Chapter Fourteen
"Hello," I yell as I close the front door to Audrey's flat, kicking off my shoes as I remove my jacket. "Glad you texted – I was beginning to think you weren't ever coming back." I smile as I head into the sitting room. "Ah," I say, picking up the paperback on the armrest of the sofa, "you bought it. It's good, isn't it? How far have you gotten? It's a bit slow at first, but by chapter three…" I trail off as she comes to the doorway of the bedroom – looking pretty, I notice – and I meet her gaze as I say: "Hi."
She smiles a little.
"Hi," she replies; adding: "I just got to the part where the little boy finds the gun in the attic and thinks it's a toy. Having bad feelings about where it's headed."
My smile broadens, but I notice there's hesitancy on her. She hasn't come up to put her arms around me or kiss me hello. I begin to feel the outlines of that wall again, stone by stone, and I put the book down.
"Listen, I've been thinking," she says.
I can tell she's struggling to keep a casual air to her movements and unsuccessfully so as all of them feel studied and mechanical, as though she's putting on a show. But she's better than this.
"Dangerous pastime," I say with a trying smirk. "Trust me – I've seen the carnage up close and personal. Sherlock-…"
"Are you in love with him?"
The interruption is so abrupt, the question so unbidden, so snatched out of thin air that I begin to grow aware of just how thin the air is getting. In fact, it's becoming a little hard to breathe. I stare at her, feeling as though I don't know her. She's a stranger. Remote and separated from me completely.
"With who?" I ask, as calmly as I can manage.
She gives me a look that is both pitiful and reproving.
"Are you in love with Sherlock Holmes?" she clarifies.
My eyes widen.
There's a beat of silence.
Then I exclaim:
"What is it with you bloody women?" My frustration and disbelief with her completely taking over as I continue: "Is it really this easy for you to read into things? Can't two blokes be mates without you having to make it into something more? For God's sakes, I've spent a year sharing your bed, have I ever given you any reason to think I'm gay?"
She takes in my outburst without even flinching and then calmly replies with:
"I didn't ask if you're gay – I asked if you're in love with Sherlock Holmes."
"Based on what?" I demand.
"Your infatuation with him for one," she answers simply.
"Infatuation?" I once more raise my voice, feeling how a flush is creeping up my throat towards my face as I can hardly comprehend what she's standing there and saying to me.
"You haven't left his side-…" she begins, but I can't stop myself from yelling:
"He came back from the dead!"
She eyes me for a brief second before she retorts drily:
"Like Jesus."
"Yes, that's exactly right, yes, like Jesus," I nod, glaring at her, at what she thinks she's doing, turning herself into something unfamiliar and unwanted in this outrageous way.
"Well, you do follow him wherever he goes, whatever he does, like a faithful disciple," she now quips, though there's not a trace of humour in her voice.
"What?" I demand.
"I think I get it, though," she continues. "That part of it, at least, because I've realized that you'll always be a soldier first, John, no matter how much you try to be a doctor, and what is a soldier without his orders? And who would be a better commander in chief than someone so commanding of every last morsel of your attention?"
"You sound like a jealous girlfriend," I shoot back, my pulse raging through my veins in a way that makes me feel as though my chest is about to spontaneously combust.
"That's below the belt!" she exclaims. "I am a jealous girlfriend, you bloody idiot. I've every right to sound like one."
"There's nothing to be jealous of!" I state, exasperated with this stupid argument already, wanting to put an end to it and return everything to how it was just a moment before I stepped through that door. "I thought I'd lost him!" I add. "What did you expect me to do? Give him a pat on the back and leave it there? Christ! We're done with the case. It's done. I'm here. Right?"
"And what about the next case?" she asks.
I don't know what to answer. I can't lie to her, but I don't know how to tell her the truth and suddenly I wonder what I'm doing. The confusion drives away the upset emotions and I no longer feel indignation at her straight questions, but rather defeat at how I don't know how to make her the promises she's clearly seeking.
"And what about him staying at yours?" she continues at my silence. "You're practically living together. You don't think that's what he wants?"
"What he wants?" I ask, taken aback by her even involving Sherlock's considerations in this discussion and realizing that I haven't.
"Oh, John. You don't even..." She trails off, looking pained for a moment before her face smoothes, seemingly collecting herself and that confrontational air leaving her somewhat as she says: "What will it be like? Whenever you get another case?"
"What do you mean?" I wonder stupidly.
"I mean what can I expect, time-wise? A week per case? Two weeks? Longer for some of them? And will it be round the clock? Will you be home in the evenings, waiting for him to call at a moment's notice? You'd leave in the middle of the night. I wouldn't know if you were safe or coming home. You've barely called me since he came back."
"That's... It wasn't..." I stumble, trying to sound convincing as I finish: "I'd do better. It's just been..."
"Yeah," she nods. "Distracting."
"Audrey," I say. "He's a friend. A good friend. He doesn't need me to... I'm not there to... It's not about that sort of thing, it never has been. Sherlock doesn't understand about love. There's no point in..."
I trail off, losing my train of thought and finding myself unable to get back on track again. I don't know how to explain it to her and I feel like I have to, like I should at least try. Sherlock would say something along the lines of how she's drawn her conclusions from a defective study of the facts and I need to enlighten her to her errors. I'm just at a loss with how to even begin correcting her.
"But you love him," she prods and I wonder why goose bumps of discomfort spread up my arms at the simplicity of her statement.
"I don't understand where all this is coming from," I say instead of actually offering any kind of substantial reply.
She eyes me for a moment before she reaches for her laptop on the coffee table, taking a short second to find the right passage and then reading my own words back to me:
"'Not sure my life with Sherlock is compatible with long-term relationships.'"
"That's years ago," I protest, hearing how feeble it sounds.
"You consciously made the decision against pursuing anything that could come between you and him," she says, mercilessly. "You even put it on this blog that has your name on it, but really is all about him, isn't it? Post after post where you try to work him out, John. I can understand that. He's fascinating. He sits across from you and you can almost hear him picking you apart. But are you going to be the observer for the rest of your life, then? If you don't love him – then what? What is it? What is it that makes you choose him without a second thought? No, really. I really want to know."
"I'm not choosing him," I protest, this time more forcefully.
"But you are. You have. You will," she retorts. "John, I love you," she says and I feel a lump begin to form in my throat. "The time I've spent with you… I don't regret a single day of it. But I've been waiting. I've been patient. I think I've been patient, anyway… I can't spend the rest of my life waiting for you to come home."
"Every time won't be like this," I shake my head, though I know I can't possibly guarantee it.
"No," she says, "I don't mean the case, I mean..." and her eyes suddenly fill with tears as she wraps her arms around herself. "Damn it," she swears, wiping at her cheeks with the palm of one hand before she looks back at me. "I mean – since I met you, I've waited for you to talk to me about him. And it wasn't because I was curious, but because I could see this... this horrible pain you were carrying with you. And I hoped you'd open up. I hoped... You don't know how much I hoped you'd want to seek comfort from me. All those nights you woke me up, yelling his name. God, John."
The tears spill over again and I feel somewhat dazed by how focused I've been on myself, how blind I've kept myself to what she's gone through, had to go through with me. Those nightmares feel decades away now.
"I know I can't understand what watching him fall from that roof must've done to you," she says, sniffling before she continues: "but I understood your faith in him and I hoped… I wanted you to talk to me about all those questions you must've had, about how he could do that, why, what drove him to it. But you didn't turn to me. Not once, for anything. And I thought, well, then, he can't be inconsolable. He's living his life; he's loving me; so whatever Sherlock Holmes left behind is still a whole person."
She's looking at me as though she wants to stop this honesty right now, in its tracks, and forget about it, go on as we have before, take that weekend trip, stay together, and a part of me desperately wants her to do just that.
"But I was wrong," she gets out, throat constricted with her held back emotion and when I reach out to run my thumbs over her cheeks she doesn't move, merely finishes: "I was wrong, because I've never seen you be the way you are when you're with him. He does something to you. Something good so I can't even object to it."
She smiles through her tears at the contradiction, but I just want her to stop crying. She doesn't. She takes a step back, away from me.
"Audrey," I say her name again and when she looks at me I know it's over.
I can't salvage it.
I've wrecked it.
"I can't," she shakes her head. "I won't."
"But..."
"Can you tell me it'll be any different? Next time?"
I stare at her and I know that she already knows what the answer is. She pulls both hands over her face, quickly getting rid of the fresh tears before she nods.
"You should go," she says, turning from me and walking into the kitchen.
I almost go after her. I want to hold her, cry with her over this irrecoverable life that she's let me be a part of, that's saved me, in many ways, from myself, from dark thoughts and solitude. She was that guide I clung to; she showed me how to live normal, everyday living. I needed her so much, but the truth is...
The truth is I do need what Sherlock offers more.
The soldier in me needing orders – I wonder if that's an accurate description and that the purpose of it all is to serve something greater than oneself. Since I was young I've striven, I've wanted and longed to make a difference; to be a part of whatever there is outside of the square-shape that is everyone's right. Sherlock represents every shape imaginable and he offers them to me freely.
I turn and head back into the hall, quietly putting my shoes and jacket back on before I close the door with a soft click behind me.
x
I enter my flat half an hour later, having walked home in a chilly downpour, trying to clear my head and only managing to feel all the more tangled. There's sorrow at the hurt I've caused, knowing I will come to miss her, the reality of it not having hit home quite yet and all I can feel is a sense of welcomed finality. It makes me feel shame along with the bafflement at Audrey even for a moment believing I could be in love with Sherlock. God help the poor soul who actually ever truly loves him, is all I can think.
He's on the floor of the sitting room with sheets of paper strewn all around him, all of them covered in what might be the smallest handwriting I've ever seen; by the looks of it his and not quite as meticulous as it usually is. The display makes me frown as I stop in the doorway.
"What's this?" I ask.
"Report," he answers, looking up at me. "Mycroft requested it. Alright, he ordered it."
"Mh," I make a disconcerted face before I head into the kitchen, "know how good you are with taking orders."
"I'm writing it," Sherlock's voice deflects.
"And drawing diagrams," I agree, pouring myself a large glass of whiskey before I join him in the sitting room, looking over the fifty or so pages he's already managed to fill, unable not to be impressed. "What page count are you aiming for?"
"An even hundred should do it," he replies.
"And of course you'll hand them in unnumbered," I say, which makes him smile briefly.
I wonder at that smile, suddenly.
Having a seat in the armchair I surreptitiously watch him as he works, finding myself curiously considering what it would take to make him care. Well, he does care. He's not unfeeling, or he wouldn't have fallen off that building to save lives. But does he classify the emotion as anything worth having? Does he experience it the way I would? The way I have. Would he mourn me if I died? Would he miss me?
I come to think of Irene Adler and her impact on him. Did he love her? Did he recognize the emotion? Did it register? Would it? Was that what those months were about following her faked death? Or was it the failure to help a client that her death represented? Or both? With her it was her mind that drew him to her, made him vulnerable. So was it love or was it simply him reflecting himself in her? Sure sounds like Sherlock.
If there are important answers to be had he'll find good use in watching paint dry, that's just how his brain works. What will put a regular person to sleep will engage him and set him off in a dozen different directions in one split second. Irene Adler was not his equal, but she did know how to use him, manipulate him, just as she did everyone else. Perhaps that's how you gain his respect – by outwitting him.
But his trust? Would that make him trust you? I believe he does trust me. It's never been very clear to me exactly what he saw in me or exactly why he kept me around, but he found me again, didn't he? He sought my company. So, whatever else, at least he must want it. He calls me his friend. I am his friend.
I have a mouthful of the strong liquor, savouring the sensation of it burning its way through my chest to settle its fire in my belly, the autumn cold turning to slowly charring embers and I sigh.
"Didn't go well?" Sherlock asks, not looking at me as he continues to write. "With Audrey," he adds at my lack of response. "Doesn't exactly take a whole lot of brain power – you're back within two hours, you obviously walked home even though it's raining and you're drinking before eight."
"It's Saturday," I protest. "And I like the rain," I add, noting his cocked eyebrow. "No, it didn't go well. We broke up," I mutter into my glass, having another mouthful.
"That's too bad. I rather liked her," he states matter-of-factly, finishing the page and tossing it amongst the others.
"Yes, me, too," I sigh again. "She said..." I begin, catching myself and suddenly my pulse quickens at what I almost confessed to him.
"What?" he asks, still focused on the new sheet before him.
I smile, wishing I knew why I'm suddenly feeling flustered as I rise from the chair.
"God, I'm starving," I say, walking into the hall and digging through the single drawer of the spindly table standing beside the door, fishing out a collection of take away menus that I hope are still functional – I haven't had need of them in a while.
The thought makes me suddenly feel overwhelmingly sad and I want to call Audrey immediately just to tell her I'm sorry, just to hear her say it's okay, but I don't. And I know full well I won't. I have to let her go now.
"What's good – Indian, Chinese, Portuguese?" I ask, fishing out my mobile.
"Mh," he responds and I know I've probably lost him for the rest of the evening, but I don't mind.
I order Indian and settle down in front of the telly, finding the soft rustle of another sheet being finished and tossed aside comforting, glancing over at him from time to time, thinking it quite the miracle that we're spending a Saturday night together like this when two weeks ago the notion would have been inconceivable to me. How quickly things change.
September 29th
I watch as Mr. Allen Woodsbridge stirs his fourth spoon of sugar into his blackcurrant tea. He's enjoying himself a little too much, for my taste, and is prolonging the big reveal of exactly what he's doing for my brother. He's wearing the same tweed jacket as last I saw him, but has moss-green trousers and a dark brown shirt on; making me conclude his wife is clearly not in London with him.
"Mr. Woodsbridge, I really would rather just get this over with as quickly as possible," I say, making him raise his eyebrows as he looks up at me from his stirring, a smile soon gracing his lips as he takes the cup and leans back on his chair. "If you don't mind," I add benevolently.
"Yes," Mr. Woodsbridge says, "your brother told me patience wasn't one of your virtues."
"And what else did my brother tell you?" I ask, the mention of Mycroft an immediate irritant and I lean forward as I continue: "You believe you're a mystery to me? I know you're an over-achiever, a workaholic, obsessed with the subject you study, which – by the looks of your left hand and the dust on your right pant leg – is either precious metals or precious stones. Oh, don't mock me with fake surprise. You're here because you've followed my career and find me what? Captivating?" I ask contemptuously.
"Yes," Mr. Woodsbridge admits freely. "But mostly I'm here because your brother has told me you'll be able to help me find a treasure I've sought all my life; and after reading the astonishing retellings of your methods, Mr. Holmes, I no longer have any doubt that you are the only man in the world who can aid me."
I narrow my eyes, scanning through the headlines of the past six months but finding myself unable to recollect a single one of them dealing with stolen jewels important enough to warrant this type of proclamation.
Mr. Woodsbridge smiles delightedly as I can't keep the creeping intrigue off my face.
x
I'm fairly certain I've forgotten to buy the specific pen Sherlock asked me to get for him and I know I didn't get the right kind of cheese, but I did buy half a pound of corned beef to take up space and collect dust in the cupboard as it's never going to get eaten. All this on account of how I've been distracted all morning after a night of restless sleep and I almost stopped in the middle of Waitrose to call Audrey – she caused this confusion, she can un-cause it. But then I grudgingly had to admit that it isn't her fault and it's unfair to blame her.
All it is, really, is that while I was trying to go to sleep last night there was one thing Audrey said to me that began to repeat in my head and the more I tried to ignore it, the louder it got and it hasn't been any different all morning. Her comment about me being an observer has brought on other questions, like what exactly it is that I think I'm doing, accepting this somewhat unconventional tie to a person who's obviously begun to take me for granted – like I'm his coat or his magnifying glass – without even feeling the need to reflect over it. I let a wonderful woman go and for what? To feel guilty I couldn't find a five millimetre blue-ink, felt-tip pen?
His return managed to wipe out all the bad memories, all the brutality of his leaving, the broken state I was in. Because of how his return mended me all I have felt is gratitude; but Audrey reminded me and I haven't quite been able to rid myself of the residue of remembering.
Will I be able to make him include me this time around or will we end up where we always end up – with him three steps ahead and me on his heels, but struggling to keep up? Does he trust me enough to want me in the thick of things alongside him, or does he, at the end of the day, trust no one but himself?
I manage to get the front door of the flat open without dropping the two shopping bags I'm carrying, getting myself into the kitchen and lifting them onto the counter with a huff, hearing the door slam shut and turning my head to catch a glimpse of Sherlock as he disappears into the sitting room.
I cock an eyebrow, but unload the groceries, throwing out half a pint of old milk and cleaning out a stale piece of bread out of the bread box in the process before putting the plastic bags in their allotted drawer and heading into the sitting room. There I find Sherlock seated on the chair with my laptop opened before him, tapping away and I halt, about to voice a protest, but then I simply fist my hands for a second, collecting my patience as I ask:
"New case?"
"You could say that," he says loftily and I glare at the back of his head.
I could walk out. I could leave. I could.
"It's not what you'd say?" I ask instead.
"It's a five at best. You know I don't classify anything taking me less than twenty-four hours as an actual case," he replies and I find myself smiling.
"What is it?" I inquire.
"The Morcar pendant, designed by the countess of Morcar in 1890. In its centre is a precious gemstone said to be the size of a nightjar's egg," he replies, fingers moving over the keys, eyes fixed on the screen and I frown.
"And that's big?"
He crooks one corner of his mouth into a quick smile, replying:
"Fairly big."
"Okay," I say. "And this pendant's… missing?"
"Precisely," he says, turning his head to me, resting his hands as he observes me keenly. "Stolen from a hotel room in London in 1892. Never to be seen again. Have you heard this story before?"
"No," I shake my head.
"There was a nationwide search, but naturally they came up short."
"Well, naturally," I concede.
"So what makes a case that's over a century old interesting?" he asks, knowing that he now has my full attention. "The precious gemstone of the pendant was a garnet: a type of crystal which, granted, comes in varying shades and has been used for jewellery since the Romans, but it wasn't until a little over a decade ago that the rarest shade of garnet was discovered in Madagascar. Now, the popular rumour in collectors' circles has always been that the Morcar pendant was really the first to showcase this rare colour."
"And why is that?" I wonder.
"Because the pendant was also known as The Blue Carbuncle," he replies. "And a carbuncle gets its name from being a garnet cut in a very specific way."
I raise my eyebrows and he smiles as he can see I'm hooked.
"So it's a treasure hunt?" I ask as his fingers start moving over the keys again.
"I need you to get something for me," is his reply.
x
The room smells musty from underuse as we've spent no time in it for nearly a week. I crack a window open before I turn to the unmade pullout; unable to leave it as it is I fold the blankets and sheets and put them away in the closet before I fold the pullout back where it belongs, straightening the cushions of the sofa.
Feeling satisfied I turn to the built-in bookcase where a selection of binders is located. 1850-1900, Sherlock instructed its label should say and I stop by the shelf, running my fingers along the wide backs, searching as they're all in disorder and declaring names and locations and dates in what seems like complete disarray, but which is undoubtedly part of some perfectly logical system.
My wandering fingertips slow and I frown lightly.
"That can't be right," I mumble, reaching up and pulling out a thick folder with my name in slim, fluent writing on its spine.
x
You return just as I've finished the final stage of my internet search and I'm glad, I want to go through the notes I made a decade or so ago, after the case of the stolen piece of jewellery first caught my attention as the mystery was dissected – to the best of the writer's ability – in an historical journal. Now, thanks to the information I've been given by Mr. Woodsbridge, I've no hesitation that I'll be able to tie it up before sunrise.
However, the dossier which thuds onto the floor next to me is not the binder I was expecting and I glance at it, hoping that you at least brought the one I asked for as well.
"What's this?" you inquire.
There's tightness in your voice that I somehow manage to ignore as I simply reply:
"Data. Where's the one I specified?"
"I didn't bring it. Sorry," you say and now I look up at you at the bite in that apology: clearly you feel quite the opposite. "Is this what I am?" you then ask and your anger finally becomes clear to me as you continue: "There are pictures in there of me, pages and pages about me, Sherlock, about everything I did after you..." You trail off abruptly, staring at me before you give a brief, annoyed smile as you come to an understanding and offer it by saying: "Mycroft. You had him watch me."
I raise me eyebrows.
"No. …Yes," I reply, but at your frown I elaborate: "I didn't exactly have him watch you. You were under a death threat; he volunteered to make sure you weren't..."
"Violently murdered?" you cut in and there's a bitterness there that I've never seen on you before.
Your fury is usually so well contained, I have noticed that, no matter what you may think. You've learned to bottle that anger up, to rationalize it into something irrational that must be contained. In that respect we're alike. And so seeing you now, how close you seem to be to losing control over it completely, is unnerving.
"Calm down," I try to soothe, but it has the opposite effect as you exclaim:
"I will not calm down! Do you have any idea what an abuse of my privacy this is? I thought I should be concerned about Moran – turns out I should be worried about you and your bloody brother."
Your voice is raised. I've never seen you this furious. I've seen you impatient and annoyed and angry with me, but the emotion you're directing toward me now is completely new and as such it's all the more unsettling.
I've been able to rely on our patterns. Even when I came back from being away for so long they re-established themselves without pause and it was a relief. A bigger relief than I would have expected. And I can see it all tearing at the edges now. What can I say? What do you want me to say?
"It stopped the moment I got back," I offer earnestly.
"Yeah, well, it should never have happened," you state and that new aversion in your eyes as you look at me begins to sting; I can see the disbelief that underlines it and this creeping fear I've felt since the cemetery seems to be confirmed: your faith is lost to me.
Something ices itself along my spine when I realize that this confrontation is turning into a battle and that I somehow seem to be on the weaker side. I have no armour, no training, no idea how to avoid the clash. I can't run – you won't try to catch up this time, I can see it on your face. I've crossed a line. Irrevocably.
"It was for your safety," I counter rather stubbornly.
"To hell with my safety," you retort loudly. "What are you doing with this information now?" you add and the ice begins to take flame. "You know, I've wondered, more than once, what sort of man you really are. I've wondered if there's any respect in you for others, for me, or if none of it can possibly be anything more than part of whatever it is that goes on in your head. I think I just got my answer."
The edge to your words reminds me of the last time we were in a room together before I fell from that roof, the words you said then, how you meant them, how I knew that you meant them, and how I also knew that you wouldn't ever get to see how necessary it all was and how, to me, that was the worst part of it.
How do I explain why I even took that dossier? How do I tell you how curious I was of what you'd been doing with your time now that I wasn't taking up so much of it anymore? How can I possibly validate my inexplicable need to take up more of it again without it sounding worse than how you're now perceiving it? How are you perceiving it?
I hate confusion. I hate these erratic thoughts you produce. I hate the uncertainty and this dread that accompanies it. That you're going away now. That I'm losing you and I don't have the proper skills to fight against it and it's all my own doing.
"I barely glanced at it," I attempt a remedy, regretting the lie as I can tell you're not buying it and adding: "Alright, I might've glanced, but Mycroft insisted." Again you narrow your eyes and I confess: "Alright, he didn't, but you know me-..."
"No," you interrupt me almost brutally, "that one won't work this time. You're going to listen to me. Spying on me is not acceptable." You point to the dossier as you say: "That is not acceptable. It's selfish and inconsiderate and I want you to apologize. Right now."
I stare at you, my mind a blank and of course I'm going to oblige you, but your cheeks are flushed and you're shaking and I'm attacked with unwanted worry and so instead I say:
"I wish you wouldn't get yourself so upset."
"I'm upsetting me? You're upsetting me!" you yell, but then you calm down and again there's that bitter tinge to your words as you almost seem to be speaking to yourself, saying: "No. No, of course you won't, will you? Actually come out and say that I'm right and you're sorry?" You pause, observing me with something so horribly pained in your eyes that I feel my mouth grow dry with apprehension. "Have you manipulated me from the start?" you wonder. "You always were a brilliant actor – that speech on the roof, the tears, the goodbye – I bought it all, didn't I, just as you knew I would. Just as you'd planned it."
I have to break this train of thought. I don't want to discuss this anymore. This argument is pointless, isn't it? You accepted my return, you must have seen reason in my death, in how it saved your life, you must have forgiven me for it or you wouldn't have stayed with me, you wouldn't be here if you hadn't seen the larger picture the way I tried to describe it. It must be enough. I won't speak of it. I don't want to speak about my reasons. It's over and done with.
"Is this about Audrey?" I therefore say.
"No, this is about you and me," you reply sharply. "About how you left and came back acting like you had any right to interfere. To read up on me like I was one of your clients. You brought me back into this for what? For Christ's sake, anyone can write the blog for you. In fact, there are thousands of volunteers and I have most of their emails; I'll make you a list."
I am slowly becoming aware of my inability to move or even to breathe; the most basic human traits feel alien and contorted in the growing alarm. Some distant part of my brain is telling me I must give you something, I must tell you at least some truth, but there is an overriding need to simply leave all this alone. It's best left alone, isn't it? Better than creating a wound that won't heal over, saying the wrong thing. I only ever say the wrong thing. I don't want to say the wrong thing.
"John."
It's all that comes to mind and your name can't be wrong. It's safe. It's always felt safe to me.
"I don't even know what to think anymore," you say, eyes in mine for another few short moments before you turn and walk up to the door, disappearing through it without another word and I sit there.
I just sit there, because I can't process. I can't wrap my mind around exactly what just happened.
x
I am so disappointed. I am so indescribably angry with him. That he would do something so low, almost as though he was entitled to rummage through my personal affairs like they're some languishing hobby he'd been neglecting since he went away. He left – so why am I getting whacked over the head for it? Why am I the one who spent more than a year in a state of hiatus while he went on doing what he's always done? Why am I the one who has to bow to his will and whim at every turn? I don't care how damaged he is, whatever it is that makes him behave in this horrible way, I'm done finding excuses and being always forgiving and patient. He doesn't deserve it.
When I spot the shiny black Cadillac pulling in to the curb I halt my step and let out a low moan of aggravation.
"What now?" I mutter as the tinted window lowers and Mycroft's latest lackey grants me a wide and deceptively inviting smile.