TÉMÉRAIRE
"They had not spoken, but they felt allured,
As if their souls and lips each other beckoned,
Which, being joined, like swarming bees they clung -
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung"
~Lord Byron~
Tuesday 20th August 2013
Janine was woken not by her alarm, as she expected, but by the ringtone for 'Global Communications'. She reached out for her phone on the night-stand, eyes still mostly closed, and groaned when she saw that it was 5:56. Sweeping strands of hair from her face, she answered, "Sherlock, y' loon. It's not even six. What're y' trying to do to me?"
"I'm sorry, I couldn't wait to talk to you, it's about your book - "
"What?" She sat up a bit more and her eyes began to adjust to the light. "I only left you six hours ago. You couldn't possibly have read two hundred and fifty thou - "
"Oh, I didn't start it 'til three - "
"Have you slept at all?"
"No, but it doesn't matter. This really is superb, Janine, I mean - "
"Try not to sound so surprised - "
"Just astonishing."
"You really mean that?"
He fell silent for a moment and Janine fell back to the pillows, rubbing sleep from her eyes. He was like a hyperactive child, but despite her fatigue, she couldn't muster any animosity toward him.
"I'm doing it again," he said finally.
"Mmm?" Janine had nodded off, as she was wont to do at this unearthly hour, lost in a reprise of the dream she'd been shaken from minutes ago. Something about having to find all the glass objects in an antiques shop, but it was fading once more. "You did what?"
"I'm buying you breakfast as an apology."
"Okay, just let me rake a comb through my hair." She began to rouse herself properly now, hanging her free arm over the edge of the bed and trying to make it work properly.
"Unless you'd rather - "
"S'alright, I'm up now anyway."
They signed off and Janine busied herself with getting ready, but still she had trouble shaking off the unease of last night's encounter with Sandy. Even the sunrise, bringing with it that peculiar feeling you had when you'd woken too early, or even - heaven forbid - slept outside, couldn't warm her up. Usually it was a golden feeling, a being-young-and-free feeling, but now it felt more like an omen.
"Danuta's a self-confessed psycho-bitch-from-hell and Preeti has no taste whatsoever." Janine waited patiently for a young couple to shepherd their offspring safely through the door of the Riding House Café. "I, on the other hand, was born with good taste, that's why I don't wear sequins."
"I think sequins have a place," Sherlock held the door for her, ever the gentleman.
"Yeah, on a Mumbai taxi." She was talking too much, she knew it, over-compensating for the chill Sandy had left her with, trying in vain to throw Sherlock off the scent. If he'd noticed something was wrong, he hadn't mentioned it. "This is nice."
The host showed them to their table.
"I really should apologise for getting you up so early," Sherlock peered over the menu, "in fact, I should apologise for the general intensity of the activities so far. Like I said, I don't really do this dating thing."
She squinted at him affectionately, "aw, you're doin' alright, but I have to warn you, I'll need to shoot off early this afternoon, I'm flying out to Singapore tomorrow."
"Frankly, that's a bit of an over-reaction."
"Not because of you, y'numpty" she laughed, "it's for work. Charles has his eye on this local publication and they've finally… you don't wanna hear all this, we're supposed to be on a date."
"No, really, it's fine." Sherlock looked down. "You're, uh, going with 'him'?"
"It's business class. It's not like we'd be knocking knees," she said as the waiter appeared at her elbow, "besides, I've decided I'm gonna mace him if he tries it on again."
"Coffee, black, two sugars," Sherlock said pointedly, obviously hoping she would take the hint about making him drink a latte on Sunday, "one soft boiled egg and one slice of white toast with the butter all the way to the edges. Very important that the butter goes all the way to the edges. And no snotty stuff in the egg. It must have a runny yolk and the white must be set all the way to the middle but not over-cooked."
The waiter narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly, holding back his frustration at all the awkward customers the world had ever inflicted upon him. "I'm positive the chef knows how to boil an egg, but I'll personally ensure they get it right for you, sir."
"Thank you. What about you, Janine?"
Janine was still making her mind up, "I think I'll haaave…" she said slowly, which clearly irritated all the Y chromosomes in the vicinity, "thuuuh… Full and Proper with the fruit platter on the side. And coffee."
