Chapter Summary: John proposes, and Moriarty christens a new product.
A fancy restaurant still seems the only place fit for the occasion, the background chatter would conveniently drown out any awkwardness that might ensue. John fondles the other piece of metal, pinned in a small fancy box, in his pocket.
A ring, on the ring finger, is the only metallic accessory that instead of indicating clonehood, cancels it. Sarah glows tonight. Her long dress falls gracefully on the chair that John draws out for her, and she directs her somewhat mischievous smile to him. There is no denial that her nose piercing is artfully placed in the most aesthetically pleasing way, but John still wants to have its implication erased. His own slab of the terminative, concealed under the one nice shirt he has, feels cold and unrelenting.
"Nice spot, huh?"
"Right, I hope it's good enough." Small talk first? No, get to the point, sooner the better. John feels the hand in his pocket dampening. "Sarah, there is something I need to say, I've meant to say it for a long time."
Sarah is genuinely taken aback. "Gee, for a long time? What is it?"
"Umm, right, I know we haven't even been together for that long, still - "
At this precise moment John's doubts resurface again. Is this right, does it work, is it even a good idea? He has no one for a second opinion now. This is it. Get on with the little speech, he has written it out in his head too many times. He takes out the little box and takes in a deep breath.
"Sarah, you said once that you never opted to come into this world. Neither did I. My very existence in the first place has caused you much pain and sorrow, and there could be no apology enough for that. But your forgiveness, your company, have given me life, kept me right. I cannot tell you how much – you mean to me, though I do not feel deserving of it in the slightest. From this day on I swear to keep you out of harm's way, with all that I am, all that I am capable of giving, if you'd let me. Will you marry me, Sh-Sarah?"
It's natural to be nervous, shows how serious I am, John assures himself. Sarah is not Sherlock; it's not like she would catch every slip of the tongue. She does cover her hand over her mouth, as ordinary people are supposed to; her pupils dilate, but of shock, not of passion. When she puts her hand down, she moves it over John's hand over the little box, and squeezes gently.
That's not a yes.
"John, do you remember the first time we met?"
John swallows at the uneasy reflection. "Yes, we visited you in the…for the investigation."
"That was when I saw you first." Sarah says fondly. "But I've met Mr. Holmes before that. Well, he went after me, to be exact."
Dear Lord, why does everything have to be about Sherlock Holmes? John draws back his hand and rocks a little in his chair, irritated. But it was how he met Sarah, precisely, so he allows himself to indulge in a conversation about an earlier, darker, but also happier time. "What about him?"
Sarah's smile is one of amusement and empathy. "John, let me tell you what I saw. My first impression of Mr. Holmes was not exactly pleasant. Granted, it has to do with the fact that he thought I was a murderer at the time, correctly."
"No you're not."
Sarah nods in appreciation as she continues. "But when he is with you! John, you should see how he grins like an idiot when you say the daftest things. The way he looks at you – that's how every girl wants to be looked at, and John, you're not giving me that."
All the moments that John has stored away are now erupting under the gentle poke of these words. He is petrified in his seat. Of course he knows that look. It was all he had, in a time when holding hands could be dangerous. To Sherlock, that was. But Sherlock never stopped reaching out to him, it was always John who pulled away, and away, until they got too far apart. He sniffles. This is a rotten idea. "Well, I, um -"
"By design, I don't have much of a mind, so I only have my heart to follow. I am no detective, but I can see things. I don't know what's happened between you two since then, but at least you are not over it. John, you are not proposing a marriage. You're offering me a family name with a side of pity, because that's what I need, and you're right. I do want a family name, and I might even need pity, but I don't want it. What I want, you can never deliver."
"Sarah, I- um, I'll shut up now."
Across the table, Sarah folds her hands in front of her, leaning to John with soft eyes. "John, you are my hero, but you do not love me, and I know you're not the sort to put me down with a laugh, saying that love is too much to ask for my kind -"
"No, Sarah, please, never say that."
"Then save yourself from the fakery of a happy life, because we all deserve the real thing, don't you think?" Sarah's eyes are gleaming. She pushes the little box lightly back in John's direction, "I can be overreaching, but you may want to consider swapping this for a different size."
John's fingers linger on the box. That prospect appears to be more fearful than what he went through this evening, but he is surprisingly calm now.
