Meet Me In Samarra
Chapter 20
It's only right that you should play it the way you feel ii,
But listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat drives you mad,
In the stillness of remembering what you had,
And what you lost.
(Stevie Nicks)
.
Between the net curtain and the inside of the heavy brocade curtains of the sitting room window, Sherlock Holmes stood motionless and all but invisible. Looking out, but looking inwards. Eyeless.
When the telephone rang earlier he had sprung for it eagerly, but was dashed when it was only Lestrade on the other end.
No greeting. No preamble. Just -
"You going?"
"No."
"Sure? Only, I can give you a lift if….."
"No," he repeated. Thumbed the red button to end the call and only thought to say "…but thanks for the off…." as he was doing so. Then wondered if Lestrade had heard any of that, the pained, embarrassing social politeness that was so unlike him. Decided finally he really didn't care if he had or hadn't heard. It made no difference, after all.
And then had the next thought, as if taken by surprise: that it didn't matter. Not any of it. That it made no difference, because Gregory Stephen Lestrade understood. Understood absolutely everything. Everything in the universe. And still said nothing. Still made no judgements or offered blame. And was a better, a far better, man for it. And a fine and humbling example of what a friend should be.
So he stayed there, motionless, hamstrung by that thought. The memory of all the years that had proved it all. And then his mind retreated back into blankness. The rare comfort of not thinking or feeling.
Then Mrs Hudson had come and stood on the threshold of the flat, dithering from foot to foot. The very set of her lips spoke for her, words she could not utter. Instead, standing reluctant but resolute in her black for best (stylish black waisted coat, black hat, bag and gloves, black stockings and pointy boots) all she said was:
"You coming?"
"No," he said again.
She shook her head slightly and clicked her tongue impatiently behind her teeth. Did not move.
"Go," he commanded tersely. "Wouldn't want you to be late."
"Oh, do come. He doesn't mean it, you know."
"Yes he does. He does. Made it quite clear. If I go he'll kill me at best. Make a scene at worst. I will stay away. As told."
"Well, you know what I think about that….."
"Don't. Just. Don't."
He turned his whole body away from her while he still had enough self control. They had both heard his voice crack on those simple words. She heard herself say, on instinct:
"He's hurting, Sherlock."
"Yes."
He didn't say: I'm hurting too.
He didn't say: But that's OK. Because hurting me makes him hurt less. So just let him hurt me. I can take it. I made it. I take it.
He didn't need to say it. Because she knew all that anyway.
Another silence full of words neither would speak even if they could. Because they know each other far too well. Then…..
"I must go. You're only supposed to be late for your own funeral, aren't you? Oh. I didn't mean to make a joke….."
When he had reliable control of his face again, she had gone.
Which was good. Because then he would not have to upset her even more. Tell her that he had not even spoken to John. That John would not speak to him. Would not answer his phone, however many times Sherlock speed dialled the number, whatever time of day, however long he counted the rings until the call system cut in. However often he tried.
Like a one man call centre working a twenty four hour clock. Dogged, systematic, undeterred. Yet not knowing what he would say if the call was picked up.
The phone always went unanswered. However much he persisted. John was talking to Lestrade, to Molly, to Stamford; even - once, briefly - to Mycroft. Just not him.
It was the receptionist at the funeral director's office who had broken the news he already suspected. No. Already knew.
"You are enquiring about the funeral details for Mrs Watson? Mrs Mary Watson?"
The voice on the other end of the telephone was brisk, not lacking compassion, but efficient, attuned to tragedy. South London accent, slightly nasal like a botched childhood adenoid removal.
Analysis cut in regardless. As distracting as it was oddly comforting.
"I am sorry Mr Holmes. I am not at liberty to release such details to you. The cremation service is private, friends and family only, and unless you have been specifically invited…." her voice trailed politely away. And as if his silence at the other end asked it's own question, she repeated. "I am sorry. But Mrs Watson's husband has given a list of names, and my instructions…"
"Names? Just one name, surely. Who specifically not to include. " He spoke without any inflexion whatsoever. " I am sorry to have bothered you," Immediately put the telephone down before the woman could reply.
Rejection by third party was no surprise.
John Watson had already made his feelings totally and transparently clear.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had been at his formal and restrained best as he himself took statements about the fatal shooting of Mrs Mary Watson by Mrs Vivian Norbury at the London Aquarium.
Just a formality. But he was going to do it by the book. A murder admitted by the perpetrator, witnessed by CCTV, several policemen, a consulting detective, and a senior civil servant. Impeccable witnesses all.
So due process was formal and fast, a bloodless and soulless tick box operation of the established justice system.
Sherlock gave his statement first. Impersonal and efficient, as usual. Before distraught widower John Watson had even arrived at New Scotland Yard.
"Let's get it over with, shall we?" he had prompted, and Lestrade had welcomed the suggestion.
"You think this will ever get to court?" the consulting detective had asked. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.
"Not my decision. Your guess is as good as mine. But with all these SIS complications and connections…" his voice fell away.
He knew; oh, how he knew. Lingered to watch through the two way mirror as John Watson gave his own more emotional statement.
Eyes downcast - or raised, unseeing, to the ceiling. Voice between low and controlled, or shrill bordering on hysterical. Hands clenched, that left hand trembling again.
There was nothing new or useful in the statement of the bereaved husband, who had missed seeing both set up and shooting. Just procedure.
But Lestrade had been there, seen it happen, seen the aftermath of countless murders. Even though this one was different. People he knew. More than friends. So tried, this time, dealing with a friend, to be more tolerant, patient.
The bereaved widower did not have the same sensibilities. Did not care how it had started or played out. Just cared about who had died and who was to blame. Angry and hurt and not listening..
Kept muttering everything was Sherlock Holmes' fault. Sherlock Holmes had started the domino fall. Sherlock Holmes had failed to stop it. Sherlock Holmes had broken his vow. Sherlock Holmes had killed Mary Watson.
"It wasn't his fault, John."
Five quiet words. For Lestrade had seen; understood exactly how and why Sherlock Holmes had started it all: his endless quest for truth and justice. But also something more personal: exposing Norbury to make Mary safe, the final danger from her past removed.
Lestrade also understood what Mary Watson herself understood - that goading the traitor to focus on him, to focus on shooting him, was the only way Sherlock Holmes could ever save her. In the end.