"Americano," the waiter droned, "latte, cappu - "
"Latte, full fat, just make it as evil as possible. Oh, Sherlock, I feel bad now, you with your one egg - "
"It's fine, don't be silly - "
"At least let me get the bill, I can't expect - "
"Not at all, you're saving for a house, remember."
"You told your brother you were skint."
"Of course I did. I enjoy conning him out of large sums."
They'd almost forgotten about the waiter. "Will that be all?" he said flatly, removing the menus from the table almost pugnaciously.
"Thank you," said Sherlock.
"Someone's hungover," Janine whispered behind her hand when the waiter had left them.
"Had a late one. He's got an ultraviolet stamp from the basement at Heaven." Sherlock rubbed the back of his own hand.
"Heaven?"
"It's a gay club in Soho - "
"And how do you know so much about it?"
"It is just around the corner from mine."
When coffee arrived Janine started on it immediately, grateful for the caffeine. "Ughhh, that is sooo good." When she looked up, Sherlock was laughing silently at her. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, it's just that I've never met anyone quite so in love with life," he picked up a napkin and passed it to her, "and you have a moustache."
She swiped off the foam. "I've never met anyone quite like you either. No one on this whole earth's a mystery to you, are they?"
"You mean the waiter?" Sherlock blew across the top of his coffee. "It's quite simple. People wear their lives like trophies, shark's teeth hanging around their necks, notches on the butt of their Winchesters, only in our society it's things like ticket stubs, pet hair and the instep of their shoes."
Janine looked across at the table by the window. An old man sat there, not talking to his wife. "Do them," she said.
"'Do' them?" Sherlock feigned ignorance as the breakfast arrived.
"You know," she said, cutting up bacon like a falcon falling on prey, "deconstruct them, like a suspect."
"It's not a parlour trick."
"And there I was thinking…" Janine fluttered her eyelashes at him, chewing a crust of toast doused in yolk. The creaminess of a perfect egg and crisp bacon fat, washed down with hot coffee, was almost worth the rude awakening.
"Oh, alright then," Sherlock sighed, but she knew he was enjoying this really. A man like him never missed an opportunity to show off. He lowered his voice slightly, "they're from out of town, judging from the traces of mud, Kent, by the looks of it. They're only here for the day; if they were staying in a hotel he would've cleaned the shoes. So why are they here? Visiting relatives? Why aren't they joining them for brunch then? Much more likely to do some shopping or the theatre. Theatre? No, look at their clothes; not an ounce of taste between them, no-one wears a fleece to the theatre. She's wearing a silver brooch of the Egyptian cat goddess Bastet, you can only get that at the British Museum, which is just around the corner. Highly likely they visit often and intend to go there today. But why? There aren't any special exhibitions on, maybe she just likes it, maybe they have sentimental reasons, maybe that's where they first met, maybe the reason they aren't talking isn't because they don't like each other after thirty years of marriage, but because they do. Everyone needs someone they don't feel they have to talk to. Why this restaurant in particular? It isn't the type of place people like them would walk into off the pavement, the website describes it as a 'modern brasserie' and it's booked up well in advance. Special occasion, then. The style of her engagement ring is from the seventies and she's never taken it off. Probability is, it's their anniversary today. Could they be any more pedestrian?"
During his monologue, Janine had managed to consume most of her bacon and had started on the fruit. She gave him a second to catch his breath and then said, "do you know their names?"
"Caught a glimpse of his credit card when he was paying."
"Like a hawk," Janine paused with a slice of pink grapefruit to her lips, "go on then, prove it?"
"Do what?" Sherlock blinked.
"Prove it. Put your money where your mouth is. Look, they're getting ready to leave. Now's your opportunity to really impress me."
"Have me rolling over and playing dead before long," Sherlock muttered as he threw down his napkin and prepared to go over to the couple. They were already putting their coats on. Janine watched as Sherlock put a different face on and held out his hand, "Mr Reynolds! How lovely to see you again!"
"Um," Mr Reynolds looked to his wife for answers, shaking Sherlock's hand limply, "hello?"
Janine pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
"And Mrs Reynolds!" Sherlock took the woman's hand and shook that too. He was putting on a marvellous performance. Janine could almost believe he was someone else entirely. "Don't you remember me? It's Billy from the British Museum."
Something like recognition was beginning to dawn on Mr Reynolds face, which was funny, thought Janine, because they really don't know each other. It was beginning to dawn on Janine that Sherlock was one of those people who could bend others to his will as easily as breathing. If he'd chosen another path he might have made an Oscar winning actor or an even more effective con-artist.
