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"Any truth is better than indefinite doubt." (Sherlock Holmes) THE YELLOW FACE
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"Mary! John! Congratulations on the safe arrival of your newest family member! May parenthood be filled with lots of joy and wonderful memories. All the best!"
Fatigued to be sure, John blinked, uncertain he actually heard those words coming from Sherlock's mouth, in Sherlock's deep baritone voice. Unbelievable! Lacking any undertones of selfishness, sarcasm, or patronizing sentimentalism, the greeting was so well spoken with authentic optimism and good wishes, that John stared, for a fleeting moment absolutely sure that the man who crossed the threshold of the hospital room was an imposter.
"…and WHAT a beautiful baby!" The tall man in the Belstaff continued as he leaned over the newborn nestled in the crook of John's arm.
What? Beautiful? Hang on? Didn't he claim he was 'unaware of the beautiful ... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy!' Where are the backhanded compliments and predictions? Like, I hope she won't be as prone to exaggeration as her father. Oh, I'm sure your pediatrician can advise you on ways to prevent chafing when she finally walks…? Should she have the skills of her mother, you will have to watch her closely…!
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, John studied the fair face beneath curly raven locks, attuned his ear to the cadence and tempo of the man's voice, and met the piercing eyes that returned his gaze; the expression he saw in his Best Man's face—clarifying pride—caused John to suck in a breath. He had assumed wrong.
Sherlock was speaking a truth, John realized, maybe not his own truth, but close enough so that it felt as though the genius meant what he was saying, even if the sentimental word choices didn't ring true. Someone, probably Molly, coached him, John suspected.
So what if the words were suspiciously stilted and slightly rehearsed? It was obvious Sherlock was making every effort to demonstrate his newfound compassion, at least toward his closest friends. A consummate actor, the World's Only Consulting Detective was capable of pulling off those lines convincingly if he wanted to be truly disingenuous. Yet, giving the delivery just the right balance of awkwardness was his way of conveying to John that the truth—sharing in the Watson's joy—was just below the surface. Exhaling in relief, John beamed a warm smile at his friend. So, Sherlock did feel things that way….
It was reassuring. With all the past assumptions about Sherlock's emotional immaturity and woeful lack of social skills, whether he truly was a high-functioning sociopath or shared features on an autism spectrum, John felt both renewed and vindicated whenever he caught sight of his friend's heart.
That the brilliant intellect had a heart, God knows, was sometimes a hard thing to prove. Often, in the past, John had to confess, even he held doubts.
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Recognizing the tall man standing under a black umbrella raised against the drenching downpour, John halted with surprise. "You don't smoke?"
"I also don't frequent cafés," Mycroft answered, tossing his cigarette, swiftly collapsing his umbrella, and ducking into Speedy's cafe, leaving John no option but to follow. Certainly, this was not the usual, clandestine method for an arranged meeting; apparently there was a need to talk that brought the Mountain to Mohammed.
On the small table they shared, the older Holmes placed the wallet of a confidential file in plain sight between their two coffee mugs. It didn't require keen observation skills to notice. "That's the file on Irene Adler?"
"Closed, forever," Mycroft stated with finesse as he outlined his plan. "I am about to go and inform my brother – or, if you prefer, you are –"
Always, your brother's keeper, John read between the lines.
"…that she somehow got herself into a witness protection scheme in America." Mycroft seemed pleased. "New name. New identity. She will survive – and THRIVE – but he will never see her again."
The news was hardly earthshaking. John devalued the importance of Irene Adler in Sherlock's life once the information from her camera phone had been recovered and she was removed as a threat, which, John figured quickly in his head, was about four months ago.
Besides, Sherlock had shut the door completely on that topic. Respecting his wishes, John allowed it to remain closed, especially as Sherlock showed no inclination for any discussion about the case. Instead, the consulting detective appeared cool, aloof, his usual self again as the detached scientist scrutinizing humanity's flaws under the microscope of his indifference.
With peace of mind regarding Sherlock's 'normal' behavior, John asserted with confidence. "Why would he care? He despised her at the end. Won't even mention her by name – just 'The Woman.'" Finalizing the point, John lifted his mug for a sip.
"Is that loathing? Or a salute?" It was a keen insight, which Mycroft had posed like a philosophical argument. "One of a kind; the ONE woman who matters."
"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way, I don't think…." John heard himself espousing the unrelenting opinions of associates from the Met whom he was beginning to believe. But Mycroft's questions resurrected John's original belief regarding Sherlock's emotional side; he couldn't deny having seen glimpses behind the arrogantly off-putting façade.
