Time flies by rather quickly I find. I am not sure if I was placed in an already existing character or just fit in a suitable lacuna in the cloth of the story but I see my old self when I look in the mirror. At the same time I find some new exciting knowledge under my belt, doing post-mortems is unexpectedly fulfilling.
My life in London is marvellous if only because I enjoy every second of my being here. In a short span of several months I manage to almost completely forget my previous life. This book is demanding, it fills you with emotions every waking moment so there is no time to miss the world without future drenched in acid rains. Soon I start to even find some masochistic pleasure in loving without reciprocity.
His name is Sherlock Holmes, he is the only consulting detective in the world of this book and he pays me no more attention than a clean scalpel. He is brilliant and unbearable, arrogant and charming, he takes away John's limp and gives him back the wings in his heart and the smile that lights his whole face up.
I don't know what I am hoping for, carefully preparing a Christmas gift for him and dressing for the occasion. He crucifies me in front of everyone, makes a post-mortem of my loving and caring heart. I feel I deserve it, I could see he feels nothing for me so I was just asking for trouble. I flee to the mortuary, this place has suddenly become my fortress, all the deceased my shields, I can hide behind any one of them and his attention will be distracted at once, although often not for long. And they need me there anyway, Sherlock and that condescending brother of his. There is a body of a woman – but then I understand this must be The Woman as I note the strange expression of Sherlock's eyes and a suddenly tense line of his lips. When they leave I weep, for the first time in this world, I didn't cry even after Jim used me to get closer to Sherlock – it seems that it was only days ago but I realize months have passed. I curl on the floor and cry bitterly, I think of my life before I met him, of all the adventures I witnessed and all the love stories I followed and I don't understand why I agreed to stay in this book if I am so unhappy here.
"Don't cry, my little girl," I hear suddenly and jump up to my feet, sniffing and rubbing my eyes bashfully. A tall man stands in front of me, his face is young if you don't count the crow's feet in the corners of his dark brown eyes, but his long tied back hair is what one calls gray, only in his case it's blindingly white. He is smiling at me, and this tender and loving smile shatters something inside me completely. I burst into tears again and he wraps his arms around me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear until I am worn out and my eyes are puffy and dry again.
"Who are you?" I pull away, embarrassed now by my weakness. Dark warm eyes envelop me with affection and caring, it is almost too much, "Why, your uncle Horatio, of course," he rumbles comfortingly. Then understanding dawns in his eyes, "You don't remember me, my girl," he sighs and pats me on the arm, "you were too young when I found my book."
Shock consumes me and at first I can only stare, my jaw dropped inelegantly. Then I stutter, "But, but, but…" He smiles encouragingly, "Go on, dear heart." I gulp some air and fire away, "but I thought you can't leave the book once the characters started seeing you."
Uncle Horatio (I can't doubt it, it is too much for the moment) becomes serious, "Who told you that nonsense, girl? Of course you can leave, you can place a bookmark and return, you can explore other books if you wish." He saddens a little, "You just have no wish to do that." And I understand what he means. But still there is so much I don't quite grasp, "So how did you find me? And was this the same book you stayed in? Why didn't you ever return to our world if you can actually leave a book?"
"Oh, would you like to do that?" he enquires mockingly, "I see no point in going there now. But I felt you had some of the writers' blood and you will follow your uncle in the world of books. So once I settled I started working on a scanner. It's not simple, mind you, to find a drop of familiar blood in myriads of books. But a modest genius such as I am and one of the greatest minds ever created by writers such as Professor Challenger managed to unite our attempts and we did it!"
"What took you so long, uncle?" it's not me speaking, it's my frustration and pent-up loneliness rush past my lips before I can stop my mouth. Uncle Horatio smiles at me again, this time for some reason he looks… proud? "My girl, it's all your fault for being such a quick reader. I never managed to catch up with you, once I succeeded in finding the necessary book you were already gone. I was always a couple of steps behind. And here you stayed so I had some time to drag my old bones over here and explain everything to you. You see, not everyone is capable of remaining in the book. You need to be a direct ancestor of someone who took part in writing it."
I frown, "But centuries have passed. Certainly most people on Earth have a drop of writers' blood in their veins by now." My uncle shrugs, "I am still not sure how it works, I must confess. I dedicated my life to this research but still there are blank spots. For example it's only my theory that we can return to Earth from books, I couldn't bring myself to test this hypothesis. But as you can see I proved the hypothesis that you can leave the book and return, either to the beginning or the bookmarked place. Still, dear heart, that isn't the most amazing thing." He grins so boyishly that I smile a little in spite of myself and continues, "The most unimaginable thing, my girl, is that we can take characters out of the books. We can travel with our favourite characters and show them other worlds much as we could see them ourselves! Our gift can be shared with the characters."
"Characters?" a familiar voice sounded to me like a blown grenade in the emptiness of the mortuary. I froze, unable to comprehend what was going on. I thought Sherlock went away after his talk with Mycroft. But apparently he must have sneaked back. My uncle briskly turned to Sherlock and tutted, "Eavesdropping is not very polite, young man."
I was enraged and terrified at the same time and my uncle just looked infuriatingly smug, as if he knew Sherlock crept behind our backs in the mortuary and was sitting there all the time we had been speaking. Sherlock faintly smelt of tobacco so I guessed Mycroft was trying to sweeten the blow which the death of The Woman must have been to his little brother.
I surprised myself by saying, "Sherlock doesn't know what 'polite' actually means, uncle." I felt his eyes on my neck, burning like live embers. A pregnant pause ensued, during which I turned slightly to observe Sherlock out of the corner of my eye. He was contemplating me and my uncle in turns, then his eyes widened and he murmured, "No, you both aren't mad. And you aren't lying, I can see you were both telling the truth. Molly chews on her lower lip when she is lying and blushes up to her forehead when she hears lies," I gasp, unconsciously placing fingers on my mouth, and he goes on bitterly, "But it can't possibly be true, I can't be a fictional - " he spat this word out as if it burnt his palate, "- character in a book."
"Sometimes," my uncle Horatio kindly obliged, "when you have ruled out the impossible, the only correct answer is what remains." He hemmed, "And often it seems impossible as well."
Sherlock took a step back and I finally made myself look him in the eye. It was devastating to see this genius, always so self-assured, crumble in uncertainty. He looked lost and scared, and it was killing me that he seemed to be frightened of me. At last he simply turned and left in an uncertain gait.
My uncle departs the next day, leaving me distressed and still unbelieving that I can follow him out of the book that has become my life. He tells me where to find him and I spend several sleepless nights wondering if I should go and see him or stay and try to explain things to Sherlock.
He has been unusually depressed for some time after our unfortunate Christmas as I learn from John. I seem to be the only one who knows the true reason for Sherlock's being that much upset – John thinks it is because of The Woman's death. I haven't seen Sherlock for some time until he comes to me one day, unexpectedly, alone. I tremble watching his gloomy face, iron-strong decisiveness clouding his darkened eyes. He says, "Tell me more." And I am absolutely sure about what exactly he desires to know.