"Gosh," Sherlock was saying, "I haven't seen you since your anniversary. Actually, let me think, it must be your anniversary today!"
"Thirty-five years," said Mrs Reynolds as if they had known each other all their lives.
"Surely not," Sherlock still held onto her hand, and he looked her up and down, looking at Mr Reynolds for approval, "she doesn't look a day over fifty."
Mrs Reynolds blushed and took back possession of her hand, fiddling bashfully with her purse, "oh, really…"
Mr Reynolds searched his memory, shaking a finger at Sherlock, "you were giving a guided tour of the… the…"
"The Benin Bronzes," Sherlock finished for him, "must say, you two are such a fixture at the museum, you're in danger of becoming exhibits yourselves." Here he gave a little laugh that was so unlike him that Janine found it hard not to burst out laughing. "So, how's…"
"Daniel," said Mrs Reynolds, smugly, "coming up for a big promotion."
"Oh, how wonderful," gushed Sherlock, "what was the name of his company again?"
"Gupta, Allen and Allen," boomed Mr Reynolds proudly.
"Well," said Sherlock, "I'll be sure to call on them if I ever…"
"Have an accident at work," finished Mrs Reynolds.
"Of course," Sherlock began his escape, the subtle changes in expression and posture that prescribed an elaborate social dance, "well, it's been lovely catching up."
"We'll see you at the museum?" Mr Reynolds seemed to be only just warming to Sherlock.
"I'm not working today, but have a lovely time, won't you."
"Of course," Mrs Reynolds echoed Sherlock's words, "lovely seeing you again."
"You too," Sherlock resumed his place at their table, muttering, "lovely, lovely."
"Happy anniversary," Janine called. When the Reynolds were safely out of earshot, she finally allowed herself to laugh, "Billy?"
"Why not?" Sherlock snapped back to his usual self.
"I thought the skull was 'Billy'."
"Apparently," Sherlock said, "nearly everyone is."
"You really had them, didn't you?"
"A few more minutes and they would've told me their entire life story. Who knows what would've happened."
"You'd probably be moving in within a week." Janine drained the last of her coffee. "You know the name of their son now, and his firm of lawyers. You could take them for everything they had if you were so inclined. Interesting to see how it's done."
"It's probably not as hard as people think. It just requires intense focus."
"Now you're selling yourself short." Janine finished the last scraps of the fruit and rearranged her cutlery. "You know, you don't have to indulge me everything I ask."
"I like showing off." The way he said it was neither arrogant, nor embarrassed. "Besides, I thought you wanted to solve crimes."
"Yes, but - "
"This is part of your training."
"Training? Sherlock, I thought this was just us, trying to get to know each other." Janine was lightly annoyed at the matter-of-fact manner in which he delivered the news that she was just his latest protégé, as if it was obvious, as if no-one would have anything to say to the contrary, least of all her. 'Training'? Jaysus. All the flirting, all the looking into each other's eyes, was that all just part of him getting her on board as yet another assistant? Another John? Should walk away right now, she thought, scared to death that she might get involved in things she had no business doing, forgiving things that shouldn't be forgiven. Even trusting him. The only way to fix it would be to hold her tongue and get 'it' out of the way as soon as possible. Get in, get off, get out. Once they'd shagged, she wouldn't want him any more and she could walk away. But looking at the man across from her now, with all his cleverness and class, in the split second it took to think all these things, she'd made up her mind. She had to give him a chance. She wanted to stop being so hard-hearted and let herself fall. It was like he'd begun to wake something up inside of her. She would have to find out where this went, this meandering method of learning the business, learning him. She could actually snag herself one of the country's most promising bachelors. Either that, or it would result in a bidding war for one helluva kiss and tell story. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything about helping you solve crimes. I didn't know you were just on the lookout for another PA."
"Not at - I wouldn't – Janine - "
"Because it sounds like that's all you want from this." She sat back and waited for a reply, but he said nothing for a while, his eyes flitting across the table from item to item, searching his brain for some kind of justification. It was clear to her that he really was not all that well versed in this kind of thing, which made her like him more, and more likely to forgive this, if anything.
