The dinner date. With John, Mary, and myself. It was a daunting task just to dress accordingly. Yet knowing John would keep the personal assessment aside, I felt more at ease. And also prayed Mary would do the same. When I got dressed, I found myself waking back up in the armchair. I suppose while waiting for John to text me, I dosed off. Wierd. Never have I slept this much. It's impeding my life. Before, I would sleep two hours on a good day. Lately, if I find the time, I will snooze ten plus hours. My body's adjusting.
*Buzz buzz* Flick phone out.
'Heading to restaurant. Be here in fifteen.' JW
I swallow away the taste of sleep in my mouth and get up. Out of everything I will vow to put up with for John, this has to be the worst. But I do it anyway. I pet down my unruly hair, smooth out the wrinkles in my loose button up(courtesy of John's wardrobe), and sneak my magnifying glass in my pocket. When I leave the house, I still find myself preparing for a case. Whether it be with the magnifier, or a notebook. I think this is testing me, seeing how long I can survive without deducing some problem.
After a quick glance in the mirror, (just to inspect the coverage and overall noticability), I am on my way. I blank out in the cab, but decide it was for the best and possibly the reaction to a moving car with an uneasy stomache. My feet are heavy as I make entrance, and I am surprised and slightly pleased by John's choice. The restaurant is America owned and run, I've heard of it, it's nice. Making way to the front, I tell the waitress there should be a table waiting for me. And lo and behold, John and Mary have just sat down.
When seeing them in their natural element, just them together, I see another side of him. He smiles the same, yes, but there is hope in his blue eyes. I best leave it there because 'hope' could mean anything. I mustn't divulge. I watch them for an estimate thirty seconds, seeing but not being seen. But it's time to do this. Hopefully without fault. The added weight to my middle forcing a rocked back walk as I make way.
"-And then he jumped the fence again! Again! Then started lugging me behind him down these alleyways..." John was retelling a crime story, one I remember fondly. I stop immediately in there presence upon hearing. Instead of thinking of their future, they are on the subject of a murder. Splendid. Mary tapped at John's arm and gestured to me with a smile. He turns to, showing his stubbled face. Didn't shave, was it because of lack of time or decision on going rugged.
"Sherlock, fancy seeing you." He began scooting his chair in to allow me space to fit between him and the person behind him. I sat, smiling for some reason. "And Mary, pleasure." I say, the smile falling as soon as we meet eyes. I thought this would be fun. I'll try. "John was just telling me about your dangerous affair with a murderer?" She went straight to accusing, instead of conversational. John's hand tensed with his drink in hand. I found my smile again, maybe this will be a shape of fun. "Funny, how affairs are. I see you've dabbled in the married life before." Her ring finger, exposed with a tan line. She was engaged and married to the bloke for an average two years.
John spits the tea he began drinking, sputters. Mary laughs. She laughs. Why would you laugh when I insulted you? "Twice, actually. But both wanted to marry me for my money. It took me awhile to realize that." Her hand his on her neck, she's eyeing around the room. She's embarrassed. Does John see it too? I look at him. And he's giving me a wide-eyed look. I shouldn't have said that. "Anyway, how about we get dinner on the table, then? Waitress!" His face shot back for some normalcy. But what did he expect of me? He knows how I am. I can't act for his pleasure. Though I easily could. Mary just ticks me off.
"Good. I'll be having the chicken, what are you eating Sherlock?" Mary leaned in towards me, pointing to a menu. I was hungry actually. Really hungry, but this situation made me sick to my stomach. There was going to be no eating. "Just order me a glass of water, I foolishly ate before arriving." Smiles, more fake smiles, John's nervous smile. And he orders for us, getting an American cheeseburger, saying he loves them when he's never had one.
Then they begin talking again. About something else. With me as a third wheel to the conversing. "Next weekend sound good to you? We could go to the fair or amusement park. See sights?" He's sweating slightly, hairline visibly glistening. "Couldn't we just do something a little more secluded? What about an out of town hotel trip? Or spa visit?" She is so utterly dull. No man in their right mind would willingly lose all their hard earned money to sitting in a tub of filthy mud. I see John's frustration at her, his lips thinning. "Alright, that sounds better even." Sarcasm. I know it, why would he do this? To himself, really.
I'm so glad when their food is set infront of their faces and Mary begins stuffing her face. I give her five years for her metabolism to collaspe and she be faced with a weight problem and possible kids to juggle. No, four years. John, on the other hand can eat what he likes, his lifestyle is always so hectic (with me at least), it doesn't matter. And I sip at my water, looking down on it, scolding it for being so incompetently bland.
