"I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across... Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic." - Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet
They have five more days in New York City before leaving for Berlin. Sherlock is bored, irritable, and feeling more and more foul whenever he considers the cause of his ennui; the last four days have been spent avoiding the Professor (who has not sought him out) and avoiding Anabelle (who refuses to leave him alone). He's been forced to waste his own time, because Anabelle thought it appropriate to try to hoodwink him into some type of therapy. The entire plot is insulting and patronizing to an unprecedented degree. Their disagreement over his mental health has led, already, to several heated arguments, all of which Sherlock planned for and anticipated, if only because they serve as temporary relief from his current unbearable state. He likes to choose the time and place for their arguments, which typically means that he will wake her up in the middle of the night, or catch her while she's meditating, or start yelling at some other time when she thinks herself entirely relaxed. It is, perhaps, cruel, but nothing she doesn't deserve. And she certainly never surrenders.
Embarrassingly, their last fight had ended in her victory. "I don't need your help," he'd said coldly, during the middle of an argument, "because I am entirely self-sufficient."
"Ah, yes," she had said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "it was very self-sufficient of you to travel to Sudan with a dozen of your big brother's men."
"Just as your inability to travel without a man is very feministic of you," he'd spat. "Gloria Steinem must be applauding in her grave."
"Gloria Steinem is alive, you idiot," she'd said flatly. This comment had led to an entirely different argument regarding knowledge acquisition, and the general public's mental collection of useless information, and how Sherlock thought it unbefitting for someone as intelligent as Dr. Madder to clutter her thoughts with irrelevant facts. She'd laughed at that, saying, "That's the stupidest theory on knowledge acquisition I've ever heard! Surely you don't really believe that the brain has a limited capacity for knowledge?"
She'd paused, but not long enough to give him time to respond. She'd realized something. "No. No, of course you're not that stupid. That's just an excuse, isn't it? That's your excuse for not knowing something. You made some cock-and-bull theory you know has no merit, and you spout it out every time someone knows something you don't, so that you can sound more intelligent than the person who knows something to which you are ignorant. Astounding, Sherlock. Your ego knows no bounds."
And that had essentially been the conclusion of their last argument. He hadn't let her have the last word, of course; he'd stalked out of the room after pointing out some made-up flaw in her character, but was positive that both of them felt she had won. This leaves him seething.
He's certain that she feels smug about their disagreement, and has been reflecting on it with an air of satisfaction. This is why he's surprised when he finds her in Luke's bedroom in the evening, looking for all the world like they'd never fought at all. She stands like she's been waiting for him, and he immediately registers that, although she's in her typical jeans and boots, she's also wearing a particularly nice blazer, making her better-dressed than usual. Meaning: She has plans.
"What do you want?" he demands, regarding her suspiciously. She smiles.
"You weren't going to go to bed now, were you? It's only seven o'clock," she says.
"I'm tired," he says. It's true; alarmingly, he's found himself sleeping over twelve hours a day most of the time, and yet always feels unrested. It's because of the ceaseless ennui, he's sure. Tediousness kills the brain and body.
"It's one of our last nights in New York. We need to go out!" she says.
"Why would we - " But before he can finish his sentence, she grabs his hand and drags him out of Luke's bedroom. He follows after her.
"You didn't come down for dinner tonight," she explains once they're outside, walking down the pavement, "so I thought you might be hungry." Her neighborhood in Manhattan is much nicer than his in London, although this doesn't make him like it. He doesn't enjoy having to rely on her for directions, and, rather than appreciating the lack of homelessness in this particular cluster of city blocks, he finds himself missing even his homeless network.
"Nor did I last night," Sherlock points out. He uses his Norwegian accent outside, just to be safe. His colored contacts, which he'd taken out in the apartment, are back in again.
"One would think you're angry with me," Anabelle says.
"One might be correct," he says.
She smiles, looking up at him as they continue walking. "Or incorrect?"
"Or incorrect," he admits.
"And one should probably realize that Dr. Anabelle Madder never meant to offend a certain Mr. Sigerson Boler, but only to offer him some fiery form of entertainment, as she thought it might be the cure to the monotony through which he's been suffering lately."
"You called me an idiot," he points out.
"I meant it fondly," she says. Although she doesn't know it, this reminds him so much of John that she's quite abruptly, and thoroughly, forgiven. She's even forgiven again when she drags him into the dark and foul-smelling underground to take the subway rather than catching a cab.
"Only tourists take taxis," she says decisively, as she leads him down the stone steps and pulls out her wallet, to buy a Metrocard.
The subway car is crowded and uncomfortable. Being with Anabelle makes all the difference, however; they stand opposite each other, separated by a black woman who is enthusiastically mouthing the lyrics to some imagined song, several Chinese businessmen, and a Hispanic couple. As the car shifts and rocks, with New Yorkers occasionally bumping into him, Sherlock stiffly takes hold of the pole in front of him, keeping his balance. The pole is hot from where phantom hands recently pressed against it, making him feel vaguely mysophobic. He closes his eyes, trying to block out the sound of the subway grinding against its tracks, and the people talking, and the sour scent of human perspiration. Suddenly, he feels something warm against his fingers. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Anabelle has taken hold of the pole too, and she's interlocked her fingers with his. He doesn't pull away.
They go into Chinatown.
"The Dumpling House has some of the best food in the city," she says, as they approach the said eatery. "It's a little crowded, though, if you'd like to wait outside."
"I'm fine," Sherlock says quickly, and follows her indoors. She hadn't been exaggerating; the Dumpling House is full of people ordering at the counter and eating at small tables, in close proximity with one another. Sherlock lets Anabelle lead him to the register and stands behind her as she orders. When one of the Chinese women behind the counter starts yelling out order numbers, he rests his hands on Anabelle's shoulders, feeling her warmth, and feeling the rough material of her blazer. And ultimately just feeling very, very grounded.
They eat in a nearby park, away from the busyness of the Dumpling House. Anabelle ordered Sherlock vegetable dumplings and mung bean soup, which she now retrieves from a brown paper takeout bag.
"The food is great," she assures.
He nods. "Yes, quite."
She laughs. "You haven't tried it yet."
"No. But you can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door handle - " Suddenly, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out and flips it open. It's from Mycroft.
8:47 P.M. Trial conclusion: Acquitted. Moran and Gruner have been released.
The whole world abruptly shushes. It waits, watching for Sherlock's next move. Sherlock's mind whirls into action, planning his next steps before he even reads the end of the text. Objective: Destroy Moriarty's web of crime. Method of destruction: End Moran and Gruner. He'll need to get Mycroft's men to follow both Moran and Gruner, as they'll doubtlessly leave the U.K. immediately - perhaps even Europe. Will they come here? To America? Should he wait to find out? It would certainly make things more convenient. He'll have to be the one to kill them, of course. Mycroft and his assistants can scarcely kill two men who have just been acquitted in a very publicized trial. There are limits to what even Mycroft Holmes can do. Sherlock, though, presumed dead, would be the perfect assassin... It's really only a matter of tracing the men, finding them before they're lost.
Anabelle doesn't have to read the text to know what it says. Silently, she begins packing up the dumplings, thoughts racing equally fast. Then the phone buzzes again. Sherlock opens it as Anabelle watches. He takes a long time to read this text, although she can tell from the movement of his eyes that he's not scanning over any long lines of letters. Therefore, he's reading something short. And rereading it. And rereading it again. Finally, he swallows, his Adam's apple quivering, and he holds the phone out to her. She doesn't need to read this message, either, though, as he soon opens his mouth to speak. His voice comes out thick and raspy, a little disbelieving, although it was something they were both expecting, something they would have been anticipating if they'd been keeping better track of time.
"It's John," he says. "He was released two days ago."
notes: If anyone's confused about the timeline, it's June 18th, 2012. Unfortunately, I based my story's timeline off of one very incorrect post on someone's Tumblr and the dates on John's blog (which are wrong, too). Buuuut try to just go with it. :)