Except she was even more determined to save him than he had been to save her, had wilfully sacrificed herself. To silence her own fears, repay her own debts.
Lestrade tried to explain. But John Watson was in no mood to hear.
"Shut up, Greg. He promised to protect her and he didn't. He failed her, he failed us both. Let us down when it most mattered. This is at least the third time he hasn't died when he should have. So why does he get such a charmed bloody life? But not Mary? When he doesn't deserve it! Tell me that?"
There was no reply Lestrade could make, or John Watson would hear.
So Lestrade remained in that impersonal little room, highly conscious of Sherlock Holmes on the other side of the two way mirror, watching and listening and being condemned. Remained as detached as possible to do his job, take John Watson's testimony and record it all.
At the end of the interview, Lestrade ushered the doctor from the room and quite naturally and unconsciously offered: "Wait. I'll get Sherlock for you. He wants to help, look after you and Rosie."
"Let him near me and I will kill him."
The savagery had been closer to the surface than expected,, face suddenly contorted with grief and something like hate. Unrecognisable as the normally humorous and good natured best friend But there was no mistaking the intent behind the words.
Appalled, Lestrade felt his brain freeze, and could not reply. Was too embarrassed to even glance towards the mirror; imagining the pain on the other side.
Despite arresting and cautioning Norbury, supervising the investigation and the removal of the body, he had watched the consulting detective shrink into himself, withdraw the hand of support he had offered to John Watson before it was knocked aside, step impassively back as John Watson screamed grief at him.
Watched that singular face he knew in all it's moods and complexity harden and pale into the blankness of shock. Watched Sherlock Holmes empty his soul of the emotion he always denied possessing, just as he had watched him so many times before. But this time suddenly wanting, more than anything, to reassure with understanding.
It was years since he had seen Sherlock Holmes withdrawn into himself so hard. Not since the man was a boy full of drugs and hatred and a burning need to justify the existence he loathed.
He understood the way Sherlock Holmes' accepted all blame. Not drug crazed hallucination, but reality. Mary Watson had been shot dead by Vivien Norbury. Even as Sherlock had willed the bullet to come to him, to meet his Fate and take the kill shot he had avoided by a fluke all those months ago.
Just a different woman behind the gun this time.
Oh, the irony of that. Mary would appreciate it. But Mary was not here to share a wry grin and a cynical shrug at life and just getting on and living it.
He told Sherlock as much, afterwards. After John Watson had left. When Sherlock Holmes stood and listened, and endured. Immobile and impassive and expression unreadable.
"How can I help? Help you?" Lestrade finally floundered.
No response
"Want a hug? A man hug, that is. Obviously." A bit flustered, trying for a smile, embarrassed at his own words and irresistible empathy. Those silver eyes flickered, then looked into his.
"As if. Piss off, Lestrade. Who do you think you're talking to?"
And he was gone. But the memory of him, as he was then, haunted Greg Lestrade for days.
. o0o0o
An unusually subdued Mycroft had returned to Baker Street. Rare indecision. The Bentley had only got as far as circling the block.
"I think you need to go back, sir," the borrowed chauffeur had offered at the second set of traffic lights. And after a glance between them through the rear view mirror, Mycroft gave a curt nod.
"Will you be all right?" he asked, irresolute in the doorway. His brother had his back to him, watching a kettle boil..
"Of course." Beneath the bland civility denial screamed inside the dark space where Mary Watson had been. "But thank you for expressing your concern."
Mycroft frowned. Formal courtesy and politeness of this sort had no place in their dynamic. The elder brother pointed out the obvious.
"John Watson is your best friend."
"Was. Past tense now, I rather think, don't you?"
Mycroft Holmes withheld a sigh. Withheld perhaps more, in the circumstances.
"I could stay….if that helped?"
"No. Thank you. I have….things to do. Won't offer you tea. Speak to you tomorrow."
"Of course. Good. Look forward to it."
He went slowly back down the stairs, knowing no voice would call him back. Feeling foolish yet oddly reassured.
His brother watched from the window as the car pulled silently away, Stepped back. For three calming minutes he stood poised on the landing, back pressed to the wall while his brain quietened and his tea went cold.
How many times had he and John Watson run down those stairs heading for adventure? How many times had they trudged back up those stairs, exhausted but victorious?
They had fallen asleep, dead drunk, on those stairs on John Watson's stag night. Stood with their backs to that wall and laughed at the ridiculous melodrama of their lives, the death and deliverance, less than twenty four hours after they had first met. Twenty four hours that had been fast and furious and set the pattern for their life to come.
Moriarty had stalked him up those stairs, and he had been carried down them on a stretcher, dying and all but dead.
Now he was alone again and dying another sort of death. Mary would have appreciated the irony of that. For Mary had climbed those stairs for laughter and confession, and had kept her conversations with Sherlock Holmes her secret and her sanity.
He could hear Mrs Hudson's radio burbling in the kitchen of 221A and hoped she had not heard him enter the building. He did not think she had, as she did not immediately flutter out to greet him.
He did not feel capable of bearing her caring chatter, of telling her what had happened, what had driven him into grief and shock and a feeling of deepest inadequacy and error. Not yet. Not yet.
And there was no sound from upstairs either. Stupid to have hoped John would come….
221B was dark and silent and immense in it's emptiness. No John reading the paper by firelight, no John making tea in the kitchen. No John putting Rosie to bed in his own empty room upstairs. No John. And no Mary.
He turned back into his home slowly and quietly, every step a weight. Took off the Belstaff and threw it over the end of the leather settee. Paced the sitting room without it soothing the agitation inside him as it usually did. Went to the bathroom and washed his face, pushing his wet hands through his hair and pulling until it hurt, but that did not quieten him either.
Switched on the sidelights and the heating. Stood in the middle of the room and was not pacified by the warmth and the cosy familiar glow.
All emotion is abhorrent to me…
Control….
Alone protects me….
Control….
I don't have friends….
I am…
o0o0o
A sudden vision, the memory of Nico Sologashvilli with a bucket of water and cloth swilling blood off the pavement. Of guiding two bloodied victims back to the house. Both pale, teeth chattering with shock. Nia on the verge of tears; the two men ushered her into the house.
"Not your fault," they kept telling her; "Not your fault. He started this. He shot himself. Better him than you….."