"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective." Mycroft was speaking in ordinary tones, not as a superior in intellect and rank, but as a perplexed brother. "What might we deduce about his heart?"
Although he presumed all business with The Woman was behind them, John was sensing he might have been making some false assumptions, overlooking important details, and admitted. "I don't know."
"Neither do I." Mycroft was very quick to reply. " ... but initially he wanted to be a pirate." Perhaps, it was a memory of his young brother in a pirate costume, but a slight, amused smile flitted across his face, replaced immediately by a distant, thoughtful look.
Surprised by Mycroft's "human" side, the doctor used the pause in their conversation to assure the worried big brother as he would any patient and family member distressed by a troubling, but not hopeless, diagnosis. "He'll be okay with this witness protection, never seeing her again. He'll be fine." The whole scenario, sitting for an ordinary chat with Mycroft in Speedy's café, sans cutting remarks and razor wit, lowered the army doctor's guard. John relaxed, content their meeting was nearly over, and generally impressed with himself for providing solace to the Ice Man.
"I agree." After a deep breath, Mycroft's attitude and demeanor shifted with a chilling blast. "That's why I decided to tell him that."
Sitting opposite one of the greatest masterminds in the British Government, John stiffened with the realization he had been manipulated. "Instead of what?"
"She's dead." The Bureaucrat Holmes had returned with his frosty tone. His eyes bore into John's, monitoring the doctor's reaction. "She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded."
The news struck John harder than he expected. With a sinking feeling about how this truth might impact his friend, John took several seconds to compose himself, fidgeting in his seat as if he needed to control his body from exploding into action. Finally, clearing his throat softly, he recovered his voice. "It's definitely her? She's done this before." The thought greatly irritated him; his eyes flashed with anger.
"I was thorough – this time." Mycroft was smug with confidence, though not actually pleased. "It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don't think he was on hand, do you?"
Overrun by strong emotions, the doctor swallowed but held his reply.
"So ..." Using only his fingertips, as if it were too hot to handle, Mycroft slid the confidential file across the tabletop toward John.
John's eyes were drawn to the clear plastic wallet. His heart was heavy, his nerves rattled. He suddenly felt as though he were preparing for battle. Sighing, he raised his eyes to meet Mycroft. Even before a question was formed by the elder Holmes, John Watson already knew what was expected, he knew his duty to his partner, and most importantly he understood why Mycroft was handing him the assignment. Mycroft believed only John could read Sherlock's emotional well-being. If that were true, John had already let Sherlock down for quite a while—perhaps since New Year's Eve. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind?" The violin asked as the detective played Auld Lang Syne. The answer—John had interpreted from the solitary look Sherlock shared before turning his back to finish the melody— was a resounding "yes!"
How wrong he was! Now with his eyes opened, he saw a truth, a truth that was staring him in the face all these months. A truth, clouded by assumptions he had made about Sherlock's unfeeling heart. Ashamed by his own blindness, John did not feel up to the task.
"...what should we tell Sherlock?" It may have been spoken with Mycroft's voice, but it reverberated in John's heart.
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It had been an unsettling visit with Mycroft—not in the usual way—for the tone and texture smacked not of derision and disdain, but concern, filial concern, that compelled John to reevaluate his perceptions of both Holmes brothers.
"Any truth is better than indefinite doubt," Sherlock had once remarked. John had heard him speak those words to their client, Grant Munro, as they were about to discover the occupants of a small cottage at Norbury. However, the consulting detective had erred in his deduction about whom they would find (this was the only case in their first months together when Sherlock had missed the mark). Although the truth was indeed far better than the doubt, the case had had a successful outcome for everyone except the disappointed consulting detective. Chagrined, Sherlock had kept a sullen silence on the trip home, and even hours later in their flat. Having adapted to his flatmate's moods, John knew better than to try drawing him out. So it was unexpected that just as the doctor was about to retire for the night, Sherlock finally spoke. "John, if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you."
Sherlock wanted, no TRUSTED, John to give him the truth. Ever since then, John had made it his duty.
Ah, but ANY Truth? That was the question. Give him THE truth or Mycroft's truth? Would Any truth suffice? When does it become a lie…?
