Author's Note:
Hello there!
I want to thank all of you who spare time to check this fiction out. I hope some of you are really enjoying this and not bearing with me out of desperation: It is my first writing experience and I want it to be fun, so comments and suggestions are very welcome. And some special thanks to:
KittyJeanLightwood and BambiAsMoriary for their encouraging comments. Thank you!
Pull Me High But Don't Drop Midway Ok?
John.
John Watson. It's his name. My perfect puzzle.
For the last twenty four hours, I experience a long forgotten emotion, 'joy' I guess. I feel ecstatic to my cells. And it is impossible, even for an instant, to stop, think and calm myself. I terribly wish to go outside to shout at the top of my lungs: "Did you see? Did you see that brilliant thing in my house?!". And he came to me of his own accord.
If not see the object of my joy hanging around in the room, I would truly doubt my brain health from the reactions I am giving. As if I am high or, in this case, pulling up by a John bubble. I don't remember the last time that I feel so alive. Ah, yes! The serial killer last year. The one who wrote some coded messages on the skulls of the victims, shaving their heads. It was a wonderful week passed between the city library and SY. Then I figured that the murderer was a university student who copied the events from a manga, a young girl actually! Since then there have been no time that my brain feels so alive. Which is definitely saying something.
John!
John Watson who had nightmares all night but put a tea and toast in front of me with smiling eyes. Who wears his ugly jumper upright as if a uniform and whose footsteps in my house don't drive me mad, astonishingly. John Watson who draws me to the kitchen with the smell of the meal he cooks, which by the way I do not have a clue from where he finds all these supplies.
He is not noisy or boring like other people. His reaction to my observations is far from being ordinary. He is not laughing at me but with me. I don't have to put up with him when we talk. Our conversations flow naturally. Like a knife smearing butter easily on a slice of bread. God, I just made a metaphor about kitchen! It must be his side effect.
When he was sleeping, fighting nightmares, I researched him on the internet. He has a blog in the name of John H. Watson. I must ask him about 'H'. Harry? Harold? His entries are quite short and depressed. The last one is: "Nothing happens to me". He misses the danger. He is bored so much. Like me.
His stupid therapist thinks it is because of the war, his depression. She doesn't know him even a little, doesn't know that his true enemy is this secured urban life.
Under his army posture, there are dozens versions of John which show themselves for the last few hours. The ridiculous attention he pays to cooking, the disapproving doctor look he gives me after hearing my eating routine, the amused expression when I make deductions about the people in the TV show he watches… When I found out how much fun he got from this, I could not help but deduce all the characters in the show. His short, clean laughs filled the room. They remind me of crystals, oddly. After watering from the laugh, his eyes got bluer. Brighter.
I still can not believe he said those words last night. His observations made me pace in the living room all night. There is no one who could describe me like that, let alone a total stranger. If not his childlike expression when he realized I was a writer as he guessed, if his voice had not sounded two octave shocked saying "Really? I can't believe I got that right!", I would have thought that someone send him to tease me.
But he is real. The most real thing I lay my eyes upon after a long time. And I want that reality with me.
He is clever enough, a skilled doctor. He would be a great assistant to me. I can make use of his medical knowledge in my stories. Furthermore he is an ex-soldier, he does not fear of the danger. We can search for interesting cases together.
I can imagine us chasing criminals in the alleys of London, coming home breathless to Baker Street. John's efforts to create a place for himself on the chaos of the kitchen table or his nagging me about my eating habits with Mrs. Hudson. I can even picture the look on Mycroft when he meets John. Surely, John will detest him as much as I do. It will be so fun!
"You don't go to the town often?" I pull away from my thoughts by his voice. While I fool around the bottles, he is washing the dishes his back turned to me.
"Just when I have to."
"Don't you have- any friends there? Some places you hang out?
"Really John, if you had been there once, you would not have asked me any of these."
"Why?"
"Because those people are dreadfully stupid. I must first loose more than half of my brain cells to have a satisfying conversation with any of them. Which is not obviously something I wish."
He snorts, half turning to me with his hands still in the sink.
"Oh, come on! Aren't you exaggerating a bit?"
"No, I am not."
"But you are chatting with me since this morning. And- assuming you are not bored, how bad would it be with the ones in the town?"
"Yes, but I can assure you that you are no like towners at all. Don't you think you are underestimating your intellect much?"
We stare at each other for a few seconds as he purses his lips.
"Anyway. You said you have never been in town before. You came camping in the forest, right? But we didn't talk about what exactly happened there."
He turns his back to me again. It is obvious he doesn't want me to see his expression, he doesn't want to respond either.
"Yes. I thought that fresh air was a good idea. Er- a friend mentioned this area and I came with a backpack. But I forgot to check the weather beforehand, stupid of me actually."
"And?"
"And.. I donno. Everything is a bit blur. I was.. attacked I guess."
The muscles on his neck and shoulders flex slightly. His moving hands are now stable in the sink.
"By whom?"
"Hm?"
"Who attacked you? And what would they get from you anyway? A camper can not have much cash with him or another thing that is worth the effort. Of course, if we are not talking about sexual assault."
"WHAT? No! Not like that."
"Then how?"
"Actually, he came from the back. I couldn't see clearly. I am not even sure if he was… human. It was probably- an animal."
