Warning: character death mentioned, plus much angst. And more singing and dancing.
"The Service"
Mary Morstan was one of the most acceptable women whom Sherlock had ever met, and the best wife for John. Better than anyone else could have been.
And now she felt guilty for ever hating the woman who took the man Sherlock loved. It was before she had met Mary. They had become friends – as much as ever a person could be friends with Sherlock – and through Mary's influence Sherlock and John made up… somewhat. John was still mistrustful, and kept his distance. It had taken several months for him to warm to Sherlock once more.
Her return brought with it some annoyances, yes: Mrs. Hudson hated it every time Sherlock left, and plied her with numerous homemade meals and desserts; Lestrade kept closer to Sherlock during crime scenes, and was proving an adequate substitute for John; and John… well, he seemed to be the only one not wholly joyful over her return. It was lonely at Baker Street. So lonely that Sherlock was considering taking on a new flatmate.
"Are you working on a new number?" Lizzy asked. Sherlock stopped applying silver mascara for long enough to stare at her colleague.
"What do you mean?" she said.
"Well, you've got your thinking face on. You said you can't be here when you're on a case, so it's not that, is it?" Sherlock shook her head slowly. "Then what's got you all broody?"
"I am not… broody. I am merely contemplating something." She finished using the mascara, and reached for the black eye pencil. She swung around on the stool, facing away from the mirror. "It is nothing to do with my work here."
"Hey, are we still calling you Sunny?"
"Call me what you like," Sherlock said, and she stood up. "Perhaps— ah, thank you, Bridget."
"No probs," Bridget said, nudging Sherlock back onto her seat. "Give it here then."
Sherlock handed her the pencil, and kept still as Bridget drew a shooting star on her cheek, near the corner of her left eye. She was the most artistic of the dancers; she drew the illustrations for any signs in and outside the club, and for their ads. A few flicks of the pencil later, and Sherlock looked approvingly at her reflection in the mirror.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"Welcome, love," Bridget said, cheerful as ever, and she shimmied out of the room while Sherlock replaced the pencil in her makeup case.
"D'you want to talk about it?" Pauline said. Sherlock pulled her shoulders back, and stood gracefully.
"A friend died a few days ago," she said. "Her funeral is tomorrow."
"What? But you were here last night, and the night before," Bella said, and she touched Sherlock's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"
"Because it is a sore subject for me. I would appreciate it if we no longer discussed it."
"Right you are," Monica said. Bella smiled sadly, patted Sherlock on the back, and left to go backstage. Miss McCray chose that moment to show up at the door.
"Your friends are here, Sunny," she said. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.
"My friends?" she inquired.
"Yes. Girl with long brown hair, older woman with short hair, blond bloke, a tall one with a brolly, and that silver fox."
They were here. Sherlock's friends. And John. Did he still count as a friend, eight months after her return?
Oh good God. Umbrella. Mycroft was here as well?
"Thank you," Sherlock said, trying not to let this distract her. Miss McCray's eyes narrowed.
"You all right to go on?" she asked. "You're after Blondie."
"I am aware of that. Thank you, Miss McCray. I will be fine." Miss McCray was about to leave, when Sherlock continued. "I… have put some thought into a new dance. I must confess, it was partly planned with a friend. My… my late friend. Using the song from her favourite James Bond film. I have told the band, and Damian and Bradley are my backup dancers. Will it be acceptable to premiere it tonight?"
"If you feel up to it."
"I do. I believe that this is the one night where it should be… given life."
Miss McCray smiled. "Then go for it, Starshine."
Sherlock swallowed, and went to open her jewellery case.
The curtains opened on the second act. There was silence. Then the click of boots across the stage as Starshine – Sherlock – walked up to the front, stopping at the centre pole.
Sherlock reached out a hand, slowly, so slowly. Golden bracelets shimmered in the spotlight. Her cape rustled with the movement. She was wearing more than she had eight months ago. That night would forever be burned in John's memory; every moment like a movie still. This costume's skirt stopped just above Sherlock's knees, and she was wearing a scarf which tucked into the bodice. Flushing with shame and guilt, John forced himself to watch Sherlock's face instead. His thoughts only took seconds, which ended when she grasped the pole.
