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The next morning I awoke early and read the paper before I showered and ate breakfast.
"Hello?" I asked, my ear pressed to my mobile, a spoonful of cereal in my other hand.
"Hello, Miss Walker, it's Daisy Carmichael, your publishing agent I've just heard from Stonewall Publishing," said the familiar but always chipper voice on the other end.
"You know you don't have to introduce yourself every time Daisy, and really, please call me Claire, we've been working together for, what is it, five years now?" I said through a mouthful of cereal.
"Yes, Miss Wa- I mean, yes Claire."
I smiled despite how mournful I'd been feeling lately, "Anyways what're you calling about? Did they read Seamus Haines yet?"
"Oh yes, they loved it, absolutely adored it; that's why I'm calling actually, they want to know whether you'd consider using your real name this time."
I thought for a moment, "No, I don't think so, but I'm not using any of my frilly little pseudonyms, no I need a new one for this."
"Do you think it'd sell better if the author seems androgynous?" Daisy asked even though she probably already knew the answer.
"They always do don't they..."
"So initials then?"
"Yes, um, do I have to decide right this minute?"
"Erm, no I don't suppose so," she paused in thought, "Actually this works out quite well, because there's another reason I called."
"Oh really, what's that?"
"Well, they enjoyed the first one so much they were wondering if you'd want to write some more? Something like a five book contract?"
I nearly spit out the tea I was drinking, "You're joking? they want more of that rubbish?"
"Yes, well they certainly don't think it rubbish, they also wanted you to tone down the romance, it might sell to male authors if the romance is subtly slipped in?"
"When do I need to come in?"
"Well they were hoping today actually."
I tapped the counter considering my options, continue writing horrid little romances with no real idea what I was writing or continue with these, semi-decent mysteries.
"How much?"
"Beg pardon?"
"How much are they prepared to offer for a five book contract?"
"Oh, uh, let's see," I heard her rustling papers, "They've offered a substantial advance, and then all the subsequent payments are negotiable depending on the sales of the first book."
"Sounds alright, you know what yeah, I'll do it, but no pictures and I'll write the bio," I haggled.
"Yes, yes, and it'd be best if you had a pseudonym in mind when you get here, they'd like to include it in their records."
"Great, I'll be there at one." I hung up the phone and leaned back on the counter, a somewhat steady job, in a manner of speaking. All I needed to do was keep coming up with mysteries, and a love story also but that's nothing new.
I was genuinely proud of myself for the first time in ages as I opened the door of a near empty conference room in the Stonewall Publishing Building.
"So before we get out all the paperwork Miss Walker, how did you want to proceed with the issue of your name. We know you often use a pseudonym, and Miss Carmichael here mentioned you were thinking androgyny would be best." The suited man, who's name had already slipped my mind gazed at my unkempt hair and wrinkled button up.
"Yeah, I told Daisy I'd be using initials, but not mine of course, how about, H. W. Powers?" It had taken me a considerable while to settle on that name, the 'H' and 'W' obviously for my inspirations, Holmes and Watson. The Powers for Carl, who never go the renown he deserved.
"You're sure that's the one you want?"
"Positive," I said as he slid the contract across the table, little 'x's scattered about, marking the bits that needed signing.
Feeling the need to celebrate I bought a cheap bottle of red wine on my way home. I changed in my bedroom without turning the light, not bothering to make sure I was wearing clean clothes.
I scoured the kitchen for a corkscrew, I even got to the point where I'd have settled for a screwdriver.
Frustrated I threw on a bathrobe and the pair of brown leather boots crumpled by the door and jogged up the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, "Mrs. Hudson?" I knocked, "It's Claire."
"Hello, dear, what is it? Not mould I hope?" she opened the door
"No," I shook my head, "No nothing like that, I was just wondering if you had a corkscrew?"
"Let me check, come on in," The older woman bustled around the kitchen scouring her drawers and cupboards, while I stood awkwardly by the door.
"I'm afraid I've misplaced mine, I'm sure Dr. Watson has one, all those girlfriends of his," she gossiped.
"I thought he was still with that doctor, Sara? Oh never mind," I smiled, "Maybe I'll see if they're home.
Determined not to see Sherlock until he'd apologized for yesterday morning I texted John: 'Do you have a corkscrew?'
He answered seconds later: 'Are you okay after what happened yesterday?'
Typical, I avoided his prying and re-sent my original text.
'Are you entertaining?' he sent back.
