Chapter 94 — A Lie and Also a Kindness
Sherlock's phone lit up. The message, one from a representative of his homeless network, told him Rose had entered the train carriage.
He cradled the phone in his hand as he sat leaning forward by the fireplace, elbows resting on knees. It was now or never.
In his mind's eye, the doors closed and the train lurched forward. At this time of day, Rose would've found somewhere to sit. No need for a good Samaritan to give up their seat for the pregnant woman. Would her eyes be glistening, her brow still furrowed in confusion? Her key to Baker Street was missing. It should be an easy deduction for her. Sherlock had stolen her key the night before last. It wouldn't do him any good to dwell on how much her heart hurt right now. It was nothing compared to how she'd feel once she'd left the tube station at Edgware Road.
He was a coward to tell her like this. But it had to be done this way. If she was standing in front of him right now, the words wouldn't flow. He'd seize her and hold her and never let her go, chastising himself for contemplating breaking her heart. Their hearts.
And don't think about the… baby.
Sherlock shut his eyes and forced the air from his lungs, thus pushing those thoughts away. He stood up abruptly.
Rose would've lost the signal on her phone by now. His call would definitely go through to her voicemail. He had two minutes before she reached her destination.
He lifted his phone.
Contacts.
Favourites.
Rose.
—Heart twinge.
Call.
Sherlock brought the phone to his ear.
"Hi, this is Rose! I can't take your call right now. Please leave a message!"
His stomach flipped. Of course Rose was going to greet him in such a cheery manner. How had he forgotten that little detail? The inflection in her voice seemed to be saying, I hope you leave a nice message! My life has been an absolute shithole for so long, but now everything's going my way!
By the way, Sherlock, I love you!
Sherlock dropped his arm, leaving the phone dangling by his side for a brief moment.
Now or never!
He lifted the phone up once again.
"Rose."
His voice crackled. He hadn't cleared his throat first! The lump of guilt wedged there had appeared in his first word!
Sherlock clenched his jaw. Keep moving! Pacing meant thinking, and thinking wasn't feeling.
Sherlock strode to the other side of the rug towards the coffee table and about-faced.
"You once made a decision on my behalf."
Good. Nice introduction there. Sounds a bit accusatory, but never mind. This is something she can relate to. Breaking hearts, remember!
"One that I didn't understand at first, nor accepted later."
One that tore my heart in two, which I will now attempt to do to yours!
"But you were right. Your plans shouldn't have included me."
Sherlock paused, his mind scrambling for the next words in the sequence to destroy the woman he loved most in the world. What were they again?
He stood taller, inhaled deeply, his chest expanding. Tilting his chin up, he looked across the room for an imaginary audience of anyone who, at one time or another, had questioned his abilities or qualifications. He remembered how this went now.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "And as you know, sentiment is the antithesis of everything I hold dear—logic and cold, hard reason. For the last few months I thought I was doing the right thing. Assuming the role expected of me in society. But you were right again, Rose. I was playing pretend. It wasn't me. Scott Williams is a figment of your imagination. He won't be returning. In fact, he'll slip in a puddle at the Globe to Globe Hamlet performance in Seoul. It's been raining there all week. Perhaps he'll come away with a nasty infection. Not exactly news-worthy. But his last will and testament will ensure you're both taken care of. As you know, all emotions are abhorrent to my precise and perfectly balanced mind. I have a delicate and finely adjusted temperament, and your presence has always been a distracting factor which may throw into doubt my mental acuity."
Sherlock paused. His mind was buzzing with a multitude of well-worn phrases he'd used over the years to explain either his unacceptable behaviour—as others saw it—or his methods of genius deduction. He had become quite carried away. So where was he?
"Don't bother ringing back. In fact, you should return to Edinburgh as soon as possible."
He stopped again, his throat beginning to constrict. The façade was crumbling.
Quickly clearing his throat, he added, "I've got work to do."
Footsteps approached. Sherlock had approximately ten seconds to recompose himself as he sat in his armchair.
It was no use. That wasn't long enough.
Eight seconds now.
His hand still supported his forehead as he regarded the hateful phone that lay on the rug between unsteady feet.
The wound he'd mended with rudimentary stitches after Mary's death, lay large and gaping once more. Worse than before, in fact. While he'd inadvertently caused Mary's death, he'd purposefully, willingly, calculatedly delivered a fatal blow to his relationship with Rose. Plunged a red hot poker inside his own chest. Rejected his partner and the daughter they were having.
It burned and seared his heart.
Say it again, one more time, to really incinerate it from the inside. He had to remember this—this scorching pain—so he would never make the same mistake again.
Five seconds.
The pain radiated outwards, twisting his joints til they also ached, causing his eyes to swim and bringing bile to his throat.
He needed something.
Three seconds.
An anaesthetic. Numb it all.
Two seconds.
Woo hoo.
One second.
"Oh, there you are." No 'woo hoo' then. Mrs Hudson no longer existed in such a light-hearted world. "I didn't think you'd be in."
