he gives me several long moments to consider the bait. Meantime he reads my face, my posture, to see if I will take it.
Still not looking at him. "You're taking it as a personal threat when it is most likely a random occurrence. You would hand it to the proper authority, but you're hoping I can handle it sooner, so you can erase it before it becomes a scandal. I am over pulling favors for you, Mycroft. I will not engage."
Another snip of bait will come next. It's obvious there's more—he is rocking slowly on his heels. Canned laughter again, then the shrill theme music of the program. John turns back briefly, as though he will regain what he missed. The timer goes off and I remove the beaker from the flame, setting a different beaker on.
"Here is the note left on the body." He holds it forward. I take it and remove my eyewear long enough to read it. Postcard, store bought, never stamped or sent. Simply written on in black ink. The front of the post card shows a photograph of the National Theatre. Dull. I hold the note out for Mycroft to take. John takes it instead, reads it and quips, "Hang on—what's this XOXO? Tell your brother I send my regards XOXO"
Mycroft and I chuckle simultaneously. I finally turn towards them.
"Irene Adler is dead."
Our laughter is harder now.
John gives me a warning look.
I say, "Moriarty is trying to communicate with me. Could have just used the phone, but he prefers dramatics. Games…" Adjust the flame, pour out a bit of the now cooled solution. "Probably trying to flatter me."
John folds his arms across his chest. It's less discreet than he imagines. The maroon jumper hugs his shoulders and biceps and the collar of the plaid shirt underneath peeks out.
Mycroft smiles. "I'll give you tonight to ruminate. But I'm certain I'll see you in the morning."He turns. "Good night, John."
"Wait."
He looks at me.
"Leave the postcard with us."
Mycroft nods and hands John the card.
"And do skip the ice cream parlor on the way home. The rain does not justify an extra dessert."
The flat door closes and I hear his steps fade away. I go about my chemicals and notice that John has muted the television. Makes the rain sound harder. Severe.
"Yes?"
"He's onto you again."
"Man of his word."
"Don't take the case."
"Why not?"
"It's—"
"Danger doesn't apply, neither does threat. They never do."
He sighs. "Look, you've got a lot on right now. Taking this—something might go wrong."
I step away from the chemicals and towards him. Tower over him, look down into his soft eyes. Speak low into the air. "There is always the possibility that things will go wrong. Always. That doesn't change the facts, which are all I'm interested in. Right now, the facts are this card," I take it from his hand and wave it in the air, "and the body that's on Mycroft's property."
"I can't argue with you."
Why is he so edgy about this? We frequently get cases that speak to me in a personal manner—they never bother him. Something about Moriarty turns his stomach, puts him ill at ease. The one time he wishes I would turn away from the presented opportunity of adventure is the one time it is most exciting for me.
"You'll come with me to see the body, I presume? We can stop at the diner on the way. Or after. Whichever suits your mood."
He licks his lips, swallows in a quick motion and walks away. "If you want me there, yes."
"I always want you there."
He pauses at the doorway, takes in that reassurance. "Right." It satisfies him when I say things like that. I've yet to exact why.