A/N: I know, I know, it's been a dreadfully long while. I can't tell you how guilty I've felt when I've kept having to put off editing this chapter. The fact that I ended up with a bit of a rewrite on my hands didn't simplify matters as there's Simply Been No Time. I never thought I would be the type of writer who took over one month to post a chapter - sorry to anyone who is, I mean no offense - but seriously. I hope I can make amends and please know that if it had been in my power to get the chapter up here sooner, it would've been.
I would like to thank the reviewers! You are wonderful, amazing, fantastic, splendifurously jaw-droppingly lovely! B-Elanna, lazy-shika, emmef203, achievableformofflight - my hat is off.
Hope you'll enjoy.
x
Chapter Eleven: More Questions than Answers
We take the morning train to Brighton and arrive at six-thirty. I can't go back to sleep on the train, no matter how much I would've liked to, and spend the ride in the silence Sherlock is emitting, watching the countryside appearing like a slideshow outside the large window: pasture, field, hill, town, pasture, field, hill, town. Until there is sea. I haven't been outside of London in a while and the fresh air when we step off the train is revitalizing, serving to clear my head slightly and making me dare to venture into opening my mouth.
"Who is it we're seeing?" I ask.
"You know who we're seeing, you read the note."
I'm sleep-deprived and not in the mood for this and I give his back a dark look before I retort:
"Yes, thank you, I'm aware – but I don't know who this person is, do I? Do you?"
He squares his shoulders, tucking his hands in the pockets of his coat as I come up beside him and when I glance at him I conclude that of course he doesn't know who it is. Good thing I brought my gun. If this person is someone with inside information about our shooting victims' hidden past, we might be meeting with someone not inclined to talk and even less inclined to talk to strangers.
The note was simple and to the point – the members of the Homeless Network being aware of what Sherlock appreciates from them in terms of communication – and so it only had a last name and an address written on it.
Pascal. New Meadow Mews, Apartment C, Brighton.
It turns out to be a tucked away side street not far from the waterfront with a tree growing in the middle of a miniscule inner courtyard. Three doors flank it, all in a bright red colour that is peeling off in places. Sherlock raises an arm and knocks forcefully on the door with a C on it.
No movement from inside.
He knocks again.
It takes another moment and then there's the unmistakable sound of shuffling feet as someone approaches the door from the other side. Two locks are undone in a fumbling and slow manner and it takes thirty seconds before the door is finally cracked open and an eye is peering at us through the slit.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" a voice with a soft, French lilt to its accent asks and I realize the supposed man we're seeing is actually a woman.
"I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague John Watson," Sherlock introduces us.
The eye narrows.
"Ms. Pascal," Sherlock says, but the door is quite suddenly shut tight and the locks are being put back into place – by fingers more dexterous, it seems.
I raise my eyebrows when Sherlock glances over at me. He hadn't anticipated quite such a brutal rebuff, it would appear, and he actually looks slightly stumped as to where to go from here. We can't very well be yelling our business with Ms. Pascal to a door for all the world to hear, now can we?
"We're here to discuss a possible connection between you and three murder victims in London," I raise my voice, Sherlock cocking an eyebrow and I know he's taken aback, but in approval. "We would appreciate your full cooperation, but if you would rather we ask our questions out here..."
The first bolt is unlocked and the second follows rather harshly before the door is opened with a jerk to reveal a woman in her mid-twenties, wearing slippers and a bathrobe, her hair short and bleached, her eyes blue and glaring at us from the doorway, one hand on her hip as she looks from me to Sherlock.
"I have nothing to say to you," she states. "Please, leave."
"Ten minutes," Sherlock assures.
"Please, won't you go away?" she asks and the plea actually reaches her gaze, softening her expression until she looks quite pretty.
I understand then – we'll get her into trouble if we go in there.
"Sherlock," I begin, but I'm too late as he's already taken the step over the threshold, gently enough pushing his way past her, but pushing nonetheless.
I hesitate, but as I can read nothing but defeat on her now I choose to follow him and enter a short hall leading into a larger sitting room. An unmade bed sits in one corner and a sofa stands against one wall. A shelf filled with old records takes up the wall space next to the door and a doorway leads into a small kitchenette. The bathroom is off the hall and that's it. It's small, but enough, I would think. I only wonder what her connection actually is with the three shooting victims.
I bring out my notebook and pencil, flipping it open and beginning to make random notes of what I see. Nothing extraordinary in the furnishing. As for the details: avid music fan, records, music magazines, musical notes on desk, traveller?, posters old-fashioned travel adverts, reader, collection of books by bed.