Finally, he spoke. "I just wanted you to catch a glimpse of my world and the only way to do that is to come on the journey… I - I've really messed this process up, haven't I? Not painting a great picture. First the incident with my brother, the shouty thing, then the handcuffs – I didn't want you to think – if that's what I've made you think - "
"It's no biggie, Sherl. I'm not nearly as ticked off as I should be. Probably because you're so pretty." This elicited a lopsided smile from the man. She could see the relief in his eyes. "People date people who say and do stupider things than you do, and people date people who like each other less than we do, so I'd say we're alright. But just – like I said, I like to have my eyes open when I get into things. If this is just you auditioning an assistant, tell me now, so at least we haven't wasted each other's time."
"Janine," he said very calmly, very deliberately, "this is only about you. It's only ever been about you. I really am sor - "
"Stop apologising," she glared at him, "and take me somewhere."
"Murder," Sherlock said as they climbed the front steps of Saint Paul's, "that's some pretty strong stuff. And not all that common."
"Seems pretty common to me," Janine removed her shades as they passed into the vestibule.
"The probability that your cause of death will be homicide is extremely low. It takes a lot for the average jilted lover to overcome those deep seated moral values. Assuming, of course, that they had them in the first place."
"Are all killers psychopaths?"
"Most homicides are crimes of passion, or gang related. Not all killers are psychos and not all psychos are killers, but there is more overlap than you'd expect from sheer chance."
"What would drive someone to ignore the impulses of a lifetime and actually plunge a knife into another's flesh?"
"I have a pretty good idea. Statistically most domestic victims are murdered by their spouse." Sherlock held the inner door open for her. He hoped he was getting it right. It was so difficult to keep up with what was acceptable nowadays. One minute it was considered rude not to hold the door, rise when a lady entered the room etc., the next it seemed to have gotten too complicated; people got offended at things they really shouldn't. It was easier to stick to what one already knew, then it became an integral part of the persona one was attempting to project. 'Sherl' always held the door, even if 'Sherlock' sometimes dispensed with the protocol for time and sanity's sake.
"Y'Know, you can be really romantic sometimes," Janine teased.
He was just about to say something witty - the exact words unknown until they actually came out of his mouth - when he realised she wasn't paying attention. She was looking up, captivated by the interior of the cathedral. He left her alone to marvel at her surroundings while he went over to see young Hayden.
Hayden was just finishing up handing out iPods to a gaggle of gormless tourists when he sneaked up behind her. "Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe!" She wheeled around on him and he expertly weaved to avoid a well-aimed play-punch.
"Not so loud," he stage-whispered, "don't want everyone knowing I'm here."
"And still no funnier I see." Hayden put her hands on her hips. "What can we help you with today?"
At that moment, Janine noticed that he'd abandoned her and came over to see what all the fuss was about. "Is there anyone in this city you don't know?"
"Janine, I'd like you to meet Hayden Hayden, expert in the non-specific - "
"And all round expert on the dome, pun intended." Hayden stuck out her hand for Janine to shake, which she did.
"Your first name," Janine began doubtfully, "is the same as your last name."
"Yes, why?"
"Nothing."
"Well, this is nice," said Sherlock, unhelpfully.
"So," Janine said, "did he solve a crime for you, or what?"
Hayden looked briefly at Sherlock before answering, "it's a, uh… long story. Maybe he'll tell it to you some time." She gave Janine a wink and lifted the red rope barrier.
Tourists at the head of the queue were visibly put out that someone was getting in without paying. Anything that offended people's sense of propriety gave him a kick. "We were never here, Okay," Sherlock whispered as they ducked under the rope.
Hayden stopped him, tipping her head, as Janine wandered into the huge empty vaulted nave of the cathedral, "didn't know you went in for that kind of thing."
"We were never here," was all he could give her in return.
He caught up with Janine, who was already getting a crick in her neck from ogling the ceiling.
"A pattern is starting to form," she said.
"How so?"
"We meet at an altar, you kiss me in a crypt and now here - "
"It wasn't intentional, I promise." He took her hand – still not used to that – and pulled her toward the dome.
"Oh," she breathed, "wow."
"Yeah."
"I mean – nothing prepares you, does it?"
He couldn't help smiling at her turning around and around like a child under the gigantic mosaic hemisphere. Saints and sinners were the mute audience of his charade. Leave me alone, he warned their accusing stone eyes. "Want to go up there?"
"Really?"