Arm around his sister, he guided her up the stairs towards a shower and change of clothes. Half way up he paused and looked down. Sherlock Holmes stood in the hallway, head down, arms by his sides. Detached even from himself.
"Sherlock! Shower! The guest room you had before. Cleanse yourself."
A nod without looking up, a slow move towards the stairs.
Half an hour later, with his sister clean, warm, returning to some semblance of normal, sitting in the kitchen warming her hands around a mug of coffee, he checked on the guest room.
In the bathroom the shower was running; he followed the sound.
The overcoat lay disgarded on the tiled floor. Sherlock Holmes leant into the torrent of water that had once been hot. Forehead resting on the wall, arms braced against it at shoulder level, showering yet wearing his suit, cloth clamped to his lean frame, features and body streamlined and shining, every angle defined.
"What are you doing?" the question was a whisper and felt like an intrusion.
"Can't get clean," was the reply. "Used all the hot water…Sorry…so much blood in him….can smell it still…."
"Stop quoting Lady Macbeth. Get out of there."
No response. Nico Sologashvilli stepped into the shower to turn the tap off. Arm and face wet cold for the effort. His other arm wrapped a bath sheet around the consulting detective, suit and all. Instantly soaked, he tugged and it dropped away, wrapped round another, guided the younger man back into the bedroom.
"Dripping on your floor. Sorry."
"Who cares? You are alive to drip on the floor. So is Nia. That is what matters."
A snort in reply.
"Come on, let's get you dry."
"No. Not here to stay, Nearly got you both killed. Miscalculated. Thought he would just target me….Sorry. " A pause.
"Were there…did you see…witnesses?"
"This is Georgia. We know when to be blind and dumb."
A nod, a gulp.
"Is Nia OK?"
"Sitting in the kitchen with a hot drink. Tougher than she looks." Sirius ducked his head, tried to see into hooded eyes that turned away. "Rivaz had his own resentments against us, Sherlock. Historical. Davit and such. Our family being Georgian princelings. He never impressed us with either his politics or his poetry. Something bound to happen. Almost regardless of all else."
A breathy exhale between laughter or tears. "Don't ….try…..comfort me. Don't deserve comfort."
"Doesn't mean you don't need it." The older man briefly touched the back of his knuckle to the rigid jaw. "You've had a bad time in Georgia. Not sure the end result was worth it."
"Always worth it. Truth. Justice. Closure for you." Sherlock Holmes hid his face by drying his hair on the big white towel. "Now you know how and why Tamora died. Who killed her. And you saw her killer die. Circle squared. Retribution."
"I had not guessed…it is bitterness that my life ended because my love was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That her morality played against her."
"No bad epitaph." the response was plainly spoken, without emotion. "Fate happens, Nico. It is not elective. And now you have your answers you can move on. Live again."
"What about you?"
"Me? Why ask? I don't matter here. " He stepped back. Less wet than he had been. "Sorry about your desk. I'll pay for repair. My fault you broke it. Thank you for your input."
"You pay for nothing. I owe…." he bit back what he had been going to say. Began again. "I will mend it myself. Good as new before you know it." He paused, and looked again. Saw shock and hurt and misery behind the rigid self control, the muted bleak honesty. The impact of other things as well, he realised; things he did not know.
"I have seen you be nothing but ruthless. Impressive, dangerous, burning with intent. But now….what about you? Will you be as good as new? After this?"
A twisted smile. "Good as new? I've never been new. Been round the clock a thousand times. But no. This is not finished for me yet. I must get back to London…."
"You're wet. Exhausted. Have a book to hand over to the Museum for restoration….."
"You do that for me; a perfect role for an ArtAime representative.. Claim it back from Hilary Weatherstone." He handed over the briefcase key from an inner pocket. "Thank him for being….my safe deposit box." He looked up then and smiled.
"As for being wet and exhausted….I can dry off in front of your fire. Sleep on the plane. Satisfied?"
"No. But I can see that is all I am going to get." He smiled then. Put a hand briefly on an arm when he wanted to hug. "But you MUST return to Tblisi. As our guest. No case. Just to relax. Yes?"
"We'll see. Thank you for the offer."
o0o0o
At the memory of such weakness he turned, reclaimed his coat and clattered down the stairs, plunged into anonymous darkness. Ignored Mrs Hudson calling his name as she heard him emerge. Did not - would not, could not - turn to her. Let her in. Let himself out.
And so he walked. Walked hard and fast and alone. Long strides eating up the pavement, focussed, unaware of the people he passed. Crossing roads against traffic lights, dodging cars and cyclists, getting shouted at for the near misses he could not care less about, would probably have welcomed if he had even thought about them..
Head high but eyes downcast, shoulders hunched forwards, stride never slowing, brain racing.
He walked the city. Passed Vauxhall Cross and the Ziggurat as he crossed the bridge again. The bridge where he had been standing when all the elements of the puzzle came together. When he had run back to the ziggurat and astonished Elizabeth Smallwood as he burst into her office and demanded to know the whereabouts of her secretary…..
Thought of the people at work in there - Mycroft, Lady Smallwood, Sir Edwin - and those who worked there no longer. Most specifically Vivien Norbury.
A nemesis. A traitor. A jealous old woman with her grievances, her cats and Cornwall; a woman frustrated by failed ambition and who hated the hand life had dealt her. Determined to make her mark through loneliness and self delusion and the invisibility of old age.
The name, the face, the spitefulness, would haunt him forever. He would made sure of that. That would be his penance. When he made another vow. Of despair and blame, self flagellation and humility. Sackcloth and ashes. Abandoned and alone, as he would always be now, deep as in the Slough of Despond.
….a place as cannot be mended. It is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called The Slough of Despond, for still as the sinner is awakened about his condition, there ariseth in his soul many fears, and doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of them get together; and settle…..
o0o0o
The hardest thing to face, returning home this time, was going into 221A and telling Mrs Hudson. Mycroft had volunteered to do it. So had Lestrade. But he had waved them both away.
This was his job. His punishment. Part of his penance.
I am scum, I am filth…..
He had stepped into her kitchen without even knocking on the door. And she turned to him, looked at his face, dropped the vegetable knife she was using to peel potatoes at the sink, fluttered her wet hands and simply said:
"Oh, God. Is it John?"
He stepped towards her but realised he could not feel his feet. Or find his voice. Shook his head.
"Your brother? Lestrade? A shoot out? What?"
By then she had closed in, was standing with her body pressed up against him, almost supporting him, looking up at him, damp hands gently cupping his elbows.
"Sherlock! Pull yourself together!"
He shook himself in fierce reaction at her words, tossing his head like a dog. But she could feel a bone deep, soft little shaking within him, like in the days when he was on drugs. And he was too pale for her liking, a thread of sweat at his hairline, the pale eyes dark and bruised.
"Tell me!"
So he did. Three toneless distinct words.
"I've killed Mary."
She did not doubt him. Did not dissolve into tears in front of him. Did not demand explanation or comfort. Or repetition. But he repeated anyway.
"I've killed Mary. Me. I have. Killed Mary."
The words were slow and deliberate. Kept repeating. Making themselves real. If he said it enough he would believe it himself. That she had gone. And he hadn't.
He braced for the blow he deserved and expected; the motherly slap, the punch in the gut. But Martha Hudson did neither of those things.
She lifted a soft hand to press gentle fingers onto his lips to stop them working, until they silenced, and she just looked up at him, and kept looking up at him until he bent his head to her and met her wise old eyes.
"You didn't kill her. She killed herself. The moment she picked up a gun. The moment she first used it for real. The rest was all just timing."
She clutched him to her, then. To save him the admission and the trouble. And so they stood together like that for long moments. Until he could bear it no longer.
o0o0o
Two days later she sat in John Watson's chair and looked at him, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
He had stayed walled up in his bedroom, silent and uncommunicative, while the press storm broke over the news of Mary Waton's death, while the reporters and TV camera crews thumped on their door and shouted questions through the letterbox.
Questions about the long term treachery of a traitorous old lady, a trusted secretary past retirement age, who had betrayed Great Britain for years, selling state secrets for money - not even for idealism - and who had tried to shoot dead consulting detective Sherlock Holmes for exposing her evil and her secrets.
How brave nurse receptionist and mother Mary Morstan had sacrificed her life to save her friend and the godfather of her baby daughter. Leaving her war hero husband, Sherlock Holmes' colleague John Watson, to grieve and comfort their daughter with the support of family and friends.
The press release made available by Mycroft Holmes said this; so it had to be true.
"Where's John?" she asked, finally. Having not dared to before. Not while all the curtains were drawn and the doors firmly closed.
"Otherwise occupied, I imagine. Caring for his daughter."
She nodded firmly. Sniffed back tears.
"Why isn't he here? Why aren't we there?"
He just looked up at her, said nothing. She looked into his eyes. Hated what she saw there and wished she did not know him so well. Understood everything he left unsaid.
"Nothing will ever be the same, will it?" she asked faintly, finally.
"I'm afraid it won't," he replied politely.
"We'll have to rally round Do our bit," She said, almost to herself. Wiped absently at the tears that kept seeping out now she had time to sit and think. "Look after little Rosie."
At that he half rose from his armchair, hesitated and had to look away, his emotion too painful to see mirrored in her face.
"Just going to - um - " For a moment he was without speech, thought, at a loss. Stood as if he did not know where he was putting his feet. Looked round almost wildly for some excuse, some distraction, to change the subject, one hand flailing vaguely. Reaching for the pile of paperwork at the edge of the table, almost levering himself from the armchair into the dining chair in front of the laptop.
Began to sort through his mail and paperwork. "Look through these things….." he murmured. "There might be a case….."
She watched him move (ungainly, not himself) sit at the table, half turned away from her. (Oh! He did not want her to see how upset he was!) Look vacantly from the papers to the laptop. (Needing focus, distraction, more) Look lost. Young. Vulnerable. In pain.(Oh, sweetheart, not such pain, not for all the world..)
"Oh! You're not up to it, are you?" She couldn't stop herself from saying that, her feeling for him spilling out.
His head dropped at those little words of sympathy, and she knew she had said the wrong thing. Sympathy did not help Sherlock Holmes.
"Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Mrs Hudson," he answered firmly..
"Yes, yes, I expect you're right." An apology hovered on her lips, but her brain thought better of it: this was Sherlock. Kind words would simply destroy him deeper. "I'll make some tea, shall I?"
"Mrs Hudson?"
It was as if he had never heard her, Eyes and mind elsewhere.
"Yes, Sherlock?" she prompted gently.
He blinked several times, and she watched him struggle. Patient with him now, and almost overcome with pity. Gathered her wits as he half glanced at her several times, as he tried to focus on the laptop in front of him.
"If you ever think I'm becoming a bit…" he spoke, eventually, then paused, swallowed hard as if fighting back some sort of emotion. ".. full of myself. Cocky or a bit…overconfident…."
She resisted what would have been her usual tart reply that he was always cocky, always over confident, for that was….
"Yes?" she prompted gently.
Waited, face calm, eyes soft, as he turned in his seat towards her, looking down to meet her eyes, fully in focus now.
"Would you just say the word 'Norbury' to me? Would you?"
"Norbury," she repeated.
"Just that." Paused, lowered his eyes. A strange look, which on anyone else would be read as pleading. "I'd be very grateful," he said. Stopped at the point of admitting anything else.
His hand wandered across the pile of post, found the little white padded envelope.
"What's this?"
"Oh, I brought that up. It was mixed up with my things."
He nodded absently, opened the envelope, tipped out a recorded disc with a white label. And written on the front, in capital letters in black marker pen:
MISS ME?
He gasped a little, stared at the thing in his hand. As did Mrs Hudson. Like everyone else, she had seen the broadcast: of Moriarty insolently intoning 'miss me?' over the airwaves. She rose from her chair in shock and reaction, and in unconscious support of the still and pale man now pressed into her side.
"Oh, God. Is that….?" And words fail her.
"Must be."
"Oh." She sat down heavily on arm of his armchair as he loaded the disc in to the computer. For once, his hands did not shake at all, she noticed. Even though his voice did.
"I knew it wouldn't end like this," he gritted out quietly to himself through clenched teeth. "I knew Moriarty made plans."
The disc hummed and spinned, loading. But it was not Moriarty who appeared on the screen. It was Mary Morstan. Smiling, looking relaxed, confident.
Holding the camera herself, low and a little awkward, the camera pointing up into her face. The white shutters behind her belonged to her sitting room. On a quiet, sunny morning from the lie of the shadows.