The doctor was at a standstill, uncertain, mulling thoughts as he hesitated at the black lacquered door of his flat. He was glad the heavy rain had slowed to a drizzle. It allowed him time to linger on the doorstep. Looking down one more time at the large wallet that contained the confidential government file on Irene Adler, John empathized with the inanimate clear plastic that concealed neither its contents nor the infamous camera phone. As he was faced with the unpleasant task of delivering news, John didn't know if he would be able to conceal anything from Sherlock, nor whether he should try.
Was the solitary man starved for love? Did the tortured genius not just need an audience, but a destiny, a soulmate who could match wits with him? Someone who would teach him passionate love? Was The Woman that soulmate?
"Are you jealous?" She had asked.
"We're not a couple." He had protested.
"Yes, you are." She had insisted.
When it came to caring, it was difficult to tell where the truth lay between the self-professed High Functioning Sociopath and the Dominatrix. Confused, John shook his head clear of the unimaginable. Maybe he had looked the other way all these months because he was jealous of losing his friend to someone who greatly surpassed ordinary intelligence, who was irresistibly alluring, and unpredictably dangerous— a good match for the exceptional prodigy who craved excitement and challenges to keep his "sanity," whatever that might be. It didn't matter now. She was dead. There would be no other.
"How are WE feeling about that?" John remembered asking his stunned friend when they had discovered she was alive.
"Happy New Year, John."
Perhaps, he was happy in his own way knowing she was alive. So, then how would Sherlock feel now that she was dead?
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"Clearly you've got news." The composed voice greeted him before John reached the top of the stairs and appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Jeezus, Sherlock! How am I going to get through this if you can deduce by my gait and footsteps that I am bearing news? Dunno! Y' probably know already WHAT news!
"If it's about the Leeds triple murder," the detective stated flatly, as he continued viewing slides through his microscope, "it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring." The scientist adjusted the microscope's course focus without looking up from where he sat at the kitchen table.
"Hi. Erm, no, it's, um …." Relieved but self-conscious, John slowly stepped forward, swinging the wallet with the camera phone in view under his right arm. Hesitating how to proceed, the doctor approached the table, but cast his glance away and down when he added. "...it's about Irene Adler."
There was no intake of breath, just absolute stillness. The extended pause screamed with emotion, John realized, as he kept his eyes averted, listening for his friend's reaction. He was afraid if he looked up then, Sherlock's face would show the misguided doctor how wrong he had been about the "heartless" sleuth.
"Ah?" The briefest of sounds preceded another long pause, followed by a clipped, "Something happened? Has she come back?"
"No. No." Shaking his head, John still couldn't raise his eyes. "She's erm…." Get a grip! You must look at him or he'll know you're lying, John! "... I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs." One true statement helped him lift a fleeting, yet unsustainable, glance. The vision of Sherlock sitting upright at the table, his face open with peaked interest, was painful to see. Eyes cast downward again, John continued with a suggestive tilt of his head and used the file tucked under his arm to point toward the stairs. "He had to take a call." John wheezed an inhale to cover up the truth sandwiched between untruths. Mycroft wasn't taking a call.
"Is she back in London?" Sherlock rose quickly and rounded the table toward John.
"No…." he clutched the wallet tighter under his arm.
Sherlock drew close, nearly face-to-face with the friend he trusted, and locked a penetrating gaze on the doctor. Curiosity, eagerness, hope, expectation, promise…so many emotions John hadn't recognized before played across the alabaster complexion of his vulnerable friend, whilst the fathomless depths in the piercing pale grey eyes caused John to stammer.
"She's, erm…."
His own eyes darted downward, shifted sideways, looked up in another direction—the evasive dance that bespeaks a liar—no one would have been fooled, especially not Sherlock, but John would try his best.
A great inhale—whoosh! —helped the doctor raise his own shoulders, open his eyes wide, and meet the scrutiny of the glaring detective who now had stepped closer, into John's intimate, personal space, awaiting the answer. John was still ambivalent about what to say.
First, do no harm!
"She's in America!" Eyes continuing to dart to and fro, John couldn't believe what he was saying. This was not how he handled bad news with a patient; he was bound by his oath to give the truth, kindly, carefully, but honestly. Yet, for this man he cared about, John was finding it easier to maintain the lie—Mycroft's TRUTH. It was a flimsy plan at best. Maybe, he could use this as a test to determine his friend's reaction? The doctor didn't know what he hoped to learn, but he would rely on instinct to guide him.
"America?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his voice lightened by surprise.
Encouraged, although still unable to keep his eyes from darting about, John continued. "Ahh-hmm. Got herself on a witness protection scheme…." His tongue poked at the inside of his cheek.