'That's none of your business, do you have one or not?' I replied, getting frustrated.
'Well if you're drinking because you're upset about the other day, I'm sure it'd be healthier to talk to someone.'
"Oh for Christ's sake," I murmured, 'Thanks for the tip DOCTOR but I'm playing this new game, I take a drink every time I get sad, do you have a cork screw or not?' I decided to lie about my drinking just to spite him.
'Sherlock feels bad, he wants to talk to you.'
Just then my phone started vibrating in my hand, 'Blocked ID' I debated ignoring it but thought better seeing as it may be someone from Stonewall.
"Hello?"
"Claire, it's John, will you come up for a cup of tea?" John's firm steady voice asked reasonably.
"Do you have a corkscrew or not? I bought a bottle of wine, I haven't got one, and I'm not in the mood to go to the shops and get one."
"Fine but you have to come up and get it, Sherlock needs to speak with you," he responded stubbornly.
I violently flipped the phone shut and ran up the steps two at a time, stopping near the top to catch my breath.
"Where's John?" I asked bluntly as I slid past Sherlock into 221B.
"He's out," he replied, mimicking my blunt response.
"With Sara?"
"No, he's out on business," he walked to the kitchen and grabbed a corkscrew from one of the drawers by the fridge.
I held out my hand expectantly, "Thanks."
He moved it towards my hand and then pulled it back, "I didn't mean to make you upset," he turned away awkwardly fidgeting with the corkscrew.
I opened my mouth to speak but couldn't find anything I felt I should say, because he did make me upset, and he couldn't undo it.
"Sometimes I'm not very good at reading people."
"We both know that's a load of bullocks," I scoffed.
"I mean, sometimes I don't know when to stop, to avoid hurting people, especially when there's a mystery involved. You have every right to be cross with me," He looked genuinely conflicted.
"I know I have," I kept my arms folded tightly over my chest.
"Which is why I am apologizing for my inappropriate behaviour towards you yesterday and I hope you are able to forgive me."
I was nearly positive John had told him what to say, but he did seem very sincere when he said it, I also did over react a bit. How could he have known about my dad and Carl, and he was always insensitive, I hadn't been his neighbour very long but I did know that much about him.
"Why should I forgive you?" I asked, simply taking advantage of him now.
He seemed slightly taken aback, "I am genuinely sorry Claire, I consider you," he seemed at a loss for words.
"Oh it's alright," I waved him off, trying to avoid the awkward moment that would follow him labeling our acquaintance with each other, "I forgive you," I said with minimal enthusiasm, "But you have to understand I was upset because painful memories were brought up, half my family died, that's not something a person ever fully recovers from. And you coming in and blathering on about 'the game' well it made it feel trivial, it made my family's suffering and my own problems feel trivial."
"You must know that those were never my intentions, sometimes I get," he struggled for the right words. "I get so wrapped up in my own mind that I lose sight of what others are thinking or feeling and the social conventions that I ought to abide by."
"I understand," I said, "Well not really, I mean I understand what you're saying but I certainly don't understand what that's like. I write fluffy little romances for a living, thinking about people's emotions is in the job description."
"Well now that we're," he was momentarily unsure what we were, as was I, "On good terms again, I'd been meaning to ask, how is The Adventures of Seamus Haines going?"
I was taken aback by the casual tone in his voice, he spoke to me as comfortably as he did to Mrs. Hudson, that detective fellow I'd met the previous morning, or even Watson, his constant companion. I felt as though I'd entered his tiny group of confidantes, as though being offended to the point of traumatization was some sort of initiation.
"Fantastic actually, everyone loves Seamus, I've got a five book contract, I signed it this afternoon actually."
"Congratulations, I imagine you're on your way out then?" he glanced at my attire, I could tell he had deduced exactly what I'd be doing, but I appreciated the feigned ignorance.
I laughed, "No, that's actually why I needed the corkscrew, I was going to sit in my flat drinking wine all by myself, like the spinster I am destined to become." I droaned before I could stop myself.
"Would you like to stay up here for a while?" Sherlock asked, "So you're not alone that is..."
"I'd like that," I smiled, "I mean, that'd be nice, uh, I'll just go and get the wine..."
My heart raced as I ran downstairs, I wasn't sure why, I mean of course Sherlock was somewhat attractive and obviously brilliant. But he wasn't kind, he was insensitive and infuriatingly full of himself. In all honesty he was the complete and utter opposite of Han, the last man who had caused my heart to beat quite so rapidly. Why should I be so excited at drinking wine with him?
