Two weeks ago, 4th Day after Move-in
Once again, Sherlock sat in the worn easy chair in his sitting room flat, his eyes closed and his fingers steepled in front of him. Once again, he was humming Rachmaninoff's 2nd Piano Concerto. And once again, he was thinking about George Patel's murder. But unlike the day before, his thoughts were not composed. He looked at the clock over his mantle. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and too early yet to go downstairs and speak with Annabelle about the notebook. His right curled into a fist on his knee. He had been so certain yesterday when the notebook arrived that they were set to make some progress. Her long-lost journal was sure to convince some of those damaged neural pathways to give him useful information, wasn't it?
But his visit came to naught, and the strange arrangements of numbers, letters, and symbols had defied all his decryption techniques so far. He had such small samples of legible material to work with, and even the sections which were legible didn't include all the letters of the alphabet, giving him an incomplete data set.
But the proper decryption technique would not be necessary if Annabelle could simply tell him how to translate it. He had finally coaxed her into letting him into her flat, finally gotten her to let her guard down, and had finally caught her in a cogent state of mind, when Harry had shown up and ruined everything.
"It's my journal! Oh my God, Sherlock, you found it! How? Where was it? And what happened to it?" She touched the burned cover gently, then lifted it off the piano and clutched it to her chest.
"Someone tried to destroy it, Annabelle. But George Patel recovered it somehow and mailed it to me."
"George? How?" Her eyes were filling with tears, and her hands were fisted and shaking.
"I don't know how he got a hold of it, but he mailed it last Friday, the day he was killed."
"Oh my God, it's my fault Sherlock! It's my-"
Suddenly the door slammed open and Harry stormed inside, already raging.
"You, what are you doing here again?" he yelled, pushing Sherlock into the back of the couch.
"Stop bothering my sister with your blasted investigation! It's nothing to do with us! Yesterday you were threatening me, and you're practically stalking her! It's not right, Sherlock! Get out, get out of this house, and out of our lives!"
Sherlock sighed and rubbed his temples, remembering the domestic scene with chagrin; Annabelle yelled at them both, then burst into tears and ran out of the room. Harry accused him of upsetting her and accelerating her mental deterioration, then forbid him from coming back. He practically pushed him out the front door, and then stayed at his sister's flat for the next two hours, during which Sherlock could hear only the sounds of sporadic arguments, various television programs, and the monotonous repetition of that horrid musical piece she had first played for him on the piano two days ago.
Over and over she played that song -if one could call it that- until he heard what was probably Harry's loud complaints, wherein the flat finally fell silent. Her afternoon caretaker arrived and Harry left shortly thereafter. Sherlock bounded downstairs and pounded on the door, and was met by a stoic woman who refused to let him in. Apparently Annabelle was sleeping, and in any case, Sherlock wasn't on the list of allowed visitors. He insisted, he cajoled, he commanded, he begged, threatened, invoked Scotland Yard, Dan Brown, and finally the Queen, all to no avail - nothing made an impression on the woman. So he waited again at the window of his flat until the change of the 'guard' at 6pm, when Annabelle's night carer came on duty.
The night nurse was fortunately much more lax than her predecessor, as demonstrated when Sherlock came to the door again, this time with a plate of biscuits and what he hoped looked like friendly smile. She opened the door with a grin and a pleased, "Oh!" when she saw his offering, and upon his effusive introduction and request for entrance, simply leaned over her shoulder, calling out into the sitting room beyond.
"Mum, there's a fellow to see ya', a Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock's shoulders slumped in relief as he heard Annabelle reply and the nurse waved him in. He stalked quickly into the room and off-handedly tossed the plate of biscuits onto the table. He then walked over to the couch where Annabelle was reclined, pulling her notebook out of his jacket and brandishing it proudly. To his irritation she was non-responsive, and remained focused on the television, apparently watching a special on gardening.
"Now, back to your journal," he said, waving it in front of her eyes. "You've got to tell me how to decode this blasted thing. What type it of cypher it is, what language it's based in, something, anything."
She waved her hand distractedly in front of her face, pushing the notebook away, and not looking at him.
"This part's important-" she said slowly, pointing at the television.
He looked sharply over at the screen, where a middle-aged man was gesturing at a large flowering shrubbery.
"Annabelle! What are you on about?" he snapped at her. "George is practically begging me from the grave to solve his murder, and I need you to cooperate!" he stage whispered, glancing over at the nurse, who was now sitting at the dining table on the other side of the room, apparently enthralled with a text-conversation. When Annabelle didn't respond, he collapsed onto the couch next to her, sending dust and stray packing popcorn flying into the air. The momentum bounced her slightly up on her side of the couch and she giggled, then rubbed her eyes sleepily.
"It's gone to commercial, then," she said, pointing lazily at the screen, smiling up at him and yawning. He glared incredulously at her. She scrunched up her forehead in a mockery of his expression, then stuck out her tongue.
His shoulders slumped, realisation slowly dawning on him.
"You're high," he said.
"Course I am," she whispered, giggling again. Then she frowned, her eyes slightly crossing, and she reached towards him. "There's something in your hair, a piece of fluff-" she said, swatting at his face. He leaned away from her clumsy attempts, pushing her back with one hand and finding the errant piece of styrofoam that had settled into his hair with the other. He flicked it dejectedly at the television.
"That's settled then, you're much more pre-sent-able now," she said, enunciating her words carefully.
"Annabelle-" he sighed and leaned his head back against the couch.
