It wasn't the fact that Cora received a text asking her to begin an hour earlier. She was up already—had been most of the weekend scrubbing off stripper—so it's not a huge ordeal. Nor was it the fact he asked her to come in sweats and bring a change of clothes—she's used to odd requests. No, what's peculiar is that three months in, she's been told to meet at his residence. A place she's never been thus far and was hoping to never go to.
When the car comes to a halt, Cora steps out and looks up at the austere manor. It reminds her of its owner with straight lines and a perfectly manicured garden. Nothing is out of place, nor is anything welcoming.
Pausing on the front step, she places her fingers around the handle and opens the door. Her gaze immediately is drawn to the gleaming black and white checkered floor. Stepping across it, she pushes open the double doors.
It's there she pauses. Eyes wide, hand over an open mouth.
To her left sits an exquisite ornate mantle fashioned from solid oak. To her right stands a wooden spindle staircase. Across from her are several windows with warm sunlight peeking through polished glass. Red rug adorns much of the floor and the furniture is breathtakingly stunning.
The entire room is warm and inviting. There are a few sharp edges and sophisticated pieces, but overall, she feels as if she could sit by the fire and read a good book. There's a small tug in her chest that recognises it's the first place she's felt safe in a very long time.
Which shatters the illusions surrounding her boss like glass breaking against a tile floor. Cora is faced with the realisation that she has no idea what he really does or who he truly is.
As she moves past the staircase to a hallway on the right, she rubs the back of her neck. There's a disconnect between what she's thought and what she sees. A disconnect between her reality and the truth. The question becomes: what does she do with that? How does she alter her misconceptions? How does she change?
Walking down the hall, Cora bites her lip as she follows the directions given earlier. The fifth room on the left holds an open door and the oddest sound—like someone's jogging. Entering, her brow rises as she sees Mr Holmes on a treadmill in a black track outfit.
What in the world?
Cora doesn't miss the slight smile on his face. She wonders if it has anything to do with his most recent dinner for two at The Landmark. There's simply no possible way it could be due to working out.
Who actually enjoys that?
"I did not invite you here to be a statue, Ms Merriman," Mr Holmes pants and nods towards another workout machine.
She barks out a laugh as she looks at a bike. "What?"
He looks at her from the treadmill. "You're going to join me for morning exercises. It'll be good for you."
"Presumptuous of you," she replies and shakes her head. "Who said I wanted to work out?"
"If you can't fit into the traffic cone anymore, it will no longer be a concern."
Eating would do that, she muses since all she wants to do is feast and put on a jacket. Nonetheless, she still feels dirty after Friday night. Cora isn't sure getting in shape is going to help that mentality. Crossing her arms, she bites the inside of her cheek.
Stopping the treadmill, Mr Holmes hops off and walks over to her. "Ms Merriman, the choice isn't that difficult."
Cora shakes her head. "Thank you kindly for the offer, but I respectfully decline."
"That's not the correct answer," he replies.
Clearly, she isn't going to have a say in this as Mr Holmes has already decided for her. Damn her own idea of sitting on the sofa with Cheetos and a bottle of Moscato!
However… Maybe this can be used in her favour. After all, she does need to attend Vieve's play, and she doesn't want to go alone.
Squaring her shoulders, she looks up at him. "I'll concede to this if you attend Genevieve's musical with me."
"A good theatre production can be uplifting for the spirit. What is she performing?"
"Les Mis."
He rolls his eyes and walks back to the treadmill. "My parents wanted to attend that ghastly musical a few years back, and Sherlock refused to take them. It was horrid to sit through."
Cora catches that he has not quite told her no, and she wonders if she pushes a bit harder if he'll give in. "If you want me to exercise with you, you have to attend with me."
Pausing next to the treadmill, he looks at her for several long moments. There's a smirk in his gaze, and she can't help but think she's gained some sort of respect from him. "Perhaps, Alice, you're more prepared for the cake than either of us realise."
"That's not the correct answer," she parrots, swallowing back a smile.
The smirk appears as a hint on his lips before disappearing entirely. He climbs on the treadmill. "Fine. I'll sit through that atrocity. The earliest time I have available would be November. Is that too late?"
Cora snorts because she has a feeling he's trying to get out of going. "No, that's fine. First week of November. I'll let her know."
R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠
Shower. Sleep.
Shower.
Sleep.
She's dead on her feet. Or was until arriving at the flat.