The moment she did, the band began to play. A saxophone struck up a few notes, and John immediately recognised the song. His hands began to tremble, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Sherlock swayed from one side to the other, in time with the saxophone, her eyes closed and head tilted back. Then she looked directly at the audience and sang.
"Goldfinger." Her lips curled. "He's the man, the man with the Midas touch." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "A spider's touch." She draped herself on the pole. "Such a cold finger," she stroked up and down the front of the pole, from her breasts to the top of the skirt, "beckons you to enter his web of sin." She snapped straight up, and the band paused. "But don't go in."
Then they joined in again, and Sherlock began to dance, really dance, as she sang, her body almost blending with the metal.
"Golden words he will pour in your ear," she sang, and she paused to look at the audience again. "But his lies can't disguise what you fear." She removed her cape. "For a golden girl knows when he's kissed her," at 'kissed', she tossed the cape into the audience, "it's the kiss of death from Mister Goldfinger." She returned to violating the metal pole. "Pretty girl, beware of his heart of gold; this heart is cold."
Then she and two male performers danced while the band improvised on the tune. John's fists were clenched where they rested on his lap. The skirt was the next thing to go, and there were even louder cheers as she began to draw off the scarf gradually. As it left the confines of her bodice while she was lifted between the two men, a few coarse suggestions were made, nearly sending John out of his seat. Sherlock merely laughed.
"You have to pay for that privilege," she called back. There was more laughter. She was lowered back to the stage, and she leapt to the top of the pole amid more cheers. As she twirled around, getting lower, she let the scarf trail behind. Just before she reached the bottom, she threw it to their table at the front. John caught it by reflex. He clutched it as Sherlock returned to singing, no longer at the pole, but coming down among the audience.
"Golden words he will pour in your ear, but his lies can't disguise what you fear. For a golden girl knows when he's kissed her, it's the kiss of death from Mister Goldfinger," she tickled a couple of customers behind the ears. "Pretty girl, beware of his heart of gold," she touched the heart-shaped locket at her throat, and John stopped breathing. He knew that necklace. "This heart is cold." She walked back onto the stage as she continued. "He loves only gold." She made for the central pole again. "Only gold." She curled one leg around it. "He loves gold." She made fleeting eye contact with John, then half-smirked at the rest of the audience. "He loves gold."
And on the high note, she spun around to face the back of the stage, and the lights went down.
Wandering out to the bar five minutes later, desperate for a drink after receiving so many congratulations on a good performance (and still waiting for her nerves to settle), Sherlock ran into John. It turned out not to be an accident at all, as he backed her into a dark spot.
"What the hell was that about, Sherlock?" he said, nearly snarling the words. She swallowed.
"Returning my scarf?" she said.
"To hell with your scarf. How dare you take one of Mary's favourite songs, and do… do that to it."
Sherlock reeled back a step, feeling as though she'd been slapped. "She—"
"She would never do that sort of thing," John said, gripping Sherlock's right arm and pushing her against the wall. "She was a lady, and a hundred times the woman you could ever be."
Scowling, Sherlock tried to wrench herself out of John's grasp. He simply held on tighter. "You are wrong, John. She was… a thousand times the woman I could ever be. That any woman could ever be." That seemed to give him pause, and she managed to extract her arm without his notice. "I performed that routine to honour her."
John's look turned to disgust. "Honour? You call behaving like a… like a—"
"Whore?" Sherlock said, deducing where this was going. John's mouth tightened.
"If you prefer," he said. "You think that's honouring her?"
Sherlock studied him, and then shook her head. "Goodbye, John. I will see you tomorrow, but that is all. That will be the last time, I assure you. I can see that… that she was wrong about you."
"What's that?"
She laughed bitterly. "She had the foolish notion that you returned at least some of my idiotic feelings for you. To think that you could love me even a fraction of how much I love you is simply laughable. Unthinkable. Isn't it, John?"
Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock turned, and returned to the dressing room. As she walked, she rubbed some of the feeling back into her arm.