Sherlock chooses to stand when offered a seat, glancing about the place with something of a small smile on his mouth before he turns his eyes on our unwilling hostess who's standing insecurely by the desk, watching us warily.
"You're a Physics major by the looks of your accumulated literature, but your true passion is music," he begins, barely pausing as he continues: "Why aren't you studying it? Possibly because you don't want to waste the fact that you have a photographic memory on learning notes, more likely you gave up on your true vocation in order to keep your parents happy. Yes, mummy and daddy recognized your cognitive talents at an early age and due to it you've always felt estranged from them; coming to England was more of a relief than a sacrifice.
"Of course, to benefit from their financial support and be able to stay here you would have to study what they had chosen for you. You rarely visit your home country – I would say Belgium rather than France, somewhere near the border, going by your intonations – but you like to travel. You set up your side-business in defiance of your parents and in the hopes of saving enough money off the profits that you might be financially independent from them before leaving college. Did I miss a step?"
"No," she answers hesitantly. "How did you...?" Her face settles and she doesn't seem to expect a reply, instead she asks: "What do you want from me?"
"Answers, Ms. Pascal," Sherlock replies. "Three men are dead. Three men linked to you."
"What? How?" I interject.
Sherlock keeps his eyes in hers when he replies:
"Ms. Pascal is a very lucrative bookmaker."
My eyebrows rise at that.
"I barely know anything," Ms. Pascal protests.
"Anything is better than nothing," Sherlock retorts. "Your first client of the three was Eric Miller?"
She hesitates a moment longer before she nods.
"We met in a study group. We talked about many different things. It got late – he walked me home. He was a nice guy. Simple. ...We became good friends."
"And the others? Did you know them?"
"No," she shakes her head, "Eric brought me their information. It all went through him. This other man wanted it that way."
"What other man?" I wonder.
"I'm not sure. Eric mentioned him a few times, but he wouldn't tell me his name. Wasn't allowed to. They met sometime in January," she replies, thoughtful before she continues: "Eric said this man was going to do great things for him and that he was relieved to have someone who believed in him, someone who pushed him to try new things, take some risks. I told him to be careful. I told him that you don't just take risks like the ones he was taking, especially where he was taking them, because if you fail it might get you killed. I was going to tell him I couldn't have him as a client anymore. I didn't want any part of that world, this was never meant to be a career for me, for God's sake, and he was bringing in figures that were getting difficult to manage."
"How big were they?" Sherlock inquires.
"Once or twice they were seven digit ones," she answers. "But those numbers were right at the end, this spring, before he... And I did get this feeling that... there was something more, something..."
She trails off and Sherlock nods slowly.
"His alias was Gallagher," he says, undoubtedly scrolling through the ledger in his head.
"Yeah," she smiles, sadly.
"Where in Brighton did Eric do most of his gambling - before this man came into his life and took him to new heights?" Sherlock inquires.
"There's a place on campus, but you won't get in there," Ms. Pascal says.
"And it's called?" Sherlock asks, his tone deflecting her previous statement in a definitive manner.
"The Mush Room," she replies. "It's held in the old science wing. Room 332. But you won't get in."
Sherlock's mouth quirks in a small smile at her stubbornness.
"Did you know Jim Moriarty?" Sherlock asks and I find my eyes widening at his bluntness, even though I ought to be used to it by now.
Ms. Pascal shakes her head, her stubbornness turning into something hard.
"But you know the Colonel," Sherlock says and it's not a question.
"Nobody knows him," the girl states and the sudden fear on her is so palpable it has both of our attention in a heartbeat.
Sherlock is unimpressed.
"You've done very well," he then says, his face suddenly devoid of emotion as he observes her. "I'm sure he'll have nothing to complain about."
She stares at him as he turns and heads for the front door. I am trying to make sense of what just happened, but can't quite wrap my head around it. His voice saying my name prompts me to move in his wake.
x
You tuck your notebook back into your coat pocket as we leave the inner yard for the street. There's scarcely any morning traffic this early on a Sunday and the pavement is thankfully free of pedestrians. I'm grateful for the lack of distractions, my mind filled to bursting point with what I've just learned and I crave an outlet – conversation being the closest at hand.
"Breakfast," I say, leading the way into a small Italian bistro, choosing a table by the window.
You keep quiet as you read the menu. Silence from you always means you have questions, but you refrain from asking them as you're hungry and you're focused on filling your belly, knowing the answers will most likely be offered in due time.