Now, she sits next to a sleeping babe—her name's Rosie, she recalls. On the telly, some girl sings about the ocean—which Cora's pretty sure the lava monster is the island but does she care?
No.
Had she known what Mr Holmes set her up for, she would have gone straight home. But no, all he told her was John was needed at the mortuary. He neglected to mention that she was required to nanny for the blond man.
Nor that there was the possibility the child would break her flip phone, which presently lies in pieces in her purse.
At least I don't have to deal with the brother, Cora thinks as she pokes through web pages with various articles on just how off his trolley said sibling is. The sad part is she's got more open tabs than she knows what to do with. There is a part that's highly amusing since the tabs look like little shark fins; almost as if a frenzy of them are circling because there's blood in the water.
Currently, though, Cora's reading John's own personal blog. Several posts have intrigued her, swallowing her into the depths. The mysteries are rather curious at points. However, she feels exceedingly humiliated. She hadn't the slightest idea that John was a doctor or she wouldn't have said Mr Watson. The fact he didn't correct only heightens the embarrassment.
Munching on baby carrots, she comes across a post detailing how the brother apparently died. There isn't much on the blog about it, so she's forced to find another shark fin that will explain.
It doesn't take very long for her to find mention of suicide. Apparently, the brother jumped off St Barts roof, and she navigates to several other tabs with information on why. While she discovers there's no truth to a majority of the articles on his apparent fraud, she does see a Richard Brook—Jim Moriarty?—falsified documents to bring down the brother.
Slowing her chewing on a new carrot, she looks up at the crab dancing across the screen. The crustacean is professing how he loves to talk about himself, but her brow is lifted for other reasons.
Who fakes their death?
It's a concept she doesn't understand. Can't comprehend. Nor could she. Friends and loyalty are rare in this world. Why would you deceive those closest? Why would you lie to your best friend? Why pretend to be dead?
Several blog posts later she finds his return from the afterlife. How he wasn't truly dead but had to pretend he was to save those closest. All because of that Moriarty fellow again—a criminal mastermind, apparently.
It's at that point, Cora dims the screen of the Surface Pro. She could understand a day, perhaps even a few weeks…but two years? That is a very long time to be dead. It's a long time to fool friends with a cruel lie.
Her attention is caught by a luminous manta ray on screen. Pulling her knees to her chest, she watches as a glowing woman talks about scars healing and revealing. Cora wonders if that's what happened with John. The pain did reveal that he never once doubted his friend's honesty. On the contrary, he believed the brother had a gift. To that effect, there's something more though that turns inside her.
He forgave his friend.
Does that make it right? Cora questions.
Rising, she paces the living room. There has to be something she's missing. Something about what makes it okay for someone to lie about death. What makes it okay to spend two years under the guise of the grave? What makes it okay to keep that from your friend?
Music from the telly draws her attention. The glowing stone was stolen from the island that turned into the lava monster as she surmised. However, the girl is saying that doesn't define it—her? The island is not her heart?
Then what is she?
Cora's jaw clenches because something about it reminds her of that insistent "observation" from the brother. Reminds her of how every time he shows up lately, her very being is brought into question.
"Ms Merriman, I need you to research the contents of this file," Mr Holmes tells her.
She flips through the document to see it's about trees. She's not certain what that means in the scheme of things, especially when it comes to the Chief Whip, but she can't complain. She loves the busy work.
"Run along, Annabelle," the brother orders with a dismissive wave. "Make yourself useful."
"Sherlock," Mr Holmes warns.
Anytime the git shows up, she's always put through the fire. If Cora could understand why he was constantly haggling her, she might not be so bothered by it. She doesn't have a reason, though. There is no basis for an attack since her name is Cora, and that aggravates her more than anything.
Picking up the sleeping baby, she carries the child to her bedroom and lays her down. Cora smooths a hand over Rosie's hair.
John did trust me with his child.
John must be crazy to allow someone he barely knows to watch his child and perhaps that's why he allows the brother into his life. Maybe that's why he forgave the brother for lying. Or maybe there's a deeper sense of trust. One that she doesn't understand. One that might discern as to why the brother lied for two years.
As she moves to the leave the room, Cora pauses and looks at a picture on the wall. In it, a woman is smiling and holding an infant who she realises must be Rosie. A smile crosses her features. While she hasn't seen the woman, it's always nice to see a happy home.
"Mary."
Turning, she looks to see John standing by the door quietly observing her.
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