Notes:
This story was started years ago, long before Season 4, but the unknown identity of "the other one" kept me from finishing it and after finding out that it was Eurus, it put me off completely. I found this recently in my archives and decided to give it a new go. I'm going to ignore their sister and stick to the original plan. So, no Eurus, no Sherrinford, no S4 nonsense. Mrs. Holmes only has two sons in this story.
On World Autism Awareness Day, this story is dedicated to all mothers whose children are a bit more special.
Chapter 1: Room to Pass
As the lady of the house crossed the threshold, carefully balancing the hot cup of tea in her left hand, she automatically scanned the sitting room and the persons in it with her piercing blue eyes. There was her husband, putting more wood on the fire. And there was the woman she was looking for. Mary Watson, one of her special Christmas guests, was sitting in the grey armchair facing the fireplace. The low-lying December sun lighted up her features and the heap of books she had gathered next to her. The cozy blanket drawn over her lower body made her already impressive stomach look like a huge checkered balloon. Mary didn't see her coming, too busy pretending to be engrossed in leafing through a thick book. There were four white stripes on the cover which resembled…
Oh.
It was like a sudden punch in the gut.
Good God, not now. I don't want to have this conversation today, of all days. Where on earth did she even manage to find it?
To Mrs. Holmes, The Dynamics of Combustion was like any other book she had once enjoyed and that had since found a permanent, but forgotten place on her dusty bookshelf. It was harmless, as long as it stayed there untouched, along with the other trophies and paraphernalia of her past. But considering the Pandora's Box of memories that talking about the book or her career always opened, it was a mistake on her part to leave it there to be found. She gave herself a mental kick for overlooking the nosiness of her guests. In her defense, they rarely had visitors at the cottage these days and she had quite forgotten there were people who judged their hosts by the contents of their bookcase.
But none of that mattered now, the damage was already done. She had to think fast if she was to salvage the situation.
In a split second, the simple task of tea bringing changed into a strategic choreography, as her mind started to calculate the best scenario to avoid the impending catastrophe. If she felt ruffled by the sudden shock, she did her best not to let it shine through. There was no pause in her steps, no glitch in her navigation. No one could have deduced from her exterior the sudden storm that had risen inside her. Well, apart from her sons. Luckily they were not in the same room.
Knowing what was ahead, the older woman braced herself, lifted her chin up, glued a smile to her face and briskly approached her reading guest.
Five strides from the door to the other, empty armchair in front of the fireplace. To feel more confident, she switched the brimming cup to her dominant right hand and held on tight to its side although it scalded her hand.
"Ah, Mary. There you are."
Make it sound friendly, casual, not alarmed in the least. Remember who you are.
Mary glanced up from the book at the sound of her voice, surprised.
"Cup of tea."
One, two…
Although her gait was a bit unsteady, the fake smile never left her face as she slid towards the narrow gap between the armchair and the low coffee table. There was hardly room to pass, yet she squeezed through with single-minded determination.
Nothing like tea for distraction.
Like an overgrown ballerina, Mrs. Holmes tiptoed towards Mary's chair. When she had inched close enough, she started to outstretch her right arm towards the sitting woman who mirrored her movement by extending her right arm in the direction of the floral-patterned offering. It all seemed to happen in slow-motion as a thousand thoughts swirled through her head, all senses on red alert.
Mary smiled fondly at her host, with an eager expression that said she was looking forward to getting more from her than just the tea.
Gaze gleaming with curiosity. Dying to ask me a thousand questions, aren't you?
Three, four…
When Mary's hand was within reach, Mrs. Holmes finally handed the cup to her. Mary took a grateful sip from it.
Divert them before they get into question mode.
That was her strategy, whenever it came to questions she had no wish to answer. It usually worked but something about her guest told her she needed something more to get through it this time. So, before Mary had a chance to swallow the tea and open her mouth, she bowed down towards her and gave her arm a light, conspiratorial squeeze.
"Now, if Father starts making little humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it."