"Come on."
So they began the two hundred and fifty-seven steps to the Whispering Gallery. Janine seemed to be holding up Okay, despite her allegedly killer heels. They emerged onto the vertiginous catwalk running around the interior of the dome, holding onto the edge and looking down at the miniature scene below.
"Whooo," Janine breathed, "now I know why my calves hurt so much."
"We're only half of the way up," Sherlock placed a hand on the cool, curved stone wall. "They call this the Whispering Gallery. If you stand on the other side, it's said, you can hear the faintest whisper clear as day."
Janine joined him and placed a hand on the wall next to his. It was so small in comparison. She wiggled a finger into a round hole. "What are all these holes for?"
"Nothing to do with whispering," he smiled, "it's for when they measure subsidence with a laser."
"One of these days," Janine removed her finger from the hole, "I'm going to ask you a question and you won't know the answer."
"I doubt it," he said, but she'd moved away, trailing her hand along the stone wall as she perused the mosaics above.
An old man, hitherto unnoticed by Sherlock, was leaning on the cool stone, recovering from the stairs. He jutted his chin toward Janine, who was nearly on the opposite side of the gallery. "World class beauty, that one."
Sherlock turned his head. "I'm only with her for her mind."
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" said the old man. "Have you been married long?"
"We're not married," Sherlock held up his left hand, showing the lack of a ring.
"You want to hold onto that one. Mark my words." The old man shuffled off.
What was so obvious that it could be seen by an unobservant old tourist, even in the moments he wasn't putting it on? Some things even the blind could see. He was suffering the symptoms of the disease. Maybe this had gone too far already; he'd had opportunities to extract as much information out of her as he could, yet he'd procrastinated. Perhaps it was out of respect, but that didn't sound like him. No, it was because he was allowing himself to get involved, just this once, because he knew it would end, knew it was safe. He needed to rein himself back in, remember the implausibility of being in an actual relationship. He was a machine that solved puzzles, for God's sake, like that decryption device Mummy made in Oxford in 1968, just to prove a point. Even in the frankly unsuccessful connections he had made in his previous life as a student, it was more like expecting a computer to go out on a date, dressed up and sitting in a restaurant making small talk. How absurd. Yet, despite all his logic, he was still in a state of flux, phasing between playing the part and indulging himself in this ridiculous fantasy.
Sherlock caught Janine's eye over on the other side of the gallery, mimed for her to put her ear to the wall. She smiled and cupped her hand around her ear.
He pressed his cheek up against the curved wall and whispered.
I think I'm falling for you.
If, for some reason, the curvature of the wall failed to convey his message, or perhaps if he hadn't correctly calculated the assonance of his confession, and she didn't hear, there was always the deafening thwump-thwump of his heart.
Even at this distance he could see the effect it had on her. She jolted her head away from the wall and blinked once, startled. A smile crept into her features and she mouthed back.
Me too.
"And I said, 'you do realise Les Mis contains a very graphic scene of a man diving to his death from a multi-story building?'. Good times." Sherlock leaned his back on the high balustrade with his hands in his pockets. They were malingering at the very top of the dome, with the wind ruffling their hair, looking down at the ants below. Other tourists came and went, succumbing to vertigo, or just plain boredom.
"Poor Mike," Janine laughed. John Watson had gotten Sherlock all wrong. Far from unemotional, he actually felt things very deeply; he just didn't know how to express it. The fact that he worked a lot of cases pro bono showed Janine that he was in fact an extraordinarily compassionate man. "Doesn't it worry you being up this high?"
"What, like I get the urge to jump?"
"I suppose," she shrugged.
"Occasionally. I'm told there's a proper psychological condition that makes people want to jump whenever they're on a ledge. Lemming syndrome or something."
"Okay, question number three; biggest regret in life?"
"Is that how you want to get to know me?"
"It's a standard dating question."
"You might not like the answer."
"Try me."
Sherlock took his time, squinting into the sun, taking in the vista of London, his London. "There was a young woman named Soo Lin Yao. She was a ceramics expert at the museum." He paused to let this sink in. "Moved here from China to get away from the triads. They had her trafficking drugs and God-knows-what since she was a child."
"That's terrible."
"It was." At this point he rubbed his face and swallowed. "I told her everything was going to be alright, but I let her down. We left her, John and I, we left her on her own."