"I could have lived my whole life without witnessing that," Mycroft said, still rubbing his eyes. John sat down heavily, and noticed the crumpled scarf by the floor. One of the waiters came around.
"Better get that back to Sunny," he said, and he picked it up. John noticed that he had the cape and the skirt as well.
"Well, you wanted to come," Greg reminded Mycroft. The latter frowned at him.
"Not the most appropriate phrasing you could have chosen, detective inspector," he said, and Greg rolled his eyes.
"You know what I mean," he said.
"Sherlock is doing very well, isn't she?" Mrs. Hudson said. "Molly and I come here regularly, you know. It's nice to get away from house-cleaning and corpses for awhile. And we do enjoy watching the male performers, don't we, Molly?" Molly blushed. "I'm still trying to convince her to get a private dance, but she's a bit reluctant, aren't you, dear?"
"It's… it's not really my thing…"
"Ah well," Mrs. Hudson said, and she waved her hand. "Never mind. You're not into necrophilia, are you?"
While Molly spluttered incoherently, John thought over his conversation with Sherlock. Regret was trying to creep its way in, but he forced it away. Mycroft's eyes were all over him, though; he was sure of it. And if he knew the Holmes family at all, he knew that Mycroft could guess at least some of what had happened. He resolutely wiped any possible guilt off his face, and decided to get another drink.
Soon, it was getting late, and there was the funeral tomorrow to consider. There was no way he was showing up hung-over. Greg, still sober, offered to drive them home. Mycroft said that he would wait for Sherlock. While the women climbed into the backseat of the inspector's car, Mycroft pulled John aside, and he waited for a dressing down.
"Your late wife inspired Sherlock's routine," Mycroft said. John rolled his eyes, and started to walk away. But Mycroft hauled him back, echoing John's actions towards Sherlock. "Sherlock told me so in a phone conversation some three months ago. She and Mary spent far more time together than you spent with my sister. I will accept that you are still hurt, and that you are attempting to come to trust her again. Your wife's death has clearly set this back, which is most disappointing."
"Don't you dare—"
"I believe that Sherlock opened up to Mrs. Watson a great deal."
"Oh, come off it—"
"Do stop interrupting me, Dr. Watson. The rub of the matter is that they spoke, among other topics, about Sherlock's work at the club. You are aware that they watched Goldfinger together?" John nodded shortly. "And yet you appear to be unaware that Mrs. Watson suggested that the title song would make an appropriate addition to a stripper's musical repertoire. This is according to Sherlock; however, I sincerely doubt that my sister would lie about so improbable an occurrence. You may find, were you to ask, that Mrs. Watson advised Sherlock on a dance. I have not seen my sister dance previously, and so I cannot offer judgement on which moves are hers, and which may have been recommended by… Good night, Dr. Watson. DI Lestrade is waiting for you."
Then Mycroft slid into his black car, and John walked back to Greg's car, hand shaking as he tried to buckle in his seatbelt. When he finally had it, he settled down to think about what had happened that night, and all that had been revealed.
Teasing Mycroft was always fun, and Sherlock had been looking forward to it now that he had seen her performance, particularly as she had removed more than just a cape.
But her conversation with John – her horrible, soul-rending conversation with John – silenced her. Mycroft even attempted to prompt her into insulting him, first by disparaging her, and then baiting her. Nothing worked. It was almost kind of him; but nothing would relieve her of the melancholy now weighing her down. She sighed when they pulled up.
"Your arm is slightly discoloured," Mycroft said. Sherlock stilled. "It was John."
"You know it was. Do not persist in this line of enquiry, Mycroft. Please."
He didn't reply, and she counted that as a minor victory (miracle). Then she slipped out of the car, closed the door, and entered Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was already asleep; she was probably out like a light as soon as she hit the covers. Sherlock was beginning to feel that way herself. A rarity, but justifiable. And it was important to sleep well, so that she would be refreshed for the funeral in less than twelve hours' time.
However, sleep did not come that easily. Sherlock kept thinking over the conversation she had had with Mary only two days before the sick woman succumbed to her illness.