The tabletop, the microscope and vials, even Sherlock's dark, charcoal gray shirt took turns shifting into John's view until he landed on the word "…apparently," and in that moment, caught the look on Sherlock's puzzled face. Eyes took a dive again at "Dunno how she swung it," yet managed to raise his focus one more time when he finished, "but, erm," clenching lips briefly as he shrugged, "well, you know." Then both his voice and eyes sank all together.
"I know what?" The familiar impatience in Sherlock's tone indicated the need for data not innuendo.
"Well, you won't be able to see her again." Finally, John looked directly at his friend when he spoke the undeniable truth.
"Why would I want to see her again?" Dismissively, Sherlock turned away, retreating around the table.
"Didn't say you did." John chuckled sadly, relieved and amazed he had succeeded in selling the lie.
"Is that her file?" Slowly Sherlock reached his chair, but hesitated over his seat at the table.
"Yes. I was just gonna take it back to Mycroft." Lifting the clear wallet, John gestured. "Do you want to ...?"
The abruptness with which the scientist sat was matched by the tone in his answer: "No." Inhaling, he resumed viewing the slides in the microscope without looking up.
Previously, John would have interpreted his flatmate's return to The Work as a clear sign of Sherlock's indifference. Had John continued with that premise, he would also have assumed that the news—'The Woman was dead'—had no significant impact, becoming just another file tucked away in his Mind Palace, to be discarded later when it was of no further use.
"Hmmmm." As the doctor watched his subdued friend peer through the ocular lenses, the doorway to an understanding swung wide open—Sherlock WAS lonely!
Perhaps, it was partly the choice he made for his genius, but the extraordinary man was isolated by his astonishing brilliance, ostracized for his innate superiority, and exiled for his arrogant hubris. Yet beneath it all, beat a quivering heart that wanted to belong, needed recognition, and yearned for love. Only now did John finally realize Sherlock was no different than the rest of humankind, even though he scoffed at sentimentalism as weakness. He wanted love, he wanted respect, and he wanted to feel that others cared for him.
That so-called unfeeling heart was actually a defense against the cruelty of others who could not see anything but a "freak;" they derided the cold statistician, the impartial, possibly "mad" scientist who saw specimens and experiments in the deceased rather than victims of outrageous collateral damage brought on by man's inhumanity to man. Yet, the consulting detective was not the real monster, nor the actual destroyer of life, even if he seemed more interested when it became lifeless.
Maybe, to some he was a monster, but in fact, he was a creature of habitual study, observing minutiae with amazing vision, finding discoveries derived from grotesque sources that actually contributed to the betterment of science, helped law enforcement solve crimes, and perhaps even answered some medical riddles.
Why did such a great man choose loneliness? His vision, his hearing, his sense of smell, his synaptic connections, everything about him demonstrated extraordinary sensitivity; was his emotional sensitivity similar? Did something in his past cause him to shut down all sentiments? Psychologists recognize that childhood rejection could have lasting, detrimental effects. Or did Sherlock choose to keep his mind purely over matter—to remain celibate from distracting matters of the heart? To be celibate didn't mean the incapacity to love, it just took enormous self-restraint to prevent it from straying into distracting lust.
Is this why he did not cultivate a following? He certainly exuded charisma when he chose to turn it on. John had noticed women respond to the lean detective's handsome bearing. The dark curly hair, the raised collar, the riveting eyes, the deep voice seemed irresistible, until he spoke with ridicule and harsh truths, spurning further interest. Even sweet, adoring Molly would someday have to realize she was no equal if she kept him on a pedestal of romantic desire. He didn't want that.
Still, this genius deserved love! So was The Woman the first to measure up to his level of intensity? Maybe, but she played him. She used love as a whip to force submission. She went too far… and she hurt him...she had exceeded his threshold for tolerating this kind of pain.
When Sherlock loved—and John realized he was privy to that side of the man—it was a mindful love. The scientist was choosing the people he wanted in his life: Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, Mycroft, even an invalided soldier. He controlled who could get closer to him, who could see him as he really was, and past that, if they continued to love him despite all his faults, he would love them back with the same passionate intensity as he devoted to his work.
John knew for certain now Sherlock had a heart, a very private heart that was touched by a select few. Despite his self-control, The Woman left her indelible mark there too. Just now, her name was like a gravitational force that pulled the consulting detective off his regular course: he stood up, stepped away from his research, and took orbit around the information John professed to have, before finally breaking free back to his own pursuits once again.