It is obvious he is lying but I am not sure if entirely or between lines. He was totally naked when he came here. Why would an animal need-
Animal!
"What animal?" I rise from my chair instantly and walk to where he stands. He draws out his wet hands from the sink, half turning to me.
"It.. was really foggy you know and-"
"John! What animal?" I grip him from his shoulders.
"I.. don't know."
Come on! Think, think, think! You have to remember. If you saw what I saw…
"John, you can remember. Human memory is more accurate than you can ever imagine. It records every visual experience, even the ones you don't think you recall. Now. Close your eyes. Imagine yourself in the forest."
"What? What the hell?"
He is gaping at me. I tighten my grip on his shoulders and begin turning him around. It might have a hypnotic effect on him.
"I said close your eyes. You have to remember what you saw, John. What kind of animal? Was it big? What about its fur? What colour?"
He looks confused. Why doesn't he close his damned eyes?
"John! Animal. What did it look like? The thing that attacked you… it looked like a wolf?"
THERE.
It passed in his eyes in less than half a second but I've caught it. He knows something. He should! He stops me holding my forearms with his wet hands.
"Sherlock, stop it. I don't know. It was getting dark and I was scared. I run away immediately."
"Then why were you naked?"
"I… was changing my clothes. I sank in a waterhole on my way there… I was soaking wet. I was just pulling my spare clothes from my backpack. It must have come in that exact minute."
Why are you lying, John? You are not even a good liar. I must train you.
I leave the kitchen after nodding shortly. Did he see the same creature I saw? That's why he is lying? Maybe he thinks that I will not believe him. I must think about it.
Yes. Mind palace.
Hours passed when I sit on my armchair, walking room to room in mind palace. John was a needed distraction after the encounter with that strange animal. But when he mentioned his attacker my mind was pulled to the same creature again.
Why would he attack to John, assuming he is telling the truth? I can not see a reason for the animal to harm him. I took a lot more risk than John, but no harm done.
After torturing myself with the same thoughts, I've come and sit on the couch beside John. He's tucked his legs under himself, leaning other side of the couch. His elbow is on the armrest, his head resting in the palm.
He is watching a weird TV show about time travel. I don't know if the show aims to be absurd but it succeeds it anyhow. There is a man operating a so-called time machine, which is blatantly a studio décor by the way, with dramatic moves. This man who calls himself Doctor is telling other people about mechanism of the time in a quite knowing manner. And the man has nearly no eyebrows!
I could not bare the ridiculousness of the show after five minutes and shared my observations with John. He must be really enjoying the show because he defended it fervently for a while. Then he's totally given up after listening patiently my speech on parallel times and time loops. He turns his eyes to me and changes the subject probably just to shut me up.
"So. You are a writer ha? What kind of stories do you write?"
"Novels actually. Thrillers."
A smile spreads on his face. His cheeks get sharper with the push of his grin.
"Really? Wow! Like Richard Brook?"
He must be bloody kidding!
"Yes, we can say that. You know him?"
"Of course. I mean, is it even possible anyone like the genre but not know him? I don't think so. That man is bloody amazing."
I purse my lips, keeping a serious expression.
"You think so?"
"Yes. Don't you? I know, he has some weird stuff too but overall I think he is great."
"What 'weird stuff' you might be referring to?"
"Well… Sometimes his writing is a bit… technical and boring? I mean, he mentions 243 types of tobacco ashes for pages! And ... he says he can identify an airline pilot from, what, his thumb?"
"You think it is impossible?"
"Maybe… Maybe not. I don't know. The point is, I don't think readers are interested in this stuff. He sometimes makes his characters speak like university professors. Nobody likes reading lecture for pages."
Oh, everybody is a critic!
"So you are saying thrillers should be easy reading ha? They shouldn't challenge the readers intellectually?"
"No. Not at all. But maybe he can shorten the lecture part. And- work on his characters."
"What about them?"
"Em… don't you think some of them are a bit- exaggerated or caricaturized? The one in his last novel for instance. I mean.. nobody likes someone who orders other people constantly and then tells every little ugly detail about their lives to their faces. There are no such people in real life, right?... What do you say?"
"I…
I think…
I am going to- have a shower."
When I rise from the couch I don't take a glance at his side, though I can feel his eyes on me till I close the bathroom door.
My ears are tingling. I- I feel suffocated. Shower. Yes, it is not a bad idea.
I get rid of my clothes and stand in the bath tub in a record time. Hot water is paralyzing my other senses. But the same sentence echoes in my mind without cease. In a soft voice. Which ironically contrasts to the tough meaning:
Nobody likes someone who orders other people constantly and then tells every little ugly detail about their lives to their faces.
Nobody likes.
Nobody likes.
Nobody likes someone.
Like you.
Again and again. With John's crystal voice. With his smiling face. As if he is declaring an obvious truth. So serene.
Minutes passed. Hours maybe. And I am more tired then I first came here, as I turn off the tap and wear my robe.
I inhale and take a step out of the bathroom. And I noticed a few things at the same time. TV is off. There is a voicemail on the home phone. And John is standing a few feet away from me, staring at me strangely.
"You must be fucking kidding me!"
I quirk an eyebrow. What now?
"Why didn't you say you were Richard bloody Brook?"
Oh.