And, judging by John's reaction, it was a conversation which had only elicited false hope, and would haunt Sherlock the rest of her days.
The day was only partly overcast; there'd even been some sunshine as they processed out of the chapel. Standing by the hole in the ground, waiting for the coffin to be lowered, John looked across at Sherlock.
It was rare to see any kind of emotion on the detective's face. Fake emotion, to gain information from suspects, or to entertain the clientele of The Blue Note Club, was one thing; genuine emotion, however, was another entirely. John had seen her crocodile tears before. Standing opposite, behind a few of Mary's friends, John could see moisture on Sherlock's cheeks, even as she was obviously trying to keep a straight face. But she looked close to breaking, judging by the telltale quiver of her lower lip every few minutes.
It felt wrong, being on opposite sides. Those three years that Sherlock had been gone, and all these months since her return, still didn't diminish the feeling that they should be standing together. If she'd never faked her own suicide – been there all along instead – and if John had still been widowed, Sherlock would have been right there, at the front, being his rock. Instead, she was half-hidden behind people she didn't even know, and it felt like she was worlds away.
"…ashes to ashes, dust to dust…"
John murmured 'Amen' with everyone else at the right time, and watched as the coffin was lowered. The moment it made contact with the dirt, with a dull thud, John looked up at Sherlock. Her face crumpled, and she bowed her head. Then John was being swept up in condolences, and it was like years passed as each person there threw a rose into the grave. John thought that he saw something flash in the light as Sherlock dropped hers onto the coffin. She met his eyes briefly when she straightened up.
But the moment was gone as soon as it came, and she turned away. There was certainly something shiny around her neck, and he remembered the night before. Slowly filling with indignation again, he took off after her, and grabbed her by the same arm. She winced, and tore out of his grasp.
"I told you this was the last time," she said. "I'm respecting your wishes, so leave me be, Dr. Watson."
That pulled him up short, and he took a step back.
"That was Mary's locket," he said, pointing at her neck. Sherlock covered it with her hand, and raised her head.
"And? When was the last time you saw her wearing it?" she asked.
"On our anniversary. She wore it on our wedding day, and every anniversary after that."
Sherlock's eyes widened. Immediately, she undid the clasp and thrust the jewellery into his hand.
"Take it," she said. "I don't want it anymore. I don't want any of it anymore, and I never did. Not like… not like this."
With those mysterious last words, she virtually ran away from him, and hailed a cab. One appeared straight away, of course.
"John!" Mike called. John looked back over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"
He nodded, sighing. When he looked again, the cab was gone, and he trudged back to the graveside.
The will was fairly simple. Most of Mary's property went to John, with some knick-knacks going to various friends. Nothing out of the ordinary; nothing unexpected.
Until…
"And to Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Watson—"
"Sherlock Holmes?" John said, interrupting the solicitor. "Mary left something to her?"
"Yes," the solicitor said. "A letter," she held it up, and John briefly caught sight of the name 'Sherlock' written in Mary's handwriting, "a heart-shaped locket on a gold chain, her engagement ring, and the DVD of Goldfinger. Mrs. Watson left a note saying that she had already given Miss Holmes the two pieces of jewellery. Is this correct?"
"I…" John's mouth was drying up. "I'm not sure about the ring, but… yes, she gave Sherlock the locket."
"Good," the solicitor said. "If you could arrange for Miss Holmes to receive the DVD and letter. According to the will, it is only to be opened on Miss Holmes's wedding day."
John nodded, and the meeting was soon wrapped up. There were documents to be signed, of course; but the necklace weighed heavily in his pocket, and he kept thinking about the ring. He hadn't found it among Mary's things, and he was sure he would have noticed Sherlock wearing it. Wouldn't he?
Staring at the DVD, it began to dawn on him that he'd gotten things incredibly wrong.
Didn't mean to throw in a new routine; this didn't go at all the way that I expected, honest! But I had the beginning of 'Goldfinger' stuck in my head. One thing led to another…
Sigh.
Only one chapter to go of this story! After that, you should go and read donnabella2k7's one-shot fic inspired by this story. Not sure when it will be up, but it'll be sometime soon (I hope).
Please review!