She looked pretty, he thought. And alive! His first impression, looking at her anew and yet for the last time. Freshly styled hair in soft curls. Immaculate make up, natural and light. Bright and intelligent and comfortable in her own skin; for that moment, anyway. Having decided on a course of action, strong and committed as ever.
Oh. She had planned this, he realised. Had wanted her last appearance to show her at her best. Neat and sweet and businesslike. In a crisp dark blue blouse and rarely worn earrings, with her eyes a sparkling blue in the sunshine through the shutters, she looked, very deliberately, slim and pretty, businesslike and impossibly brave. It made his chest hurt.
"Thought that would get your attention," she said directly into the camera, with a smile on her lips and in her eyes, a twist of self awareness on her mouth.
Sherlock slumped down and forward at her words. He sighed. Folding under the new weight, shoulders curving in and down.
Not Moriarty, then. Not yet. More waiting. Mary instead. Mary and mystery and more…of everything. Just. More.
Mrs Hudson said nothing, rested her hand over his.
"So," said Mary Watson cheerfully. "This is in case. In case the day comes…" For a moment the façade slipped, eye averted, smile drifting. "If you're watching this….. I'm…probably dead."
And then, almost as if to herself:
" I hope I can have an ordinary life, but who knows? Nothing's certain."
Not sentiment, no. Just the grim humour of a professional facing the facts of life. Facing that life is a joke, a farce. That life could be long or short. But probably short. And most likely shortened.
Did she know, he wondered? Did she have a premonition? Did she feel she had simply run out of luck? Of time? Of opportunity? Or that she had finally achieved a happy but ordinary life she did not feel she had earned? Or deserved?
Or did she ultimately have a wish for death? Perhaps recognising, perhaps knowing, that she was not suited for the humdrum life she had chosen with such single minded persistence? A sneaking unspoken feeling that her ambition for marriage and motherhood was more than she should be allowed to achieve - after all she had done?
Felt she had achieved all she had ever wanted? Yet was still unsatisfied, finding it impossible to feel fulfilled? And needed to put down the burden she had chosen? Knowing her husband and daughter could, and would, survive without her? That after their grief they would never be bothered again by the pressure having an assassin for wife and mother? And they would ultimately be better off without her?
Because…..because….she was putting their safety - yet again - into the hands and heart of Sherlock Holmes?
He looked back at the screen, paid her last will and testament proper attention.
"I'm giving you a case, Sherlock." She smiled, but the steel was there nevertheless. In her eyes and voice.
"When I'm gone - IF I'm gone - I need you to do something for me."
She paused, and he braced himself for what was to come
"Save John Watson," she said plainly.
"Save him, Sherlock. Save him."
There were other words. Instructions, a great deal of wisdom. Wisdom he already knew, without her words stating and underlining it. And he nodded at the screen as she spoke. As if she could see him.
She took a deep breath, and paused. As if she could see him. See him flinching before her. But head up, eyes level, facing the worst. Ready to act on her words.
And her words were simple.
"Go to Hell, Sherlock."
o0o0o
The following day that disc led him to a thatched cottage in Sussex with a timber porch and roses round the door. He had laughed out loud when he saw it. The peaceful end result of imposture and love, of sex, lies, and a smack on the head.
So typical of her! Just the sort of house she would choose as the result of her ill gotten gains. Beautiful, gilded, over the top, a cliché of itself. He parked the old Land Rover on the lane outside and locked it. Opened the handgate and walked up the curved brick path.
The oak front door opened just as he raised his hand to lift the brass knocker.
And there she was in front of him. Janine Hawkins. Dressed in slim fit indigo denims and a Breton striped top and espadrilles. One hand was on the door, the other on a raised hip. And she was smiling at him.
The girl who had been Charles Augustus Magnussen's PA. Who knew his secrets and worked his diary. Who had been Mary Morstan's best friend, her chief bridesmaid, her confidante. And neither she nor Sherlock Holmes would now never know whether it had been a real friendship or - like Sherlock's relationship and short lived engagement to her - a relationship of contrivance and convenience. For the secrets. For the inside edge. For the work.
Hair tossed from her face, a wave of dark glossy beauty. Sparkling honey gold eyes, flawless features, self confidence and poise. She had always reminded him of Fifties female glamour with her poise and perfection. Rita Hayworth? Ava Gardner? No matter.
All he really noticed after all these months apart was her smile of cynical amusement, of open invitation. With a little uncertainty nudging from behind her surface glitter.
"Found this on the lid of a chocolate box, did you? But of a cliché, don't you think?" he asked by way of greeting.
"The cottage of Little Red Riding Hood's grandma, you might say. And here is the wolf come a-visiting," she said neutrally, looking him up and down with unhurried forensic inspection. "And what a sight for sore eyes you are."
She stepped back and opened the door wider to let him in.
"Although actually you look like shit, " she observed without anger or spite as he passed in front of her. "You listened to her, then? Went to hell?"
"On the way, certainly," he said drily. Entered the cottage, stood in front of the inglenook fireplace. Turned to face her.
"You sent the DVD on her behalf. You were the key to her back up plan. You were Mary's accomplice."
She stood and looked at him, her expression giving nothing away.
"Who else?" he demanded into the silence. "Who else would she trust to do something devious for her after she died?"
"Indeed. Because who else knows you for the utter, total bastard you are?" she asked. "Except her and me.
"Who else would she trust to care for her nearest and dearest except you? Grieve her death with purpose like you?. Who else would dare? To engage you to do that? Except her?"
Her words and smile were measured. She walked across the room to him. Stopped so close to his face he remembered how tall she was. Her hands lifted to cup his jaw with such gentleness he did not pull away from her touch. Allowed it and yet tried to ignore it.
"She knew what was coming, Sherlock. Knew you did too. Always you. She gave her ultimate trust to you," she murmured, and he did not deny it, or argue the issue with her.
"She came here to see me. Just turned up one day. Said she had run away, but had faced her demons and was back now. That she had burnt her boats and her bridges and closed down all the escape routes so no-one could know her, nor follow her, or take her place."
"I had no idea what she was talking about. But looking back - she had accepted her fate, I think. She seemed at peace. So I didn't ask for details. Perhaps I should have."
She smiled at him and lifted a thumb to remove the edge of moisture from the corner of his right eye.