She said it as jocosely as she could, but stressed the words with an almost aggressive thrust of her hand, in hopes that the strange gesture would catch her husband's eye. Mary laughed at her and she chuckled along, as if she'd just said something funny, instead of serving a nonsense code that only the ears tuned in to her frequency of needs could pick up. Her husband had become quite good at reading her distress signals during their long marriage and she could only hope that he was listening now. As the hearing impairment brought on by old age made it harder for him to connect the dots than before, she deliberately raised her voice, loud enough to carry to the other side of the room.
She gave the word "poke" an extra emphasis, trying to draw his attention to the fact that someone in the room was poking their nose into things that weren't their business. To bring the point home, she directed a pleading look across the room at the man who had just straightened up from the fire to see what was going on. A raised eyebrow and a slight tilt of her head towards their prying guest sent him another hint. When he started smiling at Mary, Mrs. Holmes knew the message had come through.
Mary held up the book in her hand and showed her host the orange-and-blue front cover, as if she needed reminding. Her eyes were filled with wonder and admiration.
Here we go. After a beat, there came the dreaded question, the one she had been expecting.
"Did you write this?"
Mrs. Holmes could practically see the next questions already queuing up at the tip of her tongue. She didn't need to hear any of them to know how the awkward conversation would continue, once Mary found out the truth.
"It's... brilliant. You're so smart, why did you give it up? Why didn't you pursue your promising career if you were this good, if it meant so much to you?"
She could even picture the bashful smile on her face before she would turn her gaze away, realizing she had said too much.
"Oh, never mind. Not my business."
Indeed it wasn't. And she had to say something quickly to quench her thirst for knowledge, to cut the questioning before it began.
"Oh, that silly old thing. You mustn't read that."
She hadn't quite meant to look so theatrical while saying this but her hands, those traitors, seemed to have a life of their own – the left one placed itself on her heart while the other one started fiddling with her right earring.
Why did this still affect her so much, after all these years? As if she hadn't heard the same question before… Her troubled state was now evident in her body language, spilling over. Mrs. Holmes hoped Mary would write it off as merely Christmas stress. Irritated with herself and her untrustworthy transport, she blurted out the first thing that came into her mind.
"Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!"
It was scarcely an answer, and from the disappointed look in her eyes, she could tell Mary was far from satisfied with it.
Too bad...
She wasn't going to stay around long enough to give her a chance to disagree. She turned away from Mary and towards her husband to seek assistance. As if on cue, the man who seemed to be staring into the distance, pretending he wasn't even aware of their conversation, started making a quiet humming noise.
My hero. The perfect excuse.
"Now, no humming, you!"
She pounced on the opportunity and hurried towards him, looking him straight in the eyes as she came closer. He stared intensely back at her, looking concerned for a while, as if he wasn't sure what his wife was going to do after all.
Mrs. Holmes patted her husband gently on the backside, letting him know he had done the right thing. She would leave the situation for him to handle, he was much better at it anyway.
Thank you for bailing me out, darling. Don't tell her anything I wouldn't...
With a final twirl of her flimsy blouse, Mrs. Holmes spun on her high heels and sashayed out of the room, leaving a smiling Father and a bewildered Mary in her wake. And so it was over before it had started, all according to plan.
Twelve steps, a bow and two pats on the back were all it took to slip through the straits - her little dance of avoidance. During her life, she had become quite an expert at it. But then again, she had always loved dancing.
As soon as Mrs. Holmes left the room, the smile dropped from her lips, pulling her mood down with it. She closed the door firmly behind her, shutting out the questions and explanations she didn't have the time for today. Through the door, she could hear her husband referring to her as a "complete flake".
Let her think of me that way. It's better than revealing my heart to a virtual stranger.
End notes:
If you pause to look at this cottage scene in slow motion, you can see that more is communicated between Mr. and Mrs. Holmes than what can be seen at a first glance. This is my take on "the what" and, more importantly, "the why".