The waitress asks for dessert, Mary declines due to high prices. (I thought she was rich?) And John is too full. This is my chance to slip away. They will most likely stay sitting there for another ten or fifteen minutes. "This was a nice dinner, Mary, John. Nice chatting." I smile. Let this please just end, come to a close. "You going already?" Mary sounds sad, but her face is happy. Rude. John sets his drink down, "You can stay if you'd like." He smiles too, but it's genuine. Polite. "No, no. My presence has been made. Mrs. Hudson needed help anyway, must be getting to it." They let me off, and I stand.
We exchange goodbye's. As I leave, I see John's face loosen, his hopeful look still there but weary. Hmm... Before leaving I pay the check, though I didn't eat. It'd be nice. Then I step out into the raining skies. Still intact from the horrors that is a relationship and being around one. My attention was so drawn to their coupled reactions that I didn't realize the pain in my legs and back. This ordeal is taking its toll. And now I am wet. And no cab is taking me because I am so thoroughly soaked. I probably look homeless. My shirt now sagged. Coat hanging to me. This will be a long walk.
*A Few Months*
Waiting. Breathing. Counting. But what is it? What am I waiting for? For this pregnancy to end? For John to move back in? He hasn't officially moved out, but it's close to it. He rarely sleeps here at night, visits and spends rare days with me. But he's so troubled all the time, so busy, so out of it. Could it be I am waiting for John to realize what Mary's doing? Because he doesn't know. She's cheating him. Of a life. They're just existing and not experiencing. Though, I am not one to compare to. All I can do these days is wallow around the flat, eat, sleep. I've gained weight in unusual places, and my pregnant abdomen is sticking out so pitifully.
Actually, I don't need him back. He doesn't need to see this. I forget.
I am laying my back on the table, lying on it, subconsiously overlooking creases in the ceiling. I shucked off my shirt and swaddled myself in my trench. My pants are still on as well, but they're unbuttoned and tight. I look like an alien. I shock myself sometimes walking past a mirror. Can't help it though. Not now. The window, open, letting the harsh winds from outside gush in. Papers long blown across the room. A storm's coming. It's been coming. Maybe that's what I was waiting for.
Listening. Hearing it roar and growl, lift and fall, dragging a looming sense of darkness in it's voice. Tonight, it will hit. Breathing, deeper. counting ceiling wrinkles slower. Sleepy. Then I fall into it, all at once. Sleep. Dreams. Then beating, in my head. My heart? It's heart? Insistent beating. Our hearts? Then it pounds heavily.
I'm awake. It's the door. Not beating, knocking. Then intertwined with the lace of wind, keys chingling. The door opens. John. God, thank goodness, it's him. "Sherlock! I-I thought you'd be out trying to solve a crime in this! I was about to go hunt for you!" His eyes drooped on the sides, "Don't do that to me." Hand clenching and unclenching repeatedly. "Bloody hell." He's drenched. He's been running.
"Close this, DAMNED thing." He bolts and tightens the window close, the wirling wind stopping in seconds. It's quieter. "Where's Mary?" I question, flipping my coat a button together, to hide my nude torso. I'm sitting up on the table now, letting the blood start pumping to my head again. He takes a heavy seat on his old armchair. "Busy!" He replies, antsier than ever. It's not just the rain that's bothering him. It's her.
I save my breath, taking an arched leap off the table, wincing the moment I do. Then there's a readjustment of my coat, and an exchanged weary glance. His mind is a tornado, and it will rampage my own mind as well. Much like the weather outside, it's looming, expectant of a greater thing to come. And I can't help but feel responsible for a percentage of his misfortune. I know he's still curious about me. He's looking now. Again.
'Curiousity killed the cat' I want to tell him. 'Let it go' I should scream. But I just look, the rain pelting harder, the weather's muffled noises filling the flat. 'Go ahead and assess me' my mind challeges him. 'I dare you' it taunts. Maybe my mind is the tornado. "I feel faint" my mouth says. Did I say that? Really? No, I didn't. I don't feel faint. Do I?