"Do you know what she was talking about?"
"Yes."
"Knew you would. And so did she. She said you were her darker, brighter twin. She loved John with all her heart, but she was so proud of you."
"I….I know."
"She left me with the disc and instructions of what to do with it. In the event of her death. She said she didn't want to be melodramatic, hoped I would never have to send it to you. So I agreed. She made light of it. But I knew it was important."
Janine Hawkins looked into those burning silver eyes and tried to read what lay behind them.
"It wasn't a joke was it? It was an insurance policy. Just not hers."
"Yes," he replied briefly. "John's."
"So why did I have to send it to you?"
"Because she knew…she knew I would….Hmmn… provide his cover, if you will Pursue his claim for reparation. Compensation. Slap a plaster over the wound. Fill the void."
"Sound simple when you put it like that.".
"Yes…yes, I can see it would."
"You don't fool me with your stone wall act. I know what you're really like, remember? Implacable, ruthless…." her voice was little more than a whisper. "Loyal and self sacrificing and so loving….in your own way."
She drew his face down to hers, played her fingertips softly along the planes of his face. Sighed sadness into his mouth. And kissed him.
Which was when he walked out and left her. Ignored her voice calling him back. Did not turn nor hesitate. Got into the Land Rover and drove away.
He now knew more than he needed to.
o0o0o
It echoed and echoed. That disc and it's demands. The trust, and that kiss, neither of which he deserved.
And now he had to try and do as he had been told. Take the last chance for repeal and redemption before he was sent to hell.
In the middle of the day, in rare sunshine, he walked to John Watson's flat and tried to quell the taste of bile in his throat, fearful fluttering in his chest.
Have to take my boy for injections. He should be home alone with Rosie. F.
The latest text update dictated his timing.
It will be alright! It will! Nothing is as good or bad as thinking makes it so…..
Instead of going formally to the front door he went round the side, to the basement kitchen door. More casual, more informal, more accepting. And out of sight from the street. Knocked and stood back and waited.
Was surprised and oddly disappointed when Molly came to the door holding Rosie. Yet by her harassed look and the way she stepped outside to speak to him rather than inviting him inside, by carefully and quietly drawing the door closed behind her, he knew John was in there. Just feet away, and avoiding him. Too angry to see him. Too upset.
I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep…..
He smiled down at Rosie. Because the hurt of that rejection meant he couldn't look Molly in the eye. He would give himself away.
"I just wondered…how things were going…" he could hear himself stuttering and stumbling over words he had rehearsed time upon time. He was embarrassed for himself. But he ploughed on. "And if there was anything I could do?"
Molly just looked at him. Tightened her hold on Rosie and did not answer directly.
She looked wretched; hollow eyed, her face pinched and too thin. Her hair was unwashed and flopped untidily over her brow. His heart twisted as he tried to offer her a smile.
But she was avoiding looking at him. Put a hand awkwardly into her trouser pocket to draw out a slim envelope and hand it to him. Despite her best attempt to be neutral, her mouth twisted, eyes fluttered.
He hoped it was not with pity for him, but sympathy for John and baby Watson.
So he looked at the paper she held out, but did not grasp it immediately. Knew who it was from, and what it would say.
"It's from John," she said softly. Voice resolute, but on the edge of a precipice.
"Right," he murmured vaguely. Pushed the cheap white envelope through his hand as if reading the words burning through the paper with his fingertips.
"You don't need to read it now," she spoke quickly: which translated as 'please don't read it in front of me. It is horrible, and I cannot bear to watch your dear face as you…."
But she was braver than that, after all. Braver for herself, and on his behalf.
.
"I'm…I'm sorry, Sherlock. He said - J-John said - if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help…." She ran out of breath and courage.
"Yes?"
"He said he'd ra…he'd rather have anyone but you….…anyone."
And what else did you expect, moron? To be greeted with open arms? A cup of tea? A hug?
YOU KILLED HIS WIFE!
He stood facing the door, just feet away from his best friend and inches from his god-daughter. Feet and miles away.
But instead of reaching out to hug the baby, reaching out to reassure Molly, forcing his way through the door for angry words and confrontation and some sort of resolution that would not be the right resolution, he simply blinked in reaction. Tightened his lips, did not speak. A tiny nod of acceptance, letter into pocket without looking at it again.
Mission over, she took a deep breath of relief at confrontation and upset avoided, stepped back through the kitchen door hugging her precious burden. Did not say goodbye. Because it would have sounded too much like taking sides, like saying goodbye.
Hand in pocket, hand tight around his letter, he did not speak either. Just walked away as if he had control of himself, and could feel where he was putting his feet. Could see through the mist that was obscuring his sight.
Well. He knew how to do self control. The freak with no feelings. The machine. Yes, of course.
o0o0o
The letter was all and more than he had expected. Nothing special. A sheet torn from a reporter's notebook and folded over. A doctor's scrawl, unmistakably John Watson's. Cheap black biro written with such force that in places it went through the paper.
He sat alone in the rear seat of the black cab and read his letter in the anonymous privacy of the taxi.
John Watson had never written him a letter before. And he knew he could do without this one before he even looked.
No greeting. No signature. Just raw words from the heart.
You came. Told you not to.
But - always your way.
So much for your vow to protect us
You made that bitch shoot her.
Being clever again. Having the last word.
Well, this is my last word. I hate you.
Come near me or Rosie ever again and I will kill you.
He read the words again and again until he stopped seeing them and sat as if paralysed for several minutes. Shredded the sheet of paper and balled the pieces in his fist. Trickled the bits out of his fingers like confetti through the window as the taxi crossed the Thames, and let the numbness go with it.
For two days he again went to earth in 221B. Stretched along the shabby brown leather sofa, immobile, expressionless, staring at the ceiling. Texts went unanswered, emails ignored. Tea and toast put at his elbow by Mrs Hudson was left untouched.
"Snap out of it," she ordered on the third morning.
"Thinking," he responded.
"Then think about getting up and shaving and doing something useful," she snapped at him.
He hissed venomous words at her. She boxed his ears without even thinking about it.
"That's more like it," she said.
Ears ringing, he recognised she was right.
Bathed and dressed and swallowed a mug of English Breakfast and two slices of toast and grapefruit marmalade without tasting any of it as she stood over him.
And then, as so many times before, he left Baker Street and walked his city streets.
