Chapter 3: Tell Me
"I don't really know what to say." She confesses, and it's perhaps the most perfect thing she could have said.
It's a chilly Sunday morning and they are at their most vulnerable state. They both know they are being observed, scrutinized, analysed to the very core of their existence. She's looking at a side of him she's never seen before and he's looking at a side of her no one – not even herself – knew existed. It's confusing and messy and quite frankly, a wee disturbing.
"You've only had one meaningful relationship with your life, and that relationship was with Irene." She states, matter-of-factly.
"Moriarty." He corrects, and she sees a faint shade of sadness go through his eyes.
"Yes." She agrees "But before she was Moriarty, before you knew who she was. I want you to tell me about the relationship you had before that."
"I don't see the point." He tells her "It was all a lie."
"It wasn't for you." She says, giving his hand a light squeeze. "I want to know what it was like for you."
"Alright."
June 23, 2011
Irene Adler's Flat
17 Three Kings Yard, London
"Hello? Irene?" he calls, setting a medium-sized paper bag on the floor. He takes a second to look around before taking the bouquet of lilies he brought her to the kitchen. He makes a point to bring her flowers once a week, even though he knows they'll be dead in less than three days. He removes the – dead – roses he brought her the previous week from the vase and tosses them on the rubbish bin, careful not to drip too much water. The lilies are a bit short for that particular vase, but it's the only one he finds, so he leaves them there nonetheless.
"Up here!" She yells, and he follows the faint sound of a song playing.
"Hello." He repeats, and plants a kiss on her hair. "What's this?"
He knows what it is. Knows who it is. She's a brilliant painter and the picture looks almost identical to the photo he has. The dark fur, the snout and those unmistakable expressive yes. He sits on the grass at a location he promptly recognizes as the Richmond Park, surrounded by tall trees. It's a sunny day and the sky is clear, and somewhere, far in the back, he notices a little boy. He doesn't have a face and yet he seems scared – something he's positive only the most talented of artists can accomplish – and lost. He appears young, but the sombre colours he wears age him a few years. He wears a single-breasted dark grey jacket and trousers the same colour, and black cap toe balls. It wouldn't be a very distinctive outfit, not if he weren't wearing the brightest, most scandalous lime green socks in the planet.
He glances at his watch, and it marks 6:47 PM. Years later, he'll remember that moment as the day Irene Adler crawled into his brain, his life, and lodged there, like a bullet that doesn't leave an exit wound, forever.
"She painted the dog I had as a boy." Sherlock tells her, in a choked-out almost whisper.
Joan struggles to understand why he seems so disturbed by a painting of a childhood pet. She can't think of clear answer as to why this would upset him so much, so she waits for him to continue.
"One our servants – one of my father's drivers, likely – ran over the animal." He says "Redbeard, I had named him, died almost instantly, but not before he could produce the most horrid sound I have ever had the displeasure of listening to. I was six years old."
She gives his hand another light squeeze and offers him a compassionate smile, but the sentiment doesn't seem to vitiate his feelings. It's a brand-new virgin ground, and she's not entirely sure what she's supposed to do.
Cont'd
"Irene." He cries, and she turns around on her stool to look at him "What is this painting?"
"I thought you'd like it." She says, innocently.
"Why would you think such a nonsensical thing?" he says, and for a second, wishes he hadn't been quite so harsh "There's a reason why I didn't tell you about him, and there is certainly a reason why I'm upset. I don't know how you found out about this bloody dog, but I don't want to remember it, don't want to talk about it, and I positively, one hundred percent do not want to see a painting of it!"
He doesn't linger in the room and she doesn't follow him, and he's out of her flat and walking towards the tube in less than five minutes. Redbeard is a distant, painful memory, and Sherlock Holmes is not one to allow painful memories to surface and affect him.
"It was not… she did not have the right." He says. "Of course I didn't realise it back then, but she meant to… hurt me." He says "She meant to hurt me all along."
"I'm sorry." She mutters, and doesn't manage to think about anything to say.
"It's a perfect metaphor of our relationship, the painting." He concludes "It's destructive, but very discreet. And both introduced a confused part of myself."
He's the one who smiles this time, rising to his feet.
"I want you to see it."
"See what?"
"Redbeard and the Boy Who Lost." He responds "That's what she named it. Redbeard and the Boy Who Lost. She had it sent to me a few days after she lost her liberty. It's in my bedroom."
It's very typical of him, to keep something that keeps on causing him pain. Leaving it there, staring, scaring, scarring.
They go up the stairs and down the hallway and she realises she's never been in his bedroom before. It's astonishingly clean, spotless really, and not at all what you'd expect of the great Sherlock Holmes. A king-sized bed with a cushioned headboard lies against the wall, covered in all-white linen. A light-blue comforter rests on a nearby armchair, and she presumes he sleeps on the chair more often than he does in the bed. It's not a particularly beautiful room, it's actually quite dull, but she likes it. The dresser is low and sturdy, the wood very dark, contrasting with the light-coloured bed. The closet is closed and its door is also dark, and right next to that door, she sees it.
It's gorgeous, that's not a matter of discussion. The colours are balanced and the strokes and both soft and decisive. The dog is absolutely stunning. It could be put in a museum, and most people would mistake it for a Reynolds.
"It's beautiful." She says, reaching for his hand.
"That's one thing she did not fake. She is indeed an exquisite painter." Their fingers entwine, and she leans on him, head resting on his shoulder.
"It's not always like this, Sherlock." She assures him, even though she knows he's well aware. "We are not like this."
She lifts her head from his shoulder and turns to face him, taking his other hand into hers in the process.
"Irene, and only Irene, is responsible for the failure of your relationship."
He sighs, and she understands. She can't heal those wounds, she can try, but she can't fix them. No amount of love or comprehension will never heal those wounds. And that's okay, she concludes, because she too, has wounds he cannot heal.
"I think she did love you, Sherlock."
"That hardly matters." He says, leaning closer to her "I did not want to be loved. I wanted to be understood."
She chuckles, not because she finds it particularly funny, but because it's the first time she really understood what the sentence meant.
"Did she understand you?"
"I don't know." He whispers "It's not important. Not anymore."
He brushes his lips against hers softly, chastely, delicately. It's not a lusty kiss and that's probably best.
They'll figure it all out, she concludes, as she rests his forehead against his. In their own time.