"Sarah, I owe you too many apologies and a really, really long story." John lifts her hand to place a kiss, a thing he would start doing again. "Thank you for – everything. Whoever deserves you out there, they are a lucky bastard."
"Then hold on to what's already yours, Dr. Watson. You deserve it." Sarah grins, raising her glass.
It's not in your DNA to run away, John Watson.
John oscillates outside of 221B. There is no music, no questionable gunshots, nothing out of place. In fact, it's too quiet, leaving him brooding, wrestling with his own words. He still can't find them, but somehow he's confident that words will come, when he finds Sherlock. He takes the stairs. There is no Sherlock; instead, he hears the softer shuffling of a female minion from the bedroom.
"Anthea!" John calls out, his chest heaving. "Where is Sherlock?"
Anthea turns to him with some neatly folded clothes in her hand. "Mr. Holmes the junior has set out on a field mission to Neo-Seoul, Dr. Watson. I am just collecting a few necessities. You may wait for his anticipated return in two weeks here," she eyes the duffel bag in John's hand, "or, you may join him."
John blinks. The vast Asian corporate-state forms a part of his background, where he is supposed to have been stationed for three years in the aftermath of the Great Unrest. The jet-streets of Neo-Seoul and a fragmented grasp of the language are as familiar to him as any installed module.
Also, incidentally, signals from the M-Lab do not reach that far.
Two weeks would feel like forever.
A faint hope rises inside of him, and John shrugs it off. "Well, I'm all packed and ready to go."
"And to think that we doubted its real-life performance!" Moriarty exclaims, his exuberant face lit by the multiple graphs of upward trends in front of him. "Oh, beautiful, beautiful. Isn't this the most fantastic beta run one could hope for?"
"As they say, if one can make it in the Copros, one can make it anywhere." Moran turns from the interface still labelled S. R. S., the triumph evident in his lips. "Please, stop saying it; we need a name, a really good one."
"Yes, a name, worthy of its nature. Hmm." Moriarty muses, falling silent.
"Mind Palace?" Moran tosses in.
"No," Moriarty cuts sharply, "that notion resembles a database only, but this is something active, operational and functioning on its own. Ah." He jumps, "We shall name it…M&M."
Moran spins away from the bench in resignation. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Oh, come on, it's our initials! What name can be more fitting?"
Moran sighs of exasperation. "On the up side, an easy name would make for easy marketing. On the down side, NO."
Moriarty chuckles, putting his fingers into his engineer's thick hair. "Ah, Sebbie, do I not sympathise with the gross injustice done by such a childish-sounding name to the power of the essence of genius that will change the world? But it's not just our initials, as much as I would like it to be. Allow the less sophisticated to read it however they want, but the more thoughtful should come to understand what it truly stands for: Minas Morgul, my kind of palace."
Moran looks up, his frown softening. "Ohh, I like that."
"What was formerly Tower of the Rising Moon has now revealed its majestic true form, to serve a higher purpose than looking pretty. You'll love it, Sherlock," Moriarty whispers the name like a secret, "ithil nín."
Notes:
Feedbacks are very important for me. Leave a comment, and I'll write you a (weird) poem. C.f. the end of the prequel.
Sarah is me. Anthea is me. Every shipper is me. Sorry – not sorry for the melodrama, folks!
Any actual programmer reading this (hi!) may want to look at the chapter titles.
So they eloped to Korea and lived happily ever after… but no, there's more to it because I am a masochist.
A hundred years down the road people will reference Tolkien like the Bible. *wanders into Tolkien-land* Minas Ithil, a fortress built by Isildur (the dude who didn't throw the Ring into the fire and caused 6 movies, bless him), was renamed Minas Morgul, Tower of Sorcery, when captured by Sauron's forces. Shit got so corrupted that the place was ruled unfit to be lived in even many years after Sauron's defeat. *wanders back* And yes, Moriarty speaks Sindarin (something I'm jealous of) because he's a nerd. (Me too, can you tell?) Ithil nín is supposed to mean moon of mine in case you're wondering.
Because I'm a confectionary aficionado: M&M the chocolate actually stands for Mars and Murries, the latter affiliated to Hershey's. The more you know! (Information courtesy of Wikipedia)