When does the path we walk on lock around our feet?
When does the road become a river with only one destination?
Death waits for us all in Samarra.
But can Samarra be avoided?
As always, the act of walking calmed and grounded him, allowed him to think.
And when do we go to Samarra? Recognise it when we get there?
Oh, brave new world, that has such people in't.
I'd rather be myself. Myself and nasty. Not somebody else, however jolly.
Quite so.
He sat on a bench somewhere and made several calls to people who only made judgements when he asked them. He listened and learnt.
'Not your fault, mate."
"Always going to happen. Nature of the beast."
"I told you. I warned you. You should have foreseen this."
"Walk away from all of it. Until he cools down. Sees sense. You could never have guessed…."
The words rang in his head, but did not touch him, except…
Pause. Repeat. Play. Words she had spoken: 'Will you kill me, Sherlock Holmes?'
Words she had committed to paper and haunted him: 'Dear and trusted friend.'
Oh, if only….'fear and doubts and discouraging apprehension….'
Walked then. Along the Embankment, down the length of the Strand, stood and pondered the lions in Trafalgar Square and finally sat in the National Portrait Gallery for some time to be alone and quiet, and out of the rain.
An hour, or perhaps a day, later, he found himself outside the Farrow and Ball Blue Ground Victorian front door. He stood before it. Looked at it. Rain glistened on the gloss paint, ran down the old wood in little rivulets.
Such a cheerful shade of blue, even in the rain. Contemporary, smart, as warm as something blue could be warm, he thought inconsequentially.. So warm and bright a colour it could only have been Mary's choice.
Should he now go and find a tin of paint and a paintbrush? Black paint? Matt grey paint? Paint over the door and it's windows, paint over the brass letterbox? Show everyone that all the light and colour once at this home had gone out of the world? That all was blackness now, blackness and suffering?
That would seal the door shut, seal the flat tight and safe, keep out the world. But mainly keep him out. Himself, Such a damning, dangerous, disruptive presence. Himself and all the damage he had caused.
Yes, that would give the flat, the man and child within it, all the peace and comfort and isolation they needed and deserved. Time and peace to recover.
Because John Hamish Watson had to recover. Had to pick himself up and go on. For his own sake. For his daughter's sake. For Sherlock Holmes' sake. So Sherlock Holmes could spend the rest of his life trying to put right the damage he had made to the lives of his best friend and his best friend's baby daughter. The widower and the orphan child. The people whose lives mattered to him. Whose lives he had ruined.
That decision was out of his hands, he knew. But he still had to try. Even though he knew he would be repulsed. Even though he knew he would be hurt. For he deserved hurt. However hard, however cruel, however mortal the wounds John Watson chose to inflict upon him in return.
Best friend to best friend, he was still the man who had failed John Watson the most when he had needed him the most.
When the only person you really trust turns on you, who wants you dead, is it not your responsibility to try and comply with those wishes? Because there may be healing in that. Resolution. Comfort? Hope? Valediction?
Closure?
Dear and trusted friend. Four words that have drummed in my head ever since I read them. Me, Mary? Are you sure? How were you so sure?
Mea culpa. Last try.
Save John Watson. Save him…..Well. Who but me? Oh, Mary. You knew me too well.
So. Doing as told, and going down to Hell for you. For John.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, finally lifted a hand to knock on the door.
The classic seven staccato beat rhythm. As if he was a delivery driver, an insurance agent, a cold caller. As if he still had a right to be there. Then he stepped back a pace and waited. Waited. Knocked again.
Neither was his usual knock. His usual knock would bring no-one to the door.
But a disguised knock brought no-one to the door.
It brought to the door instead a shrunken hollow being with red rimmed eyes. A man clutching a half empty tumbler of whisky in one hand, convulsively clutching the door edge with the other.
Dark blue eyes brimming with things he did not recognise looked at him with such hollow hatred Sherlock Holmes felt their weight upon him like a physical blow. Resisted staggering backwards under the onslaught.
"John…?"
"I told you. Never want to see you again. Piss off."
"John….."
"That's my name. You forget it. And I'll forget yours."
"John….."
The blank empty look had anger and alcohol, self pity and disdain behind it.
"I'm not going to plead with you…." he said.
"You? As if." The scorn would have been painful if he had not been expecting it.
"Just tell me what I can do. Something? Anything to help. To ….."
"You're the bloody genius. You know what you can do. Simple." The door shook, he was the grasping the edge of it so fiercely. "Her alive. You dead. That…." he said, in a voice angry and broken. "would be perfect. A right bloody treat. You. Dead."
Sherlock Holmes stepped forward blindly, despite himself. As he did so the blasted blue eyes raked over him with a look of such disdain he swore he could taste the bile in the heart behind them.
"I asked you once to stop being dead, Won't do that again. Know you too well now. Piss off, Sherlock. Never come back." The door slammed shut.
Through the frosted glass Sherlock Holmes could see the sturdy body of the man he knew so well, his palms pressed against the glass as he leant against the wood, gathering strength and sobriety to walk away. Inside, not outside where he could be reached, be helped.
An inch away from connecting, from touching, from being touched…the consulting detective lifted a hand to mirror a hand, the glass of the door between them the only barrier to them actually standing hand pressed to hand. Like best friends.
John Watson saw that. Pulled his hand back as if stung.
"No!" he exclaimed through the door. "Go jump off a building - you're good at that. Or shoot up and never come down. Whatever. I don't care. Don't Bloody. Care."
"John! John! Listen to me!"
He realised he was hammering the door with the flat of his hands. Even though he never did things like that.
The rain in his hair mingled with the tears raining down his eyes, and he never did things like that, either.
"Please, John…"
The shape against the door moved. Moved away, the silhouette disappearing slowly from view. He heard steps striding down the hall. Saw the light switch off. Heard the murmured sound of a baby calling from deeper in the house.
He grabbed a breath, and pushed his toes up against the bottom of the door. Put his head against the wood, hands either side of his face, protecting it from the squalling rain.
Stood and waited. Brain on pause. At some point, cold and numb and empty, he fell asleep. Standing up. In the rain. On the doorstep. Jolted awake at some point, groaned loudly as his locked out knees and arms protested at the sudden movement.
"John!" The word was as reactive as breathing.
He hammered on the door again with the flat of his hand. Wanting to attract attention, but not daring to wake the baby. Make John Watson more angry than he was already.
