Sherlock, jacket off, lay on the larger of the cream sofas in the serene hotel suite, his head resting on his companion's lap. He couldn't bring himself to use the ridiculous name she had suggested. Why did she need a name?
"I feel stupid," he complained.
She said nothing, but looked down at him with great kindness.
"Tell me the point of this," instructed Sherlock.
She smiled. Continued to gaze at him. "You are very beautiful."
"Irrelevant."
"You are very intelligent."
"All right. Relevant."
"You have a nearly perfect body."
"Irrelevant, again."
"And a rather imperfect mind."
Sherlock paused before answering. "There is no such thing as a perfect mind. "
She shook her head and went on, "But you don't care about your body. It is merely the ..." She opened the fingers of one graceful hand.
"Container," said Sherlock. His feet, still in his Loakes, met the arm of the sofa at the far end. His head was cushioned by grey silk.
"And you place your mind at the centre of everything."
He made a small sound of agreement. She didn't smell of anything, he noticed. No fragrance, body lotion, deodorant, not even soap. She simply was. He inhaled through his nose. Even her clothes held no detergent. She was an olfactory blank.
"But neither body nor mind provide what you are looking for here," she said gently.
He looked at her. She touched his forehead softly. He kept still, very still.
"Tell me," she said. "Tell me what you long for."
"Nothing," he said again.
She nodded seriously. Touched his lower lip delicately, lifted her hand away again. "When you long for nothing it can be that you feel you have nothing, are nothing."
"No," said Sherlock, frowning. "I am not nothing."
She smiled a knowing smile, lay her hand lightly on his chest. "I am empty," she said. "I will be your nothing, and you will fill me up."
His eyes defocused, refocused on the bubbles rising in the half empty champagne flutes on the mantel. The bubbles rose and rose endlessly, and though each dissipated at the surface and was gone, there were aways more. His mind, he thought then. Himself. There was no end, there was always more.
His lips moved but it took a moment for the voice to follow. When it did, it was the voice of his younger self, a shaky whisper. And all he said was, "Ok."