You order an omelette and coffee and once you've taken your first bite you finally say:
"You don't honestly think she's part of the Syndicate, do you?"
I watch you for another moment before I answer:
"No, the look on her face told me that much. Moran truly scares her. She's not part of his network, but she has been approached. Threatened in no subtle way, I'm sure. Whatever information she delegated to us today she knows was safe to give. Meaning what?"
You blink, narrowing your eyes.
"What?" you wonder.
"If Ms. Pascal has been told what to tell us and what not to..."
"...then her information is only what we're meant to have," you fill in, wrinkling your brow in agitation as you add: "Why would Moran want us to have any information at all?"
"Because he thinks he can treat me the way he treated my brother," I reply.
A small smirk spreads on your mouth and you turn your eyes back on your plate as you shake your head.
"What?" I ask.
"I just don't know if it's a good or a very bad sign that Moran is underestimating you," you reply, having a sip of your coffee.
I mirror your smirk, not wanting to admit that I don't think – have never thought in this case – that Sebastian Moran takes anything lightly, least of all me. It's not an underestimation but more a mark of his curiosity. He wants to see what I'll do next, which path I'll choose; he wants to take part in my journey: he's studying my methods.
He's been studying me ever since I returned to this country. Before that. Ever since he first heard the rumours of a ghost hunting down his best killers-for-hire. He's filled with anticipation, and it makes me feel all the more unsettled because I – unlike him – have no idea what rules he's playing by, and the last time I realized the rules were being written as we went along it all ended so very darkly.
"How the hell did you know she was their bookie?" you ask.
"It was the only logical conclusion of her narrative," I reply, reaching out to warm my hands around your coffee cup, growing silent for a while as you eat before I speak up again, saying:
"Eric Miller, Derren Small, Linus Bracket as well as this elusive fourth, they played illegal games under the radar of any gaming commission or official restricting gaming law – Ms. Pascal kept track of their winnings and losses. We have Miller's alias – soon enough we'll have the others' as well. They may have begun small, but toward the end they didn't play for scraps, John, they played with and won and lost fortunes. Linus Bracket made good money as a stockbroker – he had a flat in a nice neighbourhood and he drove a new car: he had the means to get his hands on the sums needed to enter these high-end games, but the other two.
"Well, take Eric Miller: clever kid, good with numbers, formidable at cards, no doubt, he's gambled online; he's gotten a reputation; he's made himself enough money to pay for university and then some, but it's not enough. What does he do? What can he do? He's stuck. Until he gets himself a sponsor. Someone who initiates him into this world he didn't even know existed. He's riding the wave and thinks nothing can touch him. So when this sponsor approaches him with a scheme that will make them rich beyond imagination..."
"He takes the bait," you fill in.
I nod again.
"You said someone brought them together. This sponsor – could he be Moran?" you wonder.
"No," I reply. "Moran wouldn't risk stealing from his business partners and he wouldn't shoot his co-conspirators so openly if he wanted to cover his tracks after a swindle. No."
"What do you hope to find at The Mush Room?" you want to know and I raise my shoulders, making you roll your eyes at me.
You push your empty plate away from you, grabbing the coffee cup from my grasp, giving me a slight look of reproach for monopolizing it and bringing it to your mouth as you observe me. I sit back on my chair, digging my hands into the pockets of my coat, taking my eyes out of yours to look around the small, comfortable room hosting the café.
Black-and-white photographs have been arranged in a puzzle-pattern on the burgundy walls, as well as framed newspaper clippings featuring the establishment: signalling the pride of the owners, or desperation? Is it the testament to years of success or the fear of being forgotten, of not standing out as much as they would want, of disappearing amongst the Starbucks and the Costas? Not that there are that many of them in Brighton, admittedly, but these aged establishments had better offer wireless internet access or they lose half of their clientele.
"What was school like for you? Really?" you suddenly wonder, bringing my gaze back in yours.
You have an earnest enough expression on your face, but I can't quite process the simple question.
Really. What was school like for me?
"Educational," I reply.
You won't accept that, though, leaning forward, placing your elbows on the table as you eye me closely.
"I'd like to know," you say. "What was it like?"
"I don't imagine it was very different to any other's perception of what their edification is or should be – there were bad and good teachers, bad and good classmates, I didn't enjoy any of the homework, but I excelled in the exams."
You suddenly smile and I grow a little alarmed at how I've clearly not given you a satisfactory answer. I dislike misunderstanding you.
"That's not what I meant," you say.
