Having friends was new territory for Thea. Even though she was going round to Marcus' regularly now, at least once a week for practise, and had been to
Lisa's house quite a few times now, the visits still bore a distinct air of going to a museum or travelling to another country.
For example, the kitchens at her friends' places were just that, kitchens. There was no lab equipment on the tables and definitely no body parts in the fridge.
She pointed this out to Marcus one Friday afternoon as they got ready to shred in the shed.
"Chicken wings are technically body parts," Marcus corrected her, removing a large container of barbequed leftovers. He stopped and looked at Thea curiously.
"Hang on…do you mean actual human-"
"They're for my father's work," Thea said quickly. "Measuring decay and coagulation and stuff. It's pretty boring."
"What sort of body parts?" Marcus asked. "What's the biggest one you ever found in your fridge?"
"Oh, it's usually just hands and feet or single fingers," Thea lied.
"That's cool."
It was the strangest thing. Thea could not quite understand why Lisa and Marcus had decided to fold her into their little twosome, but she figured it would be a
bad idea to ask them. She didn't want to draw attention to the fact that she was almost a full five years younger than them or her constant bafflement at the
minutiae of their lives. They were so interesting she could barely stand it.
Both Lisa and Marcus' houses sported, for instance, an incredible amount of photographs.
"Why do you have pictures of these babies?"
Thea had studied the frames snapshots every time she came to visit but she'd never quite had the nerve to ask.
"That's me," Lisa said.
"It doesn't look like you at all."
"That's because I'm a baby, Thea," Lisa said slowly. "Babies tend to look quite similar."
"Is that you as well?" Thea pointed at a picture of a girl on a beach wearing a wig of seaweed.
"Yes."
"Why are there so many pictures of you around?"
"What?"
"Why-"
"No, Thea," Lisa interrupted. "I mean, what are you not understanding?"
"You're parents know what you look like," Thea said plainly. "You certainly know what you look like. What's the point?"
"To remember things."
"You don't need pictures for that."
"No, you don't need them," Lisa conceded. "But it's just what people do."
"And this?" Thea examined a portrait of a girl in a tree. "Is that you as well?"
"No, that's my sister."
"You have a sister?" Thea asked in genuine surprise. "Is she being kept locked up in a cellar or something?"
"Uhm, no…" Lisa frowned slightly. "She died of leukaemia two years ago."
"Oh." Thea thought about this, studying the face of the dead girl in the photo, who looked a little like Lisa and didn't seem sick at all.
"What, Thea?" Lisa asked a little tiredly, she'd spend enough time with her to know a question – or a series thereof – was imminent.
"Why do you keep pictures of her around?" Thea asked. "Doesn't it make you sad to look at her?"
"It does and it doesn't," Lisa replied.
"That doesn't make sense," Thea pointed out before she could stop herself.
"Duality," Lisa sighed. "Memories are funny that way."
"Huh."
"And dead or not," Lisa's tone had the sing-song quality of something being repeated for the umpteenth time, "she's still part of the family."
"Dead people aren't part of anything," Thea frowned.
Lisa looked at her with an expression Thea did not care for at all.
"I should shut up, shouldn't I?" she ventured cautiously.
"That would be good." Lisa took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, something she was prone to do when she got annoyed and wanted to keep from
punching someone. Thea had seen this many times, mostly when Marcus started rambling about outlandish conspiracy theories.
"Let's get this fusion thing started," Lisa said finally, slamming her chemistry book on the kitchen table.
"Okay…"
"Don't worry," Lisa gave her a tight smile. "I have to keep you around to help with homework at the very least."
Thea obliged happily, but a strange feeling of…something…lingered for the rest of the afternoon.
()
"Do you have any pictures of the host?"
Thea, Sherlock and John were seated in their respective favourite chairs; John and Thea with boxes of semi-cold Chinese, Sherlock with a stack of twenty-
year-old newspapers.
"No," he answered without looking up.
"Huh." Thea turned her attention back to dinner, wondering at the gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach.
"What's the host?" John asked casually.
"Ancient history," Sherlock answered.
"It's not really ancient," Thea disagreed.
Her father set his paper aside with a sigh of exasperation.
"Things that are no longer of consequence or influence can be categorised as ancient history regardless of timeline. Case point. Last week you mistakenly
ruined a near complete set of specimen by pouring coke into a jar without checking what was in it – but! You went through considerable trouble remedying
your mishap, it ceased to be a problem, we shan't speak of it again – ancient history."
Thea poked at the remains of dubious sweet and sour pork with her chopsticks. It seemed best to drop the subject, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to.
"Does grandma have any?"
"Any what?" Sherlock was back behind a wall of yellowed newsprint.
"Pictures," Thea said impatiently, "of the host."
"Why on earth would she?"
"I don't know…" Thea put her food on the floor, crossed her legs and started picking at a rip in her jeans. "They met, didn't they? She might have taken one."
"I very much doubt that."
"She might have," Thea said indignantly.
"Where is this coming from?" Sherlock asked.
"Nowhere."
"Curious."
"I am, too," said John. "Who are you talking about?"
"The host." Thea rolled her eyes. "Weren't you listening? Does either of you ever actually listen to anything I say?"
"Mind," her father said dangerously, "the attitude."
"Come off it," she snapped.
"I'm going to go out on a limb here," John said suddenly. "And I'm really hoping I've got the wrong end of it…but when you say 'host' are you referring to your
mother?"
Thea opened her mouth but Sherlock was faster.
"Mother would be suggestive of someone who had taken their role further than mere incubation," he said. "Host seems by far the more appropriate term,
seeing as no actual mothering, in the true sense of the word, actually took place."
John stared. Thea had by now extended the rip in her pants so much she could fit her whole hand in.
"You can't be serious," John said finally.
"Terminologies should be applied according to circumstance," Sherlock said simply. "Had she made it to phase two, the title of mother would have been
appropriate, but that was not how the experiment played out."
"The experiment?"
"Project Progeny," Thea explained. "That's me – hi…"
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock studied John's face with interest.
"I think he might be horrorstruck," Thea said helpfully.
"Why?"
"Because you're a bloody psychopath!" John erupted.
"High functioning sociopath." Thea mouthed the words in perfect unison with her father's correction.
"Bringing a child into the world is neither an experiment nor a project, Sherlock," John shouted.
"Of course it is," Sherlock scoffed. "Any parent who claims the opposite is either delusional or a shameless liar."
"So, your girl-…the…Thea's mother, did she have anything to say about this?"
"That's a ridiculous question."
"Oh, is it?!"
"It was a joint undertaking, John," Sherlock said in the tone reserved for the impossibly thick. "In fact, my role was to be very much that of a passive observer
until phase three."
"How can you talk about it like that?" John looked as though he was on the verge of punching a wall. "Your daughter is sitting right here."
"She's aware of all the facts."
Thea could tell her father was genuinely confused now, which didn't happen very often, and felt moved to step in.
"Phase one, you see," she said calmly, giving John her most reassuring smile, "was incubation, obviously. Phase two was overseeing early development and
observing any affinities that might manifest. Phase three was supposed to be targeted furthering of said affinities."
"Affinities?" John asked weakly.
"Talents, I suppose," Sherlock clarified. "But the idea was to allow them to develop independently, rather than as a response to exposure."
"What was the point?"
"The point? There was no single point," Sherlock frowned. "But amongst other things it might have provided a number of insights to questions regarding nature
and nurture. Genetic predispositions. Correction of genetic downfalls. It could have been quite spectacular."
"Could have been?"
"See, when the host didn't make it into phase two," Thea elaborated, "the project was compromised beyond redemption. Sort of. Because the point was to see
how the specimen, me, would develop without direct influence by the donor."
"Have either of you any idea how twisted this sounds?" John asked, unable to contain his disbelief.
"It's not twisted, it's science."
"You are insane."
For a while they sat in uncomfortable silence, none of them quite sure what to do with their hands or where to look.
"Where on earth did you find a woman deranged enough to go along with this demented scheme?" John asked finally.
"University."
"She was studying to be a geneticist," Thea volunteered.
"Of course she was." John shook his head. "How long were you together?"
Sherlock cocked his head.
"Together?"
"Dating, a couple, you know, together."
"We weren't," Sherlock sounded bemused. "That would have complicated things unnecessarily."
"Naturally," John said darkly. "So what? How?"
"IVF, obviously."
"Obviously," John echoed.
"Don't look so annoyed," Thea said. "Lots of people have IVF babies, even if they are…together. Marcus, for example. His dad has a low sperm count."
John barked an involuntary laugh.
"It's not funny," Thea admonished. "They spent a fortune having him and now Marcus is being crushed by irrational feelings of responsibility to make it worth
their while. It's no wonder he drinks."
"He drinks?" Sherlock asked sharply.
"Recreationally," Thea said quickly. "Anyway, he's already said on numerous occasions that he'll kick me out of the band if I so much as sniff a beer. Drummers
need to be precise."
"How very reassuring."
"What was her name?"
Both Holmes looked at John curiously.
"Whose?" asked Thea.
"Your mother's."
"Agnes," Thea said. "Agnes Tremaine."
"So, you really have no pictures, not one single one, of Agnes?" John asked Sherlock.
"No. What purpose would it serve?"
John threw up his hands.
"I'm going for a walk," he announced. "I may not be back for quite some time and am likely to be completely plastered when I do."
By the time he pulled on his jacket, Sherlock was back at the newspapers.