"Hmm?"
"Nothing, nothing." he said, shaking his head.
A few moments passed in silence. Then she spoke up again, saying, "I'm sorry."
He looked up at her and saw that she was biting her lip, tears pooling in her eyes. He groaned and pulled his fingers through his hair, exasperated.
"No, no, don't Anna, it's not your fault. I'll just be going. I'll see you tomorrow, right? We'll talk about this then," he tapped the notebook then moved to get up, but she laid a small hand on his arm, stilling him.
"Listen. Listen, Sherlock, everything's made of music, don't you see? The sounds of nature are musical, speech even more so, and the written word simply a different medium. One can be translated into the other, language to language, form to form, and it can all be broken down, then transmitted in a myriad of different ways. Its universal, don't you see?" She spoke in starts and stops, slightly swaying in place, her eyes glazed and a half-smile quirking her face.
"Yeah, yeah, I see, Anna." He put his hand on hers and moved it from his forearm back to her lap. "I'm just going to-" he pointed towards the door awkwardly, when she interrupted him.
"I just wanted to be a part of that beauty, that binding force, you know?" she said quietly. "There's nothing else like it, like getting lost in the music. I never went in for god or church, but sometimes, you know, sometimes when you're up there, playing a concerto, and the orchestra's behind you, you can just feel all of the notes swirling 'round in joy, and it's like everyone's souls are lifting up and up, and joining together, and for that shining moment - you don't feel alone. That's all I ever wanted, Sherlock." She frowned, trying to focus on him, one tear sliding down her face.
He looked down and saw that his hand was still resting on hers in her lap. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing in trepidation.
"Where's the music when you're dying, Sherlock?" she asked, and he shook his head, closing his eyes tightly.
"-cuz right now I feel so, so alone."
He looked slowly up at her and saw that her eyes had drifted shut. She curled slowly in on her side, away from him, burrowing into the corner of the couch. His hand fell out of her lap as she shifted, and he watched, strangely detached as it lifted up and lightly touched the hair at the nape of her neck.
"Anna-" he said, then stopped as he heard a light snore and the slow regular intake of her breath. She was asleep.
He snatched his hand back and stood up, shaking his head and roughly brushing off more of the debris from the couch. He looked over at the nurse who was still sitting at the dining table, studiously poking away at her mobile phone.
"Why is she so incoherent?" he demanded.
The nurse startled at his loud words, then stood up, putting her phone into her pocket and crossing her arms. "Well, she's had her medication upped again, ain't she, poor dear." she said kindly, looking over at Annabelle.
"Why?" he asked.
"Where've you been? She's dyin-"
"I know that. But until now, We've been able to have perfectly- well, mostly lucid conversations."
"Well, there's a note here from her doctor, sayin' we's to try a new cocktail, as prescribed." She pointed to some papers on the kitchen counter, and a few newly opened medication bottles. "Since its all palliative, I's just about makin' her comfortable as best we can-"
Sherlock strode quickly into the kitchen and began rifling through the prescriptions.
"She's on all - all of this?" he said, gripping the counter top as he counted the five new opiates in front of him, and did a few mental calculations concerning dosages and side effects.
"It's all standard for terminal patients at her stage, sir, and all by Dr. Fairbank's orders-"
"She requested the increase?" he muttered, then picked up one of the bottles, scanning the label and turning it over absent-mindedly. "She must be in agony-" he said aloud, then froze as he re-read the label.
"Prescribed by Dr. H. Fairbanks?" he looked up sharply.
She nodded. "Harry's the boss. It's all getting' too much for her, tha's why 'e increased the doses again." She sighed then looked back up at Sherlock. "Angie told me when I relieved her at 6."
Sherlock's arms were folded across his chest, his eyes far off and glittering.
"You two, you're close, yeah?" She asked, nodding at Annabelle, who was still asleep on the couch.
He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.
"Well, if you're wantin' to see her clear-headed you should come tomorrow around 10. She takes the bare minim of meds from 6am until noon."
"Is that so?" he asked, his eyebrows lifting incredulously.
The nurse shrugged her shoulders. "She says she wants some time to take care of herself and read and play her piano, and don't even want a carer at that time, which probably ain't wise, but what's one to do? So that's the best time to talk to her. Even so, she ain't always savvy, so take care you don't upset her." She tapped Sherlock lightly on the chest, and Sherlock nodded again in assent.
He furrowed his brow even further, then looked from Annabelle, who was still asleep on the couch, to the pills on the kitchen counter. "Till tomorrow morning then," he said under his breath, then glanced at the nurse. "And what's your name?" he asked.
"I'm Miss Jones, Miss Tara Jones. Nice to meet you." She said, holding out her hand to him. He clasped it briefly, then turned and walked out the door, back to his own flat.
It was these events he was pondering as he sat in his easy chair the next morning, four days after "The Move-In", as he now called the arrival of Annabelle and her brother. His thoughts spun circular and disjointed amongst the details of the case: an unreadable notebook, mysterious Japanese colleagues, not-soy lattes, past enmities, employee betting pools, junky cars -
Suddenly his phone rang, waking him from a decidedly unproductive deductive stupor.
He jumped and grabbed the vibrating mobile out of his pocket, looking at the caller ID. He sighed, exclaiming, "Finally!" and answered.
"You've kept me waiting long enough!" he snarled. "Where are those files on the staff at CRI? Tell me, what exactly are you playing at, Mycroft?"