"Then be more specific," I more or less bite back, but you take it in your stride, barely reacting to my impatience as you lean back on your chair again.
"What was your roommate like?" you wonder.
"Didn't have one," I reply. "My parents got me a single room; they thought it was for the best."
You wear another small frown, growing quiet as you study me and I feel my skin beginning to crawl; I'm unused to this and I quickly begin to grow uncomfortable with being on this side of the exchange. I've had people try to make sense of me before, only to come out wanting, and though I do feel you have an ability for understanding me, I don't want you to force yourself into the position of making sense of some part of me that is unclear to you. There seems to be no good reason for it.
"Did you think it was for the best?" you ask.
"John, you know I value my privacy."
"I do. But did you think it was for the best? You chose to live with me, right?"
"That was different."
"How?"
"You were a floor above me, I had my own room, you granted me the space I needed to do the things I do – it was different."
"So you did think it was for the best?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I can't see how it matters, John," I state.
"Can't see how it matters," you parrot almost to yourself, before you continue: "Okay, how's this: I brought a gun today. I brought a gun because I didn't know what we were facing. Chances were we were going to get shot at because, unfortunately, that's not all that uncommon for us. People who risk their lives together, I don't know – feels like they should at least be able to name where the other was born, if they ever broke a bone, if they wanted to be a fireman or a police officer when they were little. Oh, right, pirate for you, was it?" You pause, eyeing me with something I can't quite define, possibly amusement as you add: "You think that's strange, don't you? Sentimental."
I smile a slight smile.
"I can't see how it matters," I restate.
"It matters to me," you reply, holding my gaze for such a long time that your point can't possibly elude me.
I sigh, relenting.
"I was born in London. I spent some of my time there when I was young, but most of my early childhood I lived on the family estate in Sussex," I offer. "At the age of five I was sent off to Eton. I went to Cambridge, where I studied biochemistry and also took courses in a variety of other useful subjects. And I've broken nine bones: my left arm falling from a tree when I was four, my right ankle tripping over a dead cat in a dead man's house when I was fifteen and three ribs and four fingers in situations that you're familiar enough with that you don't need me describing them. As for the pirating..."
You stare at me for another moment before your face lights up from a widening smile and I return it.
"You done?" I then ask, rising without waiting for a reply.
x
It's close to ten-thirty when we trudge across the grass of the campus, kicking up the leaves that are littering it in a thick carpet of shadowed yellow. When we reach the steps of the old stone building – which we've been informed previously hosted the science wing – a light rain has begun to fall. We take the steps two at a time and I walk through the door as Sherlock holds it open for me.
A wide corridor stretches out to right and left. The overhead lights are switched off at this hour of night and the building feels cold and forlorn. I flash back to that first case we had, the cabbie having showed up and taken Sherlock somewhere and when I finally found the buildings I entered the wrong one, running through echoing and blackened corridors in a blind panic, knowing that I had to find him, help him. Even then, even after knowing him for twenty-four hours, I felt protective of him, somehow sensing that he wasn't protective of himself. How terrifyingly right I was.
I follow him down the left corridor and we reach a set of stairs, climbing them until we land on the third floor. Here there's noise to be heard. Muffled voices further down. Sherlock gives me a look and I know what he's thinking: this won't be hard. We walk toward the door with the number 332 on it. A young man rises from a chair, looking at us suspiciously.
"This is invitation only," he states cockily.
Sherlock smiles crookedly.
"Isn't everything? Tell whoever's in charge that Sherlock Holmes would like to ask some quick questions, shouldn't be a bother. If there's a problem, tell them to Google me."
"One moment," the young man mumbles before disappearing in through the door.
"Nothing takes one moment," Sherlock mutters.
"Google you?" I ask, eyebrows raised.
"When has anything ever taken one moment – it's a false statement," he persists.
"You're actually telling them to Google you now?" I ask again, making him cock an eyebrow.
The young man reappears, leaving the door open for us, his eyes glued to Sherlock's form as the fabled detective steps past him into the room. I follow, almost patting the young man's shoulder to break him out of his shock.
"Mr. Holmes," another young man – was I ever this young – greets with a smile.
He's well-groomed, a head shorter than Sherlock and an inch shorter than me, with something innocent about his striped bow-tie and preppy shirt and knitted vest that makes me think back on what it was like that first semester of university when the world still held some mystery and I was certain I was capable of doing great things. Like saving lives. And I have. I've also lost them. And taken them.
"I'm Gerry," the second youngster says, reaching out a hand.
"No, you're not," Sherlock disagrees, ignoring the hand.
"Well, I'm sure you can understand..."
"We have absolutely no interest in whatever little operation you've set up for yourselves here, you want to gamble away your allowance, who are we to judge? I want to know what type of player Mr. Gallagher was."
The young man calling himself Gerry looks from Sherlock to me and back to Sherlock, suddenly oozing insecurity before he softly corrects:
"Ah, it's just Gallagher." At Sherlock's blank face he hesitantly tries to clarify by adding: " ...Like McG. Or Bjork."
"Moving on," Sherlock interrupts impatiently. "How did he play the game?"
"He was consistent. Smart. Observant, you know? Master at keeping his poker face. Really good with body language and that whole bit."
"Did he take risks?"
Gerry has to think about it for a moment before he shakes his head.
"Not really. I mean, he didn't need to. He was that good. He could tell nine times out of ten if he should fold rather than call. I was relieved when he found greener pastures; he was cleaning us all out."
He says it with a smirk, but Sherlock's not smiling.
"He's dead," Sherlock states, something hard in his voice. "I suggest you all stay where you're currently grazing or you might end up in a body bag as well."
With that he leaves the room. I glance around at the assembled strangers, a handful of guys, three girls, all of them gaping back at me and I turn and once more walk in the wake of my friend. He's halfway down the stairs when I catch up with him, coat billowing out at the pace he's keeping, his feet stomping the stone of the steps in clear aggravation and when we reach the first floor he exclaims:
"Morons."
"Well," I begin.
"They don't see any further than that room. At that age I could map the entire world for you on a piece of paper, name the countries, the cities, tell you the distance between Mumbai and Hong Kong and those morons believe they own it. That it's just out there waiting for them. Greener pastures," he huffs the last, pushing the entrance door open and leading me straight into a heavy downpour, flipping his collar up as though he barely registers the fact that we're getting soaked.
I huddle into my jacket, struggling to keep up with him as he strides toward the large gate.
"Yes, but they're just kids," I try.
"Age is no excuse," he barks.
"Not everyone..." I trail off, not seeing any use in starting an argument.
"Not everyone what, John?" he asks, stopping. "Not everyone's brain works the way mine does, is that what you were going to say?"
"No one's brain works the way yours does is what I was going to get at, actually," I reply tartly.
"And the world is a worse place for it," he retorts, turning and continuing out through the gate, onto the pavement.
I sigh.
"Sure," I say to myself as I hurry after him, "if we didn't have messy things like emotions and confusion and misunderstandings the world would be a better place." I pause, begrudgingly having to admit: "In some ways."
"What?" Sherlock demands as I've caught up to him.
"I'm agreeing with you, will you calm down? I know we didn't get that much information, but..."
"Oh, I got plenty," he deflates my attempt at consoling him before suddenly heading up the well-lit entrance steps of a small hotel.
"What're you doing?" I ask. "No," I then add, stopping at the foot of the steps, looking up at him as he starts through the revolving doors. "We're going back tonight," I call after him, my tone as firm as it ever has been. "You know I hate it when you do this, we're not staying, I don't care how late it is, I'm taking the bloody train back to the city."
x
You're dripping rainwater onto the light-blue carpet of the elevator as soft music plays from a small speaker. I would think you'd be happy getting out of the weather and into a warm bed for the night, but your face is clouded over with annoyance.
"You could've said," you reproach.
"I didn't know it'd get so late and so... wet," I assure you.
"Didn't bring anything with me," you complain. "You know I hate it when you do this."
"Do what? I didn't know," I say again. "Wasn't like I made it rain."
"Right. I should start carrying around my toothbrush and a pair of clean pants just in case I'm suddenly stranded in a new city," you grumble.
"Not a bad idea," I allow, your sideways glare carrying venom.
I keep the smirk down as the doors slide open and we step into a dimly lit hallway that smells familiarly of fresh carpet and dust-free surfaces giving the sense of welcome sterility. The room itself is surprisingly spacious with a large canopy bed and white painted antique furniture. A flat-screen TV hangs on one wall and the room is equipped with all the comforts I would expect, which pleases me. The bathroom is clean and bright.
"Have a shower," I encourage you. "But hand me one of the robes first," I add with a trying smile and though it takes a moment you return it.
You remove your soaked jacket with what I would judge to be gratitude and head into the bathroom, tossing me one of the bathrobes hanging on the door before you close it behind you.
Five minutes later I have to knock on it as the bellboy has come up to collect our wet clothes. He assures me they'll be returned from the dry-cleaning I've ordered by six am, and I call room-service for some tea and scones to be brought up, knowing you'll appreciate the gesture even more than the shower.
Once you emerge you rub your hands at the smell of the freshly baked bread and accept the cup I'm handing you with something close to reverence, sitting down in one of the armchairs by the large windows.
"Aren't you having a shower?" you ask when I join you, a cup of my own in hand.
I shake my head, sipping the hot liquid as you look out at the view of the lit-up pier stretching out into the waves, the small amusement park at the end of it showing no sign of life at this time of year. It looks quite desolate and abandoned.
"There's something depressing about a place that's empty when it's built to be filled with people," you mumble quietly, your thoughts clearly running on the same lines as mine and I find myself watching your well-known face as it wears an expression I've rarely seen on it before – you look as desolate as that empty place.
Abandoned.
"Yes," I agree, making you turn your head to me.
Your eyes rest in mine for a breath or two before you focus it on the cup in your hands, having a swallow. Then you turn your attention back at me with a slight wrinkle on your brow as you ask:
"Why did your parents think it'd be better for you to have a single room at college?"
"Do you really need me to clarify?" I inquire.
You smile and I return it.
"Alright – why did you?" you wonder.
I observe you at that, realizing that this is what you wanted to ask all along and I'm moments away from replying with something quick and dryly witty so as to avoid the question entirely, but surprisingly enough I find myself wanting to tell you. And before I know it, there it is: the truth.
"Because I knew what it'd be like," I say slowly, "sharing accommodations with someone who'd grow tired of me in a month and ask to switch rooms; having to go through that for four years – not what I'd call a desirable prospect; after all, who would ever want to live with me?"
That makes you smile again and there's warmth there and I have to wonder, quietly, how I ever did manage to keep you when everyone else...
It feels like old times. Like Baker Street. I've thought little of our old rooms, I admit that, but now I can almost smell them, that faint scent of smoke and chemicals that had crept into the wallpaper and was impossible to air out; the feel of the leather cushion of my chair and the sound of you sitting down in your armchair opposite me; the sensation in my fingers and hands as I placed the bow to the strings of the violin.
"Can't believe you lost my bow," I lament, having a sip of my tea.
You furrow your brow quizzically.
"Are you trying to be clever?" you wonder, making me smile widely.
"No, literal," I reply and it takes another moment before you smirk.
"I'll buy you a new one," you promise. "Sorry. Wasn't exactly expecting that I'd have to."
"No, I suppose you weren't," I agree. "John..." Your eyes rest in mine and I can't quite remember what I was about to ask you, a strange emptiness fills my mind for a moment and I frown lightly to get it away, finally saying: "Did you ever break a bone?"
You smirk.
"I've been shot – does that count?"
I smirk as well.
September 24th
On the train back to London the next morning, I find myself considering Sherlock's childhood. For some reason the thought of him as a small boy is difficult for me to grasp. I see a four year old in starched shirts and tiny suits, questioning everything and throwing a temper tantrum if ever questioned himself. The thought makes me smile, but there's something sad about it, too. Something lonely.
I've never thought of Sherlock as a lonely person before. His solitude always seemed so self-carved and desired that I've never once gotten the notion that it could ever have been otherwise, but a child doesn't have the skill-set, no matter how brilliant the child is, to understand seclusion and choose it for himself. What was his relationship like with his parents? With his brother? How early did the resentment between them begin to edge the crevice separating them? What was really the cause of it?
And as a younger man, did he never seek anyone's company? He's sought mine – I can't possibly be the first, can I? He must have met someone at college or the years after who took him at face value and found something to appreciate. I suppose Mike Stamford might be one of the few, but then again, Sherlock doesn't seek him. In fact, Sherlock hardly ever stretches out a hand unless there's one already stretched out to him and even then he's most likely going to turn away from it than grasp it. Why is that?
My head is filled with these annoying musings, my mind bursting with questions that I'm not sure I've even wanted to formulate to myself before, knowing that doing so would only make me want to ask him, while being perfectly aware of how Sherlock dislikes these types of conversations. In the first months I spent at Baker Street I once asked him why he was so interested in chemistry and he filled my room with every last book and magazine he had on the subject instead of simply answering what made it interesting to him.
"Sherlock," I say hesitantly, making him look at me from where he's seated across from me. But when it comes to him I'm such a coward, and so I ask: "How do we find the fourth?"
"We use the postcards," he answers and that's all I'm getting out of him for the rest of the trip.