I arrived back upstairs, wine in hand, to find Sherlock perched on his chair shouting abuse at the television.
I laughed as I uncorked the wine, "Did you want a glass?"
"No thank you, it dulls the senses as I'm sure you know."
"Isn't that sort of the point?" taking a swig straight from the bottle before pouring some out into a mug, for lack of a better receptacle.
"What are we watching?" I asked appraising the chavs and paternity tests flashing across the screen.
"It's really quite amusing, I believe they call it trash telly," Sherlock smirked.
"Quite right too," I smiled.
We heckled the idiots on the show, by that I mean I heckled and criticized while Sherlock deduced. I also continued to drink more and more, my head getting fuzzier with every glass.
After our second or third episode, Sherlock turned off the television and sat on the couch on the other side of the room.
"What is it?" I asked sipping my drink.
"Oh I'm sick of that rubbish," he sneered.
"Do you ever go to the cinema?" I slurred
"No, why?"
"Just seems like you don't do much other than solve puzzles and make potions and that," I replied draining my glass and wobbling into the kitchen.
"I think you've had enough," Sherlock had slinked into the kitchen behind me, my hand disappearing as he placed his overtop to stop me from topping up.
"Are you cutting me off?" I stared up at him, oddly aware of how close we were.
"You're going to regret this little indulgence in the morning," he mused gently taking my mug and putting it in the sink.
"Well you'll have to take the bottle too if you'd like me to stop, I'm celebrating," I said irrationally.
"Don't be foolish," he chided me as I made to grab the bottle.
He grasped the bottle, his reflexes much quicker than mine due to the alcohol and downed the last inch or so.
"Oh that's quite dreadful," he grimaced before setting the kettle to boil, "How have you been drinking that?"
"I've gotten you drunk!" I exclaimed, stumbling towards the counter.
"Not in the slightest," he moved toward me.
"Well I got you to take a drink, that's got to be a first, at least in the presence of a female, tell me I'm wrong."
"You're wearing my shirt," he said breathily as he looked down at the wedge of grey showing in the gap of my robe.
"So what?" I challenged and moved to leave the room.
I stumbled a bit and felt a cold hand slip around my waist, "What are you doing Mr. Holmes?"
"I'm helping you to the sofa, seeing as you're rather incapable at the moment."
"I am no such thing!" I exclaimed as I flopped down resting my head on the arm rest of the sofa as Sherlock sat at the opposite end, taking up very little room.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked referring to the uncharacteristic way in which he was gazing at me, had I been sober I would've kept quiet.
"I think you ought to know what really happened to Carl, I understand if you don't but I think you might appreciate this knowledge."
That sobered me up a bit, "Okay... but please don't be, well this just sounds mean, but you probably understand, don't be yourself when you say whatever's on your mind, be John, be Mrs. Hudson, I don't know if I'll be able to handle it otherwise."
"Fair enough," he went silent for a moment, "When I was analyzing your brother's shoes, which were perfectly preserved mind you, I found a few bits of his DNA. As you know he suffered from eczema."
"Yeah he had a cream for it, smelled awful," I said, longing to smell that awful smell once more, to see that crushed tube of ointment by the bathroom sink.
"Yes well someone poisoned his cream, that's how he died, someone murdered him..." he waited for my reaction.
My grip tightened around the edge of the cushion I sat on, "Who did it?"
Sherlock filled me in on the events of the past two days, pausing every now and then to make sure I was okay. His concern although most likely feigned was a strange thing to behold, to say the least.
"I can't believe my dad was right, I mean he never got any real evidence but he was right, it wasn't an accident..."
"Can you think who it might be? I know it was a long time ago but were there any kids who felt victimized by Carl?"
"No, but it was a long time ago and like I said, I idolized him, why remember the bad when there was so much good," my eyes felt misty once more.
"I'm sorry if that upset-"
I cut him off, "I'm fine you needn't keep apologizing I'm not that emotionally unstable," I rubbed my eyes with my hand. "You can laugh, that was a joke."
He sat up on the couch, "Are you using your real name on the Seamus Haines books?" his question took me by surprise but I answered none the less.
"No, I decided to keep with the pseudonyms, to be honest I doubt I'll ever put my real name on anything, I'm too content with my level of obscurity."
Our conversation went on in a similar manner until at some point I closed my eyes and they stayed that way.
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