His back creaked as he stooped to push back the brass Victorian letterbox flap with his thumb and look inside.
While he had been asleep standing up, John Watson had returned to the hall with a cushion in hand, had sat on the floor and put down on the tiled floor by his side what was perhaps his fifth tumbler of whisky. Had fallen asleep with his forehead down on his bent knees.
Because he needed to be close to the man he said he hated? The man he wanted to see dead? The only real link he had to his lost wife? Who had understood her? The only link that wasn't a tiny baby?
Me?
"John!"
It was a harsh, urgent, quiet command. It crossed a bare two feet of space.
"John!"
The grey blond head turned slowly on the neck. The face pointed his way. The speedwell blue eyes opened slowly. There was some sort of focus there, but no feeling.
"John. Let me in. Talk to me."
"Spent years trying to get you to let me in. Talk to me. What's it feel like to have the tables turned, then?" He heaved himself to his feet. Sherlock Holmes registered with something like a lurch of fear that his best friend was very drunk.
His shirt was untucked and the sleeves of the grey jumper pushed past the elbows. He needed a shave and his hair was a mess. He staggered three steps towards the front door.
Bent slowly to the letterbox opening. Sherlock Holmes did not move, held his breath; felt John Watson's breath waver across his face, just inches away; smelt the whisky there.
"Sherlock….." came the whisper.
"Yes, John?" a whisper in return. A yearning, and a hope, both restrained.
"Fuck off and die."
The brass flap snapped hard down onto his fingertips, and Sherlock Holmes registered that little pain as the something that finally burnt the heart out of him.
The shock dropped him to his knees on the rain soaked slabs. His head bent and he dispassionately watched the knees of his trousers darken with the water and go cold. Colder.
The only person I trust.
Alone protects me.
No. I don't have friends. Only one.
Alone protects me.
Alone protects me.
Alone doesn't protect John.
He levered his feet underneath him with shaking, over careful deliberation, like an old man. Climbed up the pretty blue front door from handhold to handhold to finally stand erect.
"John. Help," he mouthed with precise enunciation into the glass, reaching through the barrier with his voice as best he could. "Help. Let. Me. Help."
Yet knowing he would get no reply.
Pointless. Pointless. Pointless. There is none so blind…
And now he was standing at his full height. The rain had penetrated the wool of the Belstaff through his jacket and shirt, and his shoulders and back were wet as his clothes stuck to his skin. His knees and legs were wet, the rain soaking his feet through the Lobbs and the black silk socks.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
He turned, joints objecting, and left the silence behind him.
London was awakening. The rattling hiss of an electric milk float trundled down the street. A robotic jogger swept heedlessly past him. An old man with hunched shoulders ambled past towing an equally ancient and reluctant terrier.
Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath. Squared his shoulders and adjusted the damp cashmere scarf at his throat. Slowly put one foot in front of the other and walked away.
An old pop song he had not heard for years rattled into his mind.
Sometimes, you're better off dead.
There's a gun in your hand and it's pointing at your head.
You think you're mad, too unstable…..
The rest of the words would not come. Didn't matter. They were only a sticking plaster of thought holding the brain together until calm came and the Mind Palace took over. Walking as a form of transport slowly became easier, less painful, more graceful.
He sucked in a deep breath as if resurfacing from deep water. Raised a hand to summon a passing taxi. Watched it slow and stop beside him as the light went out.
Things to do, places to be, he thought. Forward. Onward.
Mary Watson had given him a case, a task, a challenge. He would not fail her.
He needed cash. He needed Wiggins. He had his orders. And he had the inkling of a plan.
Go to hell, Sherlock.
Anything for you, Mary. Anything at all. As deep or as high as you need.
Why this is hell, nor am I out of it, he thought. A phrase suddenly formed in his head, picked out of the air. A quote. Yes. Marlowe, he decided. More public school education detritus.
Yeah. Marlowe. Spy, murderer, iconoclast. Homosexual. Poet. Playwright. Dark angel. Hero. Enigma.
'Hell is just a frame of mind.' He said that. He knew. Poor sane tortured bugger.
'Why should you love him whom the world hates so? Because he loves me more than all the world.' He said that too.
All the world.
'Quod me nutrit me destruit'.
Who feeds me destroys me.
Oh, yeah. With chips.
And onwards.
He got into the cab and gave a destination that was not Baker Street. Sat back. Re-entered his mind palace.
He had a case. Focus. That was all that mattered. The case from Mary Watson that was John Watson.
Save him. Save John Watson…..
He would not let her down, nor let John down. Not this time.
Go to Hell.
Oh, yes. That.
On my way, Mary.
Just returning to where I have been before.
Down to hell. And back with the prize.
THE END
Author's Notes:
The London Aquarium: The Sea Life London Aquarium is situated at County Hall on the south bank of the Thames and opened in1997. It contains Europe's largest collection of global marine life and attracts over a million visitors a year.
The Slough of Despond: a mire through which the pilgrim Christian passes in John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress.
Samarra to Sumatra: Sherlock's own retelling of the Death legend, as recalled by Mycroft in T6T.
Oh brave new world, that has such people in't: The Tempest, Shakespeare. A line from Prospero, the great magician. A line also used for the title of Aldous Huxley's iconic novel Brave New World (1932)
'I'd rather be myself….' To quote Bernard Marx from C6 of Brave New World.
Nothing is as good or bad but thinking makes it so. Hamlet Act 2 Scene 2
I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep… Robert Frost
Sometimes, you're better off dead…etc: The pop song Sherlock cannot quite recall is Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe's West End Girls courtesy of The Pet Shop Boys.
Christopher Marlowe (1564 - 1593): Elizabethan playwright, heretic, hell rake and spy, over whom controversy still looms large; about his writings, his life, his role, his death…and whether he really was murdered …..or disappeared to be reinvented as Shakespeare. Or Jonson. Or both. Still my true hero.
Quod me nutrit me destruit: The Latin motto on the only 'known' portrait of Marlowe bears the legend: Quod me nutrit me destruit. Which translates as: 'who feeds me destroys me.'
So that's it. Sorry this story took quite so long to evolve: real life intruded throughout the progress of this story far too much! But just before you go…..
O'Donnell Sherlock stories post ONLY on the Fan Fiction site.
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