CHAPTER SEVEN: A Lying Detective

(Sherlock)

She smells of emollient (probably Sudocrem or some similar brand), also of unfamiliar hand cream (Mary's? Yes. Violets. Sickening. Acrid). Toast crumbs (burnt) inhabit the left sleeve of her teal blue jumper; her hair is hastily piled up, strands askew (hurried, practical, the needs of another foremost in her mind), her eyes reveal one, two (too many) nights without sleep. She hasn't rung her mother in days, despite much haranguing on the part of the latter (her charger isn't working - she's barely noticed); she's sterilised the bottles but has only just realised the powdered milk will be insufficient (in the creases of her nails, the reminder note on the noticeboard in the kitchen gone unheeded; other things to think about. Naturally.)

"...if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help …"

I saw the letter in her hand, clutched tight, the paper creased and puckered, evidence of much debate and indecision. She knows she must hand it to me (Rosie writhes a little, making it more difficult for her to hide it; she wants to leave the decision to the last moment, as if she had some kind of choice in the matter) but she doesn't want to… she wishes to spare me, but I cannot be spared.

"...He ... said he'd r... that he'd rather have anyone but you. (Softly, deathly) Anyone."

Molly Hooper's words hang, suspended in the air above our heads for several moments before they dissipate, crumbling into the late morning light.

Anyone.

Oh, John. The lies I have told.

I said I would protect his family, the loves of his life; I said they would come before my own. I meant what I said, but what good is that when words cannot stop a bullet, cannot make a heart beat again.

I have kept so much from my friend, my trusted companion for so many years. I thought I could protect him and his own from all that flesh is heir to, but this was little more than self assuming hubris on my part, and all the lies I have told flutter lifelessly, like tattered ensigns on the field of battle, when all is lost... all is gone.

"Molly, you must know that I am in love with you."

"I don't un- "

"I have loved you since the day we met and have never been able to tell you until this moment."

"Sherlock?"

"I cannot let another moment pass until you know my feelings."

"You should have-"

" I am telling you now, since the world does not wait for lovers; the world is cruel and random and I might never again have the chance-"

Anyone.

The door is closed behind baby and babysitter and the words I play out within my head crumple and dissipate also, floating upwards to join the others. Unsaid, unheard, unforgotten.

As I walk slowly up the steps and back into the throng of living, breathing, functioning townsfolk, going about their business, living their meaningful, fulfilling lives, I retrieve my phone and find Wiggins' number.

This cannot go on. It has to stop.

~x~

(Bill Wiggins)

Well, it's for a case, innit? 'cept it ain't.

I know Shezzer, see. Sure, the others, they see Sherlock 'olmes, Consulting Detective; fancy-pants, la-di-dah posh lad with 'is long vowels and starched collars - but I know things about that bloke that they don't. Trust me, I'm a dealer.

So, there 'e is, draped across 'is chaise-longue like Oscar-bleeding-Wilde, off 'is box and all the more bolshy for it, demanding stuff from me left, right and centre. I tells him I cook it up at me own pace - I'm a professional, see, just like 'im. So, there I am, cooking up a storm in that cramped little kitchen (truth be told, I've been in worse, but I do 'ave standards, just different ones to most people's) and I know (despite all that bluster and big talk) he just wants to keep something hidden, something sedated.

Yeah, I know things about that bloke and I also know when someone is hiding in plain sight. And it ain't that Culverton freakshow - not really.

"Wiggins!"

"Yeah, keep yer hair on. You can't rush a master."

"Do you have a masters in chemistry?"

"Nope, but I am 'olding the test tube, so maybe you need to let me do my job."

"Job? You haven't troubled the job market since 2007."

"Feeling a little bit tetchy are we?"

"Precisely."

"What?"

"The fact that I have any feelings whatsoever is testament to your lack of application to the task in hand. How long?"

"Soon, Shezzer. Soon enough."

So, I know things and I know what sits right and what don't. I know liars and I know fakers; I know drama queens and I know genuine regret. I know what I know, and sweet baby Jesus...

I know a broken heart when I see one.

~x~