A fierce affection tugged at John's own heart as he realized his melancholy friend had been struggling silently and alone to recover from this "broken heart" since Christmas. How could John have missed the unmistakable body language of the scientist/ philosopher/detective whose passion for The Work had been pirated away by The Woman.
It was not indifference, but herculean self-discipline and deep resolve that kept Sherlock from tearing the file from John's arms and pouring over its contents—on the outside chance the Met could have one more piece of information Sherlock had not already deduced about her.
Now that she was dead, could he get over her? Perhaps, but only if he knew she was dead.
"Listen, actually ...," John began, deciding Sherlock deserved and wanted complete honesty.
"Oh, but I will have the camera phone, though." Interrupting, Sherlock must have felt John's sympathetic eyes on him for the duration of the doctor's thoughts, but he did not remove his own from the microscope, even when he held out his hand for the camera phone.
Puzzled and perplexed John protested looking at the device through the plastic wallet. "There's nothing on it anymore. It's been stripped."
"I know, but I ...," The consulting detective gave no explanation why he wanted it, although one seemed imminent, until after a pause, during which his extended hand motioned imploringly, he merely trusted John would understand." ... I'll still have it."
"I've gotta give this back to Mycroft. You can't keep it." Deep down John did understand, even while objecting with a shake of his head.
No frustrated tirade, nor angry insults, nor overbearing arguments ensued. With his eyes still glued to the microscope, Sherlock quietly and persistently kept his hand extended, palm upturned, to receive the camera phone, as if it were his right, as though it belonged to him, and that it was his personal possession.
"Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft." John tried reason, masking a pang of sorrow with an open but gentle opposition. "It's the government's now. I couldn't even give ..."
"Please." For a man who never begged, Sherlock had a quiet way with one simple word, spoken softly. However, it was his hand, extending expectantly that made the convincing argument. John was no match for the deep-seated emotion that gave rise to the request.
Moved, John stared at the hand, wishing Sherlock would lift his eyes from the ocular lenses and connect with him, at least this once.
Instead, eyes remained averted; Sherlock did not intend to expose his heart.
Having misread him for so many months, the doctor could not blame his friend for keeping his innermost feelings private.
Even so, it was no secret now. Frowning about breaching protocol, John did as he friend asked. Retrieving the phone from the wallet, he kindly placed it in Sherlock's palm. Slowly Sherlock curled his grip over the phone. It was a tender gesture John did not fail to notice. Still, without raising his eyes from the lenses, Sherlock pocketed the phone.
As his hand returned to the fine focus on the microscope, the consulting detective replied impassively, "Thank you." The emotional depth from which those two words arose was tell-tale.
The profound revelation stunned John, who hesitated awkwardly, "Well, I'd better take this back." He pointed with the wallet, now without the camera phone, to which Sherlock succinctly answered, "Yes."
John crossed the threshold toward the stairs, silently reexamining his flawed decision to "do no harm" by injecting an untruth about Irene Adler's fate. Even more perplexing: could Sherlock have actually swallowed the story—this less bitter pill—no questions, no asides, no criticisms? Wasn't this complete and utter denial?
Pausing on the landing, John turned around with several nagging thoughts. "Did she ever text you again after…," he tilted his head, "…all that?"
"Once, a few months ago," Sherlock muttered.
A vague recollection about visiting Harry, about making a side-trip at Sherlock's request to pick up some documents for a bothersome case, about being detained for an extra day or two…due to some miscommunication and confusion about the location… wasn't that a few months ago? John wondered if his own emotional distress was muddling his memory .
"What did she say?"
Focused on the slide, the consulting detective answered remotely, "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."
"Huh." Feeling worse than before, John hovered briefly within the kitchen door. He had lied to his friend who expected the truth and he had made assumptions about Sherlock that were equally false. How blind they both had been: John for not seeing Sherlock's heart, and Sherlock, who seemed unwilling to give more "pains to the case" about Irene Adler's fate than it deserved. Would it be too cruel to whisper "Norbury?"
Pacing in one last circle of indecision, John opened his mouth, but nothing came out: not a sigh, not a sound, not a whisper. Finally, he descended the stairs, news delivered as Mycroft decided, feeling quite discomforted by twisting the truth to obliterate doubt.
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A.N. For her wonderful insights, tremendous encouragement, and meticulous eye, I thank my Beta and friend, englishtutor, for all she has done to keep my muse alive!
During the course of composing this fanfiction, I acknowledge the great assistance of the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan.