Sorry for the hiatus everyone. There was a death in the family and there's been been other stuff going on too. Thanks for your support and continued readership.
The cab seemed so empty.
It was as if the seat next to Sherlock was indeed occupied, but occupied by a void, by empty space where Marlene should have been ideally sitting, occupied by the memory of all the times they'd sat in cabs together, starting with the first time, when all three of them had been on good terms and were packed like sardines into a taxi. His hand went to his mouth as a lump began in his throat, trying to cough it up, get rid of it.
"You alright, sir?" The cabbie asked, glancing into the rearview mirror, seeing a pale man with dark hair going into a coughing fit.
"I'm fine." He snapped, disgusted with how thick his voice sounded, knowing hat somewhere, Marlene felt like this, and and all of a sudden remembering his desire to rid her of the sadness. For lack of anything else to do, his hands went into the pockets of his overcoat. His fingertips, bare this time, he had wanted to touch her face before she was gone, brushed a piece of paper. A piece of paper that definitely hadn't been there the last time he checked his pockets. He pulled it out of his pocket, unfolding it as he did so, seeing the familiar handwriting and knowing exactly who the note was from.
Sherlock,
I wish I knew what to say. I feel like we have experienced so much together, from disliking each other at first, to being a teacher and a pupil, to being friends and confidants, and finally to lovers. This will make leaving exceptionally difficult, and the hurt will only grow exponentially, for me at least. There hasn't been a safer yet more dangerous place for me than lounging in your chair at 221B; Just attempting to jot down all my thoughts is driving me mad. I fell in love with you very gradually, then all at the same time, like falling from high up an finally cracking your body on the ground. I can pinpoint it too, it all started when you taught me the basics of violin at 3 am in your flat, when I felt at home with your chin on my shoulder and my shoulder blades on your chest, trying not to lean into you and think "this is all I'll ever need," and being scared shitless when you kissed me for the first time. Love for me has always been emotional suicide, except the damn feelings undergo a resurrection so that they can once more be killed. I saw you in the darkness of your flat with yellow streetlight pooling on the ground and licking your features and I made the decision to do it again. I don't know why. I didn't know I would be seeing you under the same light, but in my flat instead, and instead of an intimate greeting it would be an intimate farewell. Maybe if I had known, I wouldn't have done anything at all, maybe I would have called movers for my furniture, maybe I would have stayed in my flat and put on earmuffs, maybe I would forever be your elusive neighbor over in 221C, keeping to herself, save for grocery runs, and nodding to you on occasion. Things might have been easier that way. But do you know something?
I don't regret it at all. Fuck the easier way.
I enjoyed falling in love with you. And I enjoy being in love with you.
You're stirring in my (our?) bed as I write this. Time to put it in your coat pocket.
All my love,
Marlene
The cab stopped in front of 221B Baker Street.
The tall man bit his hand until it bled, throwing money at the cabbie, showing a paper in his pocket, slamming the door shut and running through the threshold.
The cabbie counted the money-it was all there, exact change. What a rude guy.
Sherlock hadn't left his violin since he got home.
Here we go, John thought angrily, turning the volume up on the television. Fucking Marlene. She would be just the one to cause this, to leave seemingly for spite, right when his best friend was finally happy. John didn't know why she left, some excuse, but she and Sherlock's little thing was probably getting too real for her and she got a case of cold feet. So she fucked and left. Nice lady, real nice. John fumed. The secondhand sting he was feeling increased exponentially with every note Sherlock drew out of the violin. It wasn't so effortless this time however; there was still a rich tone, but he was struggling with composition, it was lovely and pained.
John swiped his phone off the cluttered counter when Sherlock had his back turned, stormed to his room, dialed a familiar number. Straight to voicemail.
"Hi. This is Marlene Tate. Please leave your name and number, and I'll get back to you shortly. Thanks!"
Her fake-chipper voice made bile rise in his throat, he could imagine her saying it too, the annoying, sideward way she would look at him. There was a harsh beep.
"You bitch. You. Fucking. Bitch. You've done it. You really have." He seethed into the waiting line, holding the phone out for a moment to capture the odd, somewhat strained tones the violin was producing. "I hope you're proud of yourself." He whispered, drawing the phone back to his ear.
"Is she okay?"
Marlene moved her eyes over the handsome face of the young doctor, who seemed solemn but intensely smitten with Annika; the flat white cabinets exemplified by harsh fluorescent lighting which bounced cold light on their faces. His ultra-white yet somehow dull lab coat (Marlene supposed everything became dull after staring at it straight-on for five hours, even the whitest colour, bright as bleached bone) flapped as he put up a few x-rays and turned on a matching bright-dull backlight.
"What we have here is a clean break to the femur. Thank God it wasn't a compound fracture. An easy mend, but it will take about 7 months to heal, especially because of her age. Physically therapy will be long and strenuous, but your grandmother is a fighter."
"Oh, we know." Annika said, smiling. Marlene merely nodded, struck dumb and numb from the emotional overload. Everything was happening too soon, too fast, and the only person she trust enough to give her a possible solution was over a thousand kilometers away.
"Yes," Marlene seconded, after more time than was appropriate, frowning sourly, folding her arms. "When may we see her?"
"The sedatives are still in her system, so it'll be at least a day." The doctor replied, obviously disturbed by the family's contrast in mood.
The cousins nodded and promptly left the hospital, making the long drive out of Oslo to Jorgen and Frida's house.
Marlene was received with hugs, feeling finally secure in arms that weren't Sherlock's. Seeing her aunt and uncle made her feel less bland as a whole; they had always been very fond of Marlene, called her "Vår strålende forfatter,"-"Our brilliant author."
She smiled for the first time since leaving him and England.
She was home.
They had smoked fish and Reinsdyrsteik (she had forgotten how strong reindeer tasted, but liked it as much as she had in her youth). It was the most she had eaten since before her vomiting incident.
Later, pulling on her pyjamas, she looked to her phone. No texts from Sherlock (it was fine, she didn't expect them), but a voice message. Curious, she tapped the small notification and held the phone to her ear.
"You bitch. You. Fucking. Bitch."
The caller didn't leave a name.
She didn't need one. She knew exactly who it was, what they were talking about; the sweet, sad melodies of violin music in the background perfectly contrasted with the rough bitterness of the speaker's voice.
Marlene was careful while weeping herself to sleep in the guestroom.
She didn't want to wake her family.