"What happened?" Janine crept her hand into his, almost unnoticed.
"Her own brother shot her in the face."
"Oh, God."
"If I could do one thing differently."
"You weren't to know." Janine gave his hand a firm squeeze and he didn't try to get out of it like he usually did.
"I should have known. It's my job to know. He was in the room with her the whole time, just waiting in the dark, listening to our conversations. What - what if the situation arises again and I get it wrong? What if I can't save someone I care about? I can't afford to make mistakes like that if I'm operating at the top of my game - "
"Hey," she touched his face, "it's Okay. You can't be expected to solve the whole world's problems. No-one can live with that amount of pressure. And she died knowing someone was on her side, that someone was trying, someone cared."
"Does caring make a difference? I'm not convinced."
Janine removed an errant strand of hair from her mouth and released his hand. "It's a much better motivator than pure cold logic."
"When you say it like that, it does sound rather cynical," he half-laughed.
"Having someone care, I mean, love - a connection, is what most people in this world crave, don't they? Do you really look down on them so much?"
"Them?"
"Us. I mean us," Janine caught herself.
"You said 'them', like we're exempt."
"We have more in common than you think, Sherl. You collect people who owe you favours, like that girl downstairs. I collect people too, but only if they're going to come in handy one day. Now I have my very own detective to add to my collection."
"Love is over rated anyway," Sherlock made way for a passing gawper, narrowing his eyes, "I don't know why I just said that. It's not the right thing to say."
"No, I know what you're trying to say," Janine held onto the railings, testing them like a child, "'love' is so incorporeal, so indefinite, you try to grasp it and it evaporates like Will-o-the-wisp. I for one need something more down to earth."
"Speaking of regrets, I do regret not being the kind of man to settle down."
"Well, how's about this then," she was taking a fecking big risk right now, "I'll be your safety wife."
"My what?" Sherlock almost laughed.
"Safety wife. Haven't y'ever heard of it? It's what people do when they're worried they'll never find 'The One'. They make a pact, that if they're both unmarried by a certain age, then they'll settle."
"Actually, I can see the logic in that. But how old?"
"I don't know, forty?"
"Forty?" Sherlock scoffed. "John's already forty-five. Do you mean to say that John and Mary merely settled?"
"Okay, older than forty-five then. Fifty?"
"I'm not walking down the aisle at fifty. That's just sad."
"Well, I don't know what to say that'll please you, so," Janine crossed her arms in mock exasperation.
"Forty-seven point five."
"Let's just call it forty-eight, shall we?"
They both dissolved into an overdue fit of laughter.
"Five minutes ago I didn't even know it was a thing, now I'm planning a safety marriage to decimal places."
When Janine had recovered, she said, "might have to do something about the whole earth going round the sun thing, though."
"Oh, that," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "mathematically speaking the earth doesn't revolve around the sun. They both revolve around a third separate point. In order for the earth to rotate around the sun astrophysics dictates the orbit would be concentric. The centre point is inside the sun but it's not in the middle of the sun. I wouldn't expect John to know that."
"I guess I've learned something today."
"You have to stop reading John's blog, it's just as filtered and sensationalist as the papers. Why do you read it, anyway?"
"I've only known you for a couple of weeks, gimme a chance. I guess I wanted to see what other people made of you, maybe find out what it's like for all the other people in your life to see you change. You know, when you went away."
"Everything had changed by the time I got back. Suddenly everyone's talking about card-clash and analogue TV has been switched off and the world had been taken over by someone called One Direction. When I was abroad everything was condensed down to exactly what lay around me and the mission at hand."
"That must've been hard."
"South America was hard. It was pure survival. Food became more important than the past or the present or the future. I'd never been that hungry, or lonely, or scared before. I didn't even know if I'd be coming home again." He paused long enough to notice that Janine had been listening to all of this with genuine interest and compassion. "Anyway. Enough about me. What's your biggest regret in life?"
"Herculanium." She slipped her hand back into his and they turned for the stairs.
"Herculanium?" Sherlock paused at the cusp.
"It's even better preserved than Pompeii. Always wanted to go there."
"Oh, Okay then," he smiled, "when do you want to go?"
That night, Sherlock went to the Paradiso and shot up a whole vial.
Falling...
F a L L i N g
I_ t H i n K _i' M_ f A l l i n G_ F O r_ y o U
Shit, what had he done?