"Fetch me your sherry from the sideboard in your living room."
"Why—"
"Now!"
No eye contact. Not when his were probably red-rimmed by now.
His landlady's exhale came in the form of a shaky 'o', and from the corner of his eye, he saw her figure disappear from the doorway. With heavy limbs, he picked up the phone and turned it over. Rose's contact details were still there. Block this caller. The final step.
Sherlock rose from his seat. Keep moving. Sitting meant feeling. Movement was for thinking.
But he found himself standing in front of the living room window, looking out onto the street. Somewhere between Edgware Road and St Georges Fields, a pregnant woman walked or stood, paralysed, after receiving devastating news. Right now. Rose was upset. He'd caused it.
He could go to her! Or ring her! Say it was a mistake. Wrong number. He'd meant to ring some other woman he'd been shagging to call it all off.
"Here, love," Mrs Hudson said behind him.
"Put it on the kitchen counter."
He didn't turn around. Too busy projecting apologies towards Rose's consciousness.
"Would you like me to—"
"Leave."
Again the shaky exclamation from Mrs Hudson. She probably thought he was still reacting to Mary's death. And in a way he was.
Dominoes falling. One after the other, leading him to this.
This solitary existence.
It was the path he was supposed to walk. Until his death. And he couldn't do that with… family in tow.
Sherlock waited until Mrs Hudson's footfalls died away. He quickly strode over to the living room door and shut it. After retrieving a glass tumbler from the overhead cupboard, he poured in a generous amount of Mrs Hudson's finest sherry. He held the glass up to the light to examine the honey-coloured wine.
The Fino. One of half a dozen bottles he'd bought her for Christmas the year before last, before he took off for the Himalayas. In happier times.
Sherlock chugged it back, swiftly draining the glass.
Jesus fucking Christ! He bent double, almost gagging.
Not as smooth and rich as the Palo Cortado he'd purchased for her shortly after she'd been accosted by that CIA agent. Just as vile though.
Still, Sherlock poured himself another generous helping and made light work of it. It warmed his throat and settled into his stomach. It would make its way to his central nervous system soon, and the effects, he hoped, would radiate outwards and numb the gaping wound inside his heart.
That's what he needed. Time would heal him, because this kind of pain didn't go away in an instant. Closing doors in his Mind Palace would only work once he'd relieved himself of the physiological effects. Therefore, he needed something to anaesthetise him so he could carry on some semblance of living.
Sherlock stretched out in this armchair, crossing one leg over the other. He tapped one foot in agitation, waiting for the effects to hit him. Unsatisfied, he moved to the sofa, steepled his fingertips and closed his eyes. Nothing. The pain was still there. A higher concentration of alcohol in his bloodstream would bring him the sedation he sought, but then he wouldn't be able to function. What was the use of that?
Sitting up and irately ruffling his hair, Sherlock knew there was an alternative. There was always an alternative.
He snatched up his phone from the coffee table, where he'd tossed it earlier, and dialled a familiar number.
"Ye…'ello?"
A combination of 'yeah' and 'hello' from his faithful 'protégé'. But Sherlock didn't have time for social courtesies.
"Billy. Remember Operation Bon Voyage?" Without waiting for a response, Sherlock swiftly continued. "I need…" He stood, willing his mind to outline a few steps ahead. "Not as... strong. Lower tolerance, obviously." He experienced a fleeting moment of embarrassment. Why? Because he couldn't handle a higher dose? Because he'd been clean for months? Wasn't that a good thing? It was all relative wasn't it? But define good. "But," he added, suddenly remembering, "without the dry cleaner and the coat. Just… bring it here to Baker Street."
"But I ain't—"
Sherlock ended the call. He wasn't interested in Billy's excuses. The man would pull it all together again, surely.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he angrily rolled down his dressing gown sleeve. Across from him, Billy's eyes widened.
"What the fuck was that?"
"Di'n ya—"
"That," he snapped, pointing towards the now empty syringe in the cup on the side table, "was not our special recipe."
"Of course it ain't."
"That was... dental anaesthetic and... caffeine, mixed with somebody's idea of a… of a… sarcastic quip."
"Yeah... prob'ly."
"Probably?" Sherlock said, creases appearing in his brow. "Don't you know?"
"Well, I didn't cook it. I 'ad t'buy it off the street."
"Off the street! I've just injected some idiot's chewing gum into my veins! Why didn't you make it? I would've waited." Feeling thoroughly disgusted, Sherlock thrust himself out of his chair.
"'cause I... I don't 'ave the facilities. Don'tcha know that?"
Sherlock paced across the rug, his mind still buzzing, but with the delicate after-taste of a punch in the head.
"Why would I know the trivialities of your life?" he said, waving a disinterested hand.
"'Cause it was your brother who got me evicted."
That stopped Sherlock in his tracks.
"Took all me equipment away," Billy went on. "Said if I didn't want certain files found on me 'ard drive, then I'd better find new digs and stop production post-haste. It was a good thing I'd already hidden your going away present."
"My brother?" Sherlock repeated, his voice lowering a notch.
"Yeah. After Christmas. I left your parents' 'ouse after everyone started to stir. Jus' like you said. But... 'e found me on Boxing Day. I'm lucky I wasn't prosecuted, 'e said."
The three-legged dog that was the inferior speedball continued to scratch itself inside Sherlock's brain.
His brother.
Mycroft had ruined everything for him yet again.
"But I... I need something," he said, more to himself than to Billy. "Not this... this... itching powder." He scratched his head at the thought, wanting to scratch behind his eyeballs, but a new idea arose. He slipped off his dressing gown along with his doubts. "Go," he said, waving a hand at Billy. "Stock up on the basic ingredients." He strode with a renewed sense of purpose towards the door. Grabbing his coat from the hook, he added, "I'll fetch the equipment." Steal it. From Bart's again. He continued speaking while he slipped his arms into the sleeves. "I'll bring it to your new place. Text me the address."
"No. Wait, Shezza. I can't cook there. It's a share 'ouse. I've got a landlord an' everything."
"What?"
This was getting worse by the minute. Sherlock scratched his head again, but it was definitely itchy on the inside. The fucking dog had fleas.
"I can't set up anything in there."
But…
His mind scrambled for an alternative. There was no way he could buy from another dealer. It would take days to find the best of the best via his homeless network or Billy's contacts. And even then, he just knew it would still be an inferior batch to those he and Billy had perfected in the old Canning Town college kitchen.
And he only needed one hit. Just one good hit. An anaesthetic. It would put him under before he had the surgery to remove his heart more permanently this time.
Just this once, he thought. One batch. One hit.
Slowly, Sherlock moved toward the opening to the kitchen, deep in thought.
"What?" said Billy, joining him as the detective-genius's eyes raked over the table, the countertops, the sink, and the small window at the back of the kitchen.
"New plan," Sherlock replied, one corner of his mouth curling upwards. "Bring everything here."
"I finish in a couple of hours, then I'm on babysitting duty," Molly said, answering Sherlock's question. "Why?"
"Just…" Sherlock drew in a steadying breath and closed his eyes briefly with the phone still pressed to his ear. Was he going to lie to Molly again? "Just wondering if John went back to work. You did say…"
"Yes. Every week day, this week. It was ten til three, at the start, but he was really keen to go back full-time. That's not good, is it? I can't tell, Sherlock. After my dad died, my mum just stayed in the garden, weeding."
"Everyone grieves in their own way."
Thank you, Rose.
"And how about you?"
Her voice was soft. She was caring about him again. And what was he doing? Not asking how she was. He was finding out when she wouldn't be at the lab so he could steal equipment and supplies. So he could get high. So he could look after himself.
"Work is the best antidote to sorrow," he said automatically.
Liar.
"You're working?"
Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Email cases only. I'm not in the mood for face to face interactions."
"Oh."
Molly. For God's sake don't feel sorry for me.
"Do you want to go out for coffee? I-I could finish earlier and…"
"Molly…"
"And… meet you somewhere before I—"
"Molly."
"—go to John's."
"No. It's fine. Really."
More lies! He wasn't fine.
"I could come around if you don't feel like going anywhere."
Sherlock's entire body tensed. He didn't deserve to have somebody care about his wellbeing. All he could do was lie until he got his own way.
"Molly," he said, feeling exhausted from all the deceit. "You know me. We've been friends for a long time." He heard a tiny sigh in his ear. He knew what that meant. Perhaps he'd never been a good friend to her. When it came to Molly Hooper, Sherlock always took from her and never gave anything back. Was that how their friendship was defined?
He couldn't do that again.
"And you know I like to throw myself into my work," he continued.
"I also know what happens when you don't have any work," she said.
Bowing his head, his shoulders also drooping, he exhaled noisily.
"Sherlock," Molly said into the silence. "I know John said… he said he didn't want your help, but… maybe you could come over to the house after I get there. Before John finishes work. You don't have to help. You can just say hello. That's not helping. That's just visiting."
She sounded so hopeful. A huff of a laugh escaped Sherlock. Good old Molly. She found a loophole in John's note. She was willing to go against the spirit of John's wishes to make Sherlock feel better.
"I'm sure Rosie would love to see you," Molly added.
A kick in the gut. She mentioned Rosie! The pressure in Sherlock's sinuses became unbearable. How could he think about her and her cherubic chuckle when all he want to do was stick an ice cold needle into his vein? Pull back the plunger. Blood swirling into the barrel. Heart beat. Depress. Hold his breath. Heart beat. Heart beat. A clock ticking. Then… Jesus fucking Christ. Calm washing over him. Euphoria. Bubbles of ecstasy leaving his lungs and through his mouth. A soft blanket encircling him. Long lazy caresses on his brow.
No. Wait a minute. That last one was usually Rose's fingertips.
It hurt. Just existing in this world as it was brought him more pain. That… that other thing, the solution to this horror was just around the corner.
But… Rosie.
And Rose.
And a baby girl that belonