Sherlock
Mycroft left first or I did. It doesn't matter. The upshot is the same. I have no intentions of coming back down again. It's really just a case of accepting the facts. The facts are as follows; I was doing very well at quitting. This, however, took place in isolation from the real world. Re-entry of the real world, or as real as it's getting anyway, has triggered a series of one-off lapses. I had been thinking of these as moments of great stress and personal weakness, something I'd have to learn to deal with, something which would be unavoidable as life goes on (as it almost inevitably will). I had been treating them as isolated incidents. But really, when we all get very honest with ourselves, that's not true, is it? No, the truth is, I just want this. The truth is, this is me. And maybe it's about time everybody, including myself, just accepted that.
There's this awful feeling in my stomach like I've been here before, said all this before, thought it all and heard it all and played it all out before. And like I've had that feeling before, and everything just repeats itself, and I just repeat myself. Stop me. Please, somebody come and stop me.
I come to a door I know, with names sprayed on it in five different colours from five different years. I know I can knock on it, and wait. While I'm waiting, light feet approach behind me. A pair of bony hands hook onto my shoulders, and a sudden but negligible weight hauls up onto my back. A giggling breath at my ear as I lean back and put the weight back down on the feet.
"You're proper too tall and bendy for that game."
And she's proper too skinny these days to really be a surprise. She's an eerie sensation, like the touch of a ghost.
I remember her name this time, because I'm not trying to forget anymore. Her name is Ruby. In the past she has been useful and detrimental and wise and mad, the way everybody is. Nobody is ever consistent enough to really bother caring about.
She won't take her arms from around my neck. I'm still bent right back, with my head on her shoulder, too close to see anything except the corner of her grin and the edge of a bruise by her eye, an ugly weal in the clear space beyond that. She keeps scratching it. I reach up to take her hand away from it and she finally lets go of me.
Still waiting for the door to open.
"So," says Ruby, "you're, like… back?"
Yes. Wholeheartedly. Determinedly. This is my decision. This whole endeavour is pointless, but so is the whole endeavour without it. Between happy, comfortable uselessness, and the kind I've been striving for these last months, I choose the former. Of course I do. It's only natural. I've tried the other, it's not working, let's move on.
To Ruby, I just shrug.
"That's shit, mate. I really thought, if anybody were gonna do it, it was gonna be you, y'know?"
"Why?"
"'Cause you're better," she says. It costs her nothing to say this. She is admitting no failing in herself, or none she was resigned to a long time ago. She says that like a fact and one with which she has long been reconciled. "You're just, like, better, love."
"I don't think you really know what you're talking about."
She looks at her feet. When she shrugs, her collarbone sticks out so far you could lift her up by it. "Probably not."
On the other side of the door, there are footsteps. Someone is coming back to answer. I've already shoved my money through the slot, so they'll only hand it out to me. I don't know what to do. I don't. For a long second or two, I just don't. After that I'm acting and I still don't know what to do, it just happens. I step around behind Ruby, like it's still her game. I take her hand, the one with the crumpled couple of notes in it, with me, and turn it up behind her back. And when the door cracks open at the side, I push her forward.
She accepts the little packet and I let her go and start walking again. I still don't know what I'm doing. Neither dos Ruby. I know there's no sense in crying, and so I don't.
But what do I do now? I don't want to be sick again. I can't keep doing that, I don't want to anymore. What do I do? My brother used to keep a stock of methadone, but I'm not calling him. Don't want that either, it's sickening in itself. No, that's out. Mies owes me a joint from a long time ago, forever, was it only a year since? But that's not exactly an option either. Lestrade. Lestrade could stand me a drink at the very least. But no, no, he'll have his family back tonight and anyway, he shouldn't be encouraged. He'll end up like me, Christ's sake… What do I do? I need something to make the come-down easier. All of these things I'm thinking of I could get for myself but… But I don't want to be on my own. That's the problem. I don't want anyone to see me like this and I don't want to be alone. I've been alone, and don't get me wrong, it's been by choice, but I've been alone through all of this.
…Someone else has been alone as well. I try not to think of it as an act of desperation and just call the number.
"Hello?"
"Sally."
"Sherlock. Hi. Oh, and thanks, by the way. For earlier."
"Don't mention it. I just wanted to see how you were doing."
"I'm alright," she says. Brave, yes, but untrue. "It's quiet." And it's killing her. You can hear this all over her voice. She hates the quiet. It's not peace, to her, it's just a lull. She's still terrified.
"Right, so you don't fancy a drink then."
A long and longing pause. "Best not. I'm supposed to be low-profile."
"Just don't wear that t-shirt that says 'I was the wounded cop', then. Where will I meet you?"
Jim
Dani and Moran don't understand why we're celebrating. I keep telling them, there probably won't be time tomorrow night.
"Yeah, so by definition this isn't over yet," Dani says; she is as set on this argument as I am on mine. The difference is, my argument is right and sensible. She's just being pig-headed. "This just feels like a lot like tempting fate, that's all."
She is making the case that things could still go wrong. We have an event tomorrow morning, and a couple of wrap-up meetings thereafter. Things still to happen, ergo, things could still go wrong. It's a case she's making really well, actually, with examples and everything. A lesser man would be paying attention. But it's a totally fallacious case. Nothing is going to go wrong. I know this. I wish she'd stop just talking about it.
"Tempting fate?" and she nods. "Well, you're drinking the wine and eating the food, so it must be well-tempted already."
"Oh, I never complain when somebody makes me dinner."
"You do a good impression of somebody who does."
"Seb, back me up here, would you?"
He questions whether or not to get involved. Then, very carefully, with deep thought every couple of words. "Dani may have something of a point. For instance, we could show up in the morning, and they're onto us. They might have back up. They could have someone like me watching over them. I might miss the shot-" At which both Danielle and I go into a gale of laughter. He gets all pleased with himself, too, all puffed up. Flattery had nothing to do with it.
"No, but I'm with Seb," Dani coughs, as soon as there's any breath in her. "So far as I can see, this plan still has more holes in it than a pair of fishnets."
"Then you can't see very far."
"Explain it to me, then." That's a challenge. Oh, look at her, that's an outright challenge. Folded arms, hard eyes, the sly grin barely trying to hide the fact she's perfectly serious. Moran is waiting for the answer too, looking at me from the corner of his eye. Which is rich; I tried to explain it to him. He just didn't quite manage to wrap his head around it. Maybe he's hoping Danielle will be able to break it down for him later on. Danielle adds, "If we all follow form, I'll be the one has to actually chance my neck talking to these people, so-"
"I wouldn't worry about that. You'll know when it comes to it. Whatever you have to say, it'll be clear to you."
"Honestly, sensei, I'm not sure I'm happy with that."
"Oh, for the love of God! Can we just have tonight, please? I'm going to want to celebrate tomorrow and not be able to, so can we, please, Christ, just have tonight?"
Danielle rolls her eyes, raises her hands in defeat like I'm the one being melodramatic about this. Moran, on the other hand, he's off in one of his little confusions. I used to interrupt, ask what he was thinking of. I used to try to help. Over time I've learned it's best just to leave him to it. He gets there in the end, and if I only wait… "So… your idea of celebrating is cooking for other people?"
"If it's too late to make decent reservations, yes." Dani is muttering prayers and alleluias in the background. For once, they don't even sound sarcastic.
"Have I told you my birthday's coming up?"
He hadn't, but Danielle had. Decent reservations are already made, gifts chosen and ordered. I'm getting him that MP I promised when I took away Mycroft. This is just basic preparation, the same principle I apply to about everything in my life. Have good information well ahead of time and act on it appropriately. That's logic, and so many people just ignore it. I know the next two days by heart. I know everything that could still go wrong. I also know it's not going to. I know there'll be no time for nice meals tomorrow night, and I know nothing's going to interrupt us for now. I could explain, but everything they're saying would still be valid. I could lay it all out and they still wouldn't trust it.
Fool-proof doesn't always sound fool-proof. You just have to have a little faith in yourself, that you're guessing correctly. Not just beyond reasonable doubt, but beyond doubt.
There is one more complaint to come before they drop it. "Confirm one thing," Danielle says. "You have no fears about what way this job ends for one or any of us."
"None."
Then that's it, it's over. I can deal with that one; I was expecting it. There was a fear in them, for just a second, that my predicted ending was going to leave somebody incapable of celebrating afterward. But that's not true. Afterward, we're all going out to get thoroughly trashed, and I make sure they're aware of that. Actually, in the immediate aftermath, even Mycroft'll probably be dancing on the ceiling. Not with us, but he will. He'll have plenty to dance for, anyway. Then time will pass and he'll realize what he's stuck with. A slow burn sort of a pain. They'll enjoy that. They'd be enjoying tonight if they'd just stop bitching and relax.
See, I like celebrations. Wherever they happen to fall, whatever the cause, I like them. That's the point of them, I suppose. Life is too short, and too nasty, and too brutal. If you're intelligent enough to have spotted that, you're too intelligent to be able to forget it. This knowledge becomes both the ache of living, and the only way to know you're still alive. And there are, in my experience, only two things which can alleviate the effect of these facts.
Firstly, preparation. As I've said, as you've probably seen tonight, the only people who can be quiet and content are those who are absolutely sure of their outcomes. The man with his money on a fixed horse does not stand and bellow encouragement next to the track. He sits back happy and knows he's alright.
Secondly, celebrating. The minute an excuse offers itself. Whether anybody else wants to join in with you or not.