"You're pasty as hell, Sherlock." John is standing, eyeing me oddly. It dawns on me that he wasn't assessing the pregnant belly as much as he was assessing me in general. He knew I was feeling out of myself before I even knew it! Bless him. "Sit back down before you feel any worse... Actually, how about we get to Mrs. Hudson's floor, take shelter just incase this rain takes for the ugly." One of his hands on my shoulder, the other carefully on my side, directing me. My vision went black and white, fuzzy. When again? I'm loosing a sense of direction the more steps we take. "The floor is moving!" I starve a breath, closing my eyes, a huge rush of blood was leaving my head. Another feeling of blacking out. It passes.
"You're doing good, lets just get you down the stairs." Stairs... Seventeen, right? Rocking, back and forth. Legs limping. Stairs. Falling. I fell. John's got me though. We stammer half way down. I fall again. But I blank out. "Sherlock!" The black and white fading into a lovely shade of gray. Shit.
Then the beating again. Insistent on driving me mad. It sounds like stacking empty cardboard boxes. "Just look over here, at me." A tapping on the side of my face. "Right here." Two pairs of hands on my head, one pair of knees at my side. Mrs. Hudson and John. My eyes open, I take note they were rolled back before. I'm squinting, looking over the room. "I fell." I see John's head nodding along, his body becoming clearer and clearer. "You did, but I was there."
That is a nice sentiment. 'You were there'. But soon, you won't be. Mary will be waiting for you, she's in line now, ahead of me. "The storm's passed?" I ask, because, frankly, the absense of pelting rain startles me. "Yes, but there is major flooding, we're lucky not to have been swimming." He's looking everywhere but my eyes, still patting me down in case I was in any bodily danger. "This storm. A good cover for a murder." I say, halfly out of instinct.
Mrs. Hudson chuckles, and she stands, then walks to another room. She's been quiet, but happily so. "Yes, but you are in no position to be waltzing about in your condition." His eyes find mine again, and his hand extends to lift me up. This time I find the room without all the spinning. "My condition? And to what condition are you referring to? I've passed out many of time in your presence." There was little time to reflect on my exposed torso. My coat had been picked off, and there was a feeling of, 'This is beyond unusual, yet completely welcome'. John's seetering off his chuckle, teeth together and clenched.
"I'm so confused, Sherlock. This right here is the condition i'm referring to. Really, i'm not sure if there's something you haven't told me, or it's something you haven't told yourself." He's bringing it up. Hand hovering, so close to touching the extension of my abdomen. I think he actually knows what's going on. He's catching up. He's here. Right, then. "It's... Obvious, isn't it, John?" I find myself in a sort of human code. Shaking my head, looking away, hands fidgeting. All because of John.
"That this is...? That, you're um...? You've...?" They are unfinished questions.
I hold my neck still for just two seconds to say, "That this is a womb? That, i'm pregnant? I've had sex?" Processing. Clicking. Mrs. Hudson, clueless. Tray of cookies fallen on the ground. "How?" Was his reply. A broken, voiceless reply. But I don't responde, instead I stand slowly and help our landlady with picking up fresh baked, chocolate chip, cookies. She's shaken slightly, and she's in dire need of comfort, but I don't think she needs it from me. Not yet. So I, "John come and assist her to a couch, console her," tell John to. And he does, no more questions asked.
And I find my coat. And I button it up snug. And I slid on shoes with no socks. And I dangle my scarf untied over my shoulders. And I take a walk, to see the damaged city. I leave.
My body is feeling very strange things. After the birth, I realized what nearly two days of contractions and a scalpel to my tight belly really does to you. And I also realized that I was asleep for nearly two days before I woke up again. But that's fine. My body will heal. My brain's on the move now. It needs to think clearly again. See how John feels, see what is for the greater good. What Hamish needs. I was told the second I get to the flat to lie down, let the stitches dissolve near scar free, but I couldn't. I loved the way I could walk around again without an estimate ten pounds strapped to my front. I was alive.
I missed that closeness though. Throughout the pregnancy I never talked to my baby, unless I cursed him. I never ran my hand affectionately over him, never. I wanted to now but it's too late. But that's fine though. I can touch and talk to 'the real' thing now. The wide (and blue) eyed, bouncing, bubbly, baby boy. Hamish Holmes... And hopefully one day... We will have 'two' Hamish Watsons.
Author's Notory: We buried my friend Gavin, so that was the dely. I found a paper in his room that was revised and very sherlocked lyrics from the song "Fiction by A7X" I may post them. But I love you for reading the fic and also 'this'. Making fanfictions may be a outlet for personal emotions, but that's what makes them so good. Right? Love you to the moon and back!