SHERLOCK:

THE BENDS IN THE RIVER

WRITTEN BY ZARIUS

(Contains spoilers for "The Sign of Three")

Note: This was originally published under the title "Patterns of Disruption" but I chose to alter the title as wll as tweek the story a bit after watching "The Sign of Three" a couple of more times to get the details more right.

-Zarius

As Sherlock left the reception and waltzed into the brisk cool evening air, his mind echoed back to the many bends in the river that had dogged his busy day, and the months leading up to it.

First there had been the attempted murder of Watson's friend, one war-weary soul who continued to defy the exponential odds of assassination in his militant servitude by a photographer with an unhealthy personal grudge against Watson's Senior Officer, and a meticulous and fateful eye for pre-planning that had already claimed someone's life a few months earlier. It was a detail Holmes had allowed to slip far from his mind, and had only wound back to it so he could remind himself of the feverous and commendable efforts John had put into trying to save the victim's life.

Then there was the mishandling of the mayfly man.

It had started with a visit to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Sherlock was taking time to visit the engaged Molly Hooper to talk shop and enlist her advise in the pub-crawl portion of his most recent investigation

It proved to be a less awkward conversation from their usual sort. Instead it was all much warmer and relaxed, with the occasional complimentary airbrushing from Sherlock as they worked out the details of the alchaholic intake required for the pub-crawl.

However, as had been the case with Sherlock in the past when it came to uncomfortable frankness, this time it was Molly's turn to try her hand at it as he discussed her lifestyle with her fiancé Tom.

He wasn't a sociopath. And was quite good in bed.

There is always a specific frame of mind that goes with the agenda of the drunken disorderly. This bend in the river initially fuelled by the desire to pub crawl for the sake of an investigation was enhanced in purpose far more by Molly's off-putting confessional.

On one level, a simpler person would be forgiven for thinking that Molly had said this to make him jealous. Another more impeccably deluded romanticist would be equally excused for assuming she said this to make him aware and maybe just a little proud of the passion put into orchestrating her own contentment and happiness, thus, in her perception, making Sherlock much happier for her, the kind of happiness he had wished her to have some months prior in the week he had resurfaced to tackle the situation with the London Underground.

But he knew the parallels to Mrs. Hudson and her own life with her cartel husband were not to be so carelessly dismissed. There were such things as 'settling', such things as purely as a physically yearning form of partnership. He also knew that mistakes could easily be made from it, and in the end, nothing could come of it but an unsatisfying one-sided form of dominance where one feels chained and the other half inadequate.

He was proven right by her behaviour at the reception as she took Tom by the lead like the disapproving mistress of a damp puppy. All too simple really.

"Not a sociopath" didn't mean "He's not you and that's why the sex is better", it meant "He's not you and sex is all Tom's good for"

It was a cry for help.

A subtle plea to take action, take her in his arms, and give her physicality meaning.

And he had yet to answer the beck and call, for the stone cold logic he always welcomed as part and parcel of his mentality didn't deem it appropriate enough.

After the exchange at the hospital, it was the drink's turn to task him, he and John bungled most of the evening coming to blows with clubbers, sleeping on the stairwells, playing, on one end of the game, a narcissistic round of charades, and ultimately spent time attempting to solve a case in the company of a woman who claimed she had been chatted up by someone communicating from beyond the realms of conventional life on this plane of existence. Something that came over from the other side.

Being someone who deemed God a fiction, Holmes, in a more perfect state of mind, would have easily associated such delusion with the over-romantic pursuit of greater meaning in the ordinary, briefly fruitful, but ultimately precarious span of time and joy in nature.

The mayfly man turned out to be the mind behind the attempted murder of Watson's former S.O, he had used five women closely connected with him to uncover that he would be at John's wedding and would strike out at him in an act of vengeance. Tucked away behind a camera lens where no one could detect his prescence in a neat and tidy isolated world where everyone had gathered, obeying the command of familiarity and the call of family to celebrate the occasion.

In quite a non-clichéd way, not only had the wedding gone swimmingly without a hitch, the reception, despite the over complex detail and sidetracking that ultimately blended the unresolved mysteries, had also proven effectively calm and composed.

Nobody raised any ire in their voice, all they did was let out a care-free sigh. Only Mrs. Hudson had really spoke out in disapproval at Sherlock's behaviour, others simply felt too intimidated and confused at the character that was 'on song' before them, active in his element.

It wasn't quite a situation that you could easily rewind and watch again trying to catch the good bits.

He was of course satisfied that he had tied all of that up, but if he knew anything about life, it was that the pattern of disruption flowed as erratically as that metaphorical river with many bends.

The next part came when his date for the duration of the day, Janine, a most approachable type who was satisfied with his mindset and impeccable eye for the right man, had settled on someone Sherlock had pointed out to her during his defragmenting of the earlier situation.

The best of companions, and the ones with potential to be just that, were becoming all too quick to slip from his grasp.

And the one that had lasted the longest in said grasp had slipped into the hold of his own partner, a perfect match, and a thoughtful spirit that had made a family of them all.

Now he, the eldest child of their fantastical three, was to be replaced by the stirring reality of the youngest.

Sherlock heard the music grow fainter and fainter as he walked away, clutching his coat collar and bringing it closer to his face to best shield himself from the chilling wisps of air blowing in the breeze.

As so many partied away to their hearts content, seeing clearly who they wanted to see, seeing the happiness, energy, and elation that comes all too briefly with human feeling, one reflective thought, one great accomplishment, entertained Molly Hooper's mind more so than Tom's embarrassing turns at dancing, another layer added to his already disappointing list of accomplishments that day.

From raising her concerns to Lestrade regarding Sherlock's initial difficulty to pull off a best man's speech, to suggesting the telegrams to Mrs. Hudson, to watching Sherlock proudly persist on his mental prowess and conviction of character to make everyone's day feel more special and more informed, one thought was ever present in Molly's mind.

She could still see him.

And whatever the bend in the river, nothing could disrupt that pattern