The rain returned, and they lived on tea and tinned soup because their delivery boy wouldn't come on days when the weather was too bad. John had yet to see the boy who took on a mythical status in his mind as if he were a leprechaun or some other type of woodland fairy. John was tempted to leave out a dish of milk.
Sherlock continued with his work. He pulled out a fax machine from somewhere and began faxing pages to his composer friend, who sent back email copies of them covered with annotations and requests for clarification of time signatures. Sherlock was a man possessed, and John gave him his space, making sure that tea and sandwiches showed up beside him at key moments in the day. When his head began to fall on his papers from exhaustion, John would put an arm around his chest and physically pull him into the bed room, laying him down and covering him with a duvet. Then John would steal back the laptop and begin writing again.
The words poured from him. Things that he hadn't thought of in years. The cut of Sherlock's shirts. The look on Lestrade's face when Sherlock asked why someone would be concerned about their dead daughter. The bright color of the dead woman's phone. There were some things that he omitted to write about how however, such as the way that his heart picked up whenever Sherlock called him to follow, or how good the gun felt in his hand when he had successfully shot a killer across an impossible distance to save Sherlock's life.
When Sherlock rushed in demanding back his laptop, John would stop, save his work, and then sleep. He learned to tell when Sherlock was coming, so that he would have it unplugged and ready to pass to him as soon as he entered the room. They shared the same space in harmony. They rarely needed to speak.
When the rain stopped, John went out into the muddy garden and pushed a few found seeds into the ground, hoping to start a crop of sage, dill and basil to use for seasoning. Sherlock came out to help him, dropping seeds into the holes that John made in the earth until he suddenly exclaimed loudly, "That's it! Brilliant John." Thrusting the seeds into John's hands as he rushed off to begin playing something new.
John tried not to think too much of Mary's ultimatum as the days ticked down to a conclusion. On the last day, John spent the morning sitting with his phone on the table beside him, refusing to pick it up. Then Sherlock poked his head into the room and said, "Come John, let's go for a walk." So John rose and put on his coat to follow Sherlock out of the back door and down the trail.
Sherlock strode ahead and John followed behind as they walked through trees and groves. At one point, Sherlock walked up to an old well, and jumped in. John ran forward nearly hyperventilating as he peered over the stone wall only to find Sherlock smiling up at him from inside the sealed well base. John strode away in a huff, and Sherlock followed him up the green hill laughing. John walked faster trying to hold on to his anger which threatened to fall away in the face of Sherlock's mirth when the sun came out making everything look even more green and beautiful. They stood side by side on the top of the hill looking out over the fields as crepuscular rays stabbed through the clouds.
"This reminds me a bit of Baskerville," John said.
"Baskerville? But the landforms and flora are completely different."
"True, but the sky is the same."
Their reverie was interrupted by a beeping sound coming from Sherlock's pocket. He reached in pulling out a phone.
"I thought that you had disconnected your phone," John said.
"This isn't my phone."
"Well it certainly isn't mine."
"It's my laptop's phone."
"It's what?"
"Despite appearances to the contrary, I am interested in keeping informed of the world at large. I would like to know if war broke out in Europe or martial law was declared in London for example, so I have a program that scans the news channels for me. If something of significant import occurs, then it sends a message to this phone."
"Amazing! I didn't know that you could do that."
"I can do virtually anything, John, if I set my mind to it. It wouldn't do to keep entirely isolated. What if something like Moriarty's return were to happen again?"
"In that case, I'd expect that Mycroft would land a helicopter on the lawn."
"I suppose you're right. Well, let's get back and see what's happening in the outside world."
They went briskly back to the cottage. Sherlock walked with a leaping stride that caused John to have to scurry to keep up. Once there, Sherlock opened the laptop and punched in a code. Several screens opened showing headlines. Sherlock leafed through an incredibly long list of emails, stopping to open two marked ones which showed gory crime scenes.
"What is it?"
"Serial killer."
"Anyone we've seen before?"
"No, I don't think so, but wait... I think..."
"What Sherlock?"
"Look at the knife marks here and here. The angle is from below. Either the killer is very short, or ... John, I think that this killer is female. A female serial killer! Interesting."
Sherlock pulled his own phone from where he had hidden it in the chair cushions, and then he put the battery and card back in. He looked down at the screen, thumbs flying as he read through his messages.
"Eric is back from Germany. He's been texting, wondering where I am."
John looked over Sherlock's shoulders at the large number of texts labeled Eric. "Persistent isn't he."
"Yes."
"I suppose that is a good trait in an investigator. You should tell him where you are."
"I should? Why?"
"He deserves to know where you've gone."
"He does? Well, if you insist."
Sherlock pushed reply and texted. [I'm busy with John. Leave me alone.]
"You can't send that."
"Why not?"
"People will think ... we're together."
"But John, we are together."
John bit his lip. "Yes, I suppose that's true. I expect that Mrs Hudson will be calling to congratulate us in thirty minutes."
He chuckled and Sherlock's eyes turned toward him. The corner of one lip rising slightly into a half smile.
"I'll ask him to email the details of the case to me. This one looks interesting."
He glanced over at John, and then stopped as he noticed the nervous look on his face.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"Are we going back?"
Sherlock looked into John's eyes and then put his phone into his pocket. He leaned over then and shut the laptop with a click before picking up his bow. "No, not yet. There's the symphony."
"Right," John said with a nod and a sigh. Then he went over to build up the fire, picking up the almanac to read while Sherlock distractedly pulled his bow over his violin making agitated, incomplete phrases instead of a melody. John was sure that his mind was at least partially on the killer back in London, and he wondered which would win out in his mind: The symphony, or the murderer.
.
That evening, Sherlock actually went to bed on his own. John sat up late, looking at the fire and wondering what would happen when they returned to London together. He pulled out his phone and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times.
"Hello," a groggy voice said.
"Mary."
"Oh, just a minute." John heard the muffled sounds of Mary climbing out of bed, and one, 'What is it baby?' before a door closed and Mary spoke again quietly. "John. Why are you calling so late?"
"I'm sorry. I forgot the time. Are you in your flat? Who's watching the kids?"
"You're asking me now? It's been weeks, John. Now you suddenly remember that you're a father?"
"What else do you expect me to say when I call home to find my wife in bed with her lover? People who live in glass houses..."
"Anabelle is taking care of the kids."
"Anabelle? Miriam's sister?"
"Yes, I hired her as a live in nanny."
"Live it? But where does she sleep?"
"In your study."
"My study!"
"Don't worry, I moved all of your junk out of it. It looks quite nice now."
"Well, it's nice to know that I've been missed."
"John, don't try to sound as if you were the injured party. You're the one who left. We had made an arrangement, and then you kited off after Sherlock without even a 'by your leave'."
"I'm a doctor. He was injured."
"Months ago. He was injured months ago, and because of some kind of misplaced guilt, you felt the need to chase him across England to... do what exactly? Give him a physical?"
"Mary, it was more than that. We parted on bad terms and I..."
"I know, I know. I understand how concerned you were about him. I missed him too, but did you have to leave now, right when we're in the middle of ... whatever it is that we're in the middle of?"
"Our breakup you mean? This isn't entirely new for me, getting kicked out on my ear. My relationships never worked with anyone, except for Sherlock."
"There goes your selective memory again. We've been together for twelve years. Twelve years John!"
"Yes, but time doesn't equate to closeness. I've felt closer to Sherlock in the eight years that I've been away from him, than I have every night sleeping in bed with you."
"And whose fault is that, John? You know where I came from. How many years of coming home from work and fixing dinner, taking care of you when you were sick, and bearing your children does it take before you learn to trust me again? How do you think it felt for me to know that even when you were in bed with me, you were wishing that you were back with him? I've lived with that the entire time that I've known you John, even before he came back. If you cared so much for Sherlock Holmes, maybe you should have married him, back then instead of me. I'm sure he would have agreed. We could hardly get him to shut up talking about how much he cared about you."
"That's enough, Mary. We don't need to dredge up the past."
"Finally! Now you want to forget the past? I wish that you had read that memory stick. I wish that you had read about the people that I had killed and just told me then how much you hated me. Then perhaps I could have left you and started my own life."
"Why didn't you leave me?"
"Wasn't it obvious? Because I loved you, John. Didn't you ever figure that out, ever? Didn't you notice me standing up in a church with you and promising my love and loyalty?"
"I just assumed that you lied about that, just like you lied about everything else."
"As if you can talk, John. You talk about honesty as if you are honest man. You may not know how to lie to someone's face, but you lie by omission all of the time. Have you ever told him about your time in the war?"
"You said 'You loved me'. Does that mean that you don't love me anymore?"
"No, John, I do not love you."
"Are you lying?"
"John. It's late. Call me tomorrow. I have a meeting in the morning, but I'll keep the afternoon free. Goodnight, John."
"Goodnight, Mary."
John put the phone down and rose to his feet. He brushed his teeth and then pushed open the bedroom door, toeing off his shoes and sitting on the edge of his bed. Sherlock was in bed facing the wall.
"What did she say?"
"I should have known that you were awake."
"Are you going back?"
"I don't know, Sherlock, I don't know. I promised that I would stay with you until you finished the symphony. How far along are you?"
"I finished it two days ago."
John laughed.
"So what did she say?"
"Weren't you listening?"
"Of course. I heard what was said, but I don't know what it meant."
"She told me I was a liar."
"But John, you are one of the most open people that I know."
"For you, Sherlock, that's not saying much."
"You don't have to tell me the truth, John. You know that I'll deduce it all anyway."
"Even you can't deduce everything."
"What can't I deduce?"
"Go to sleep Sherlock."
John covered himself with his blanket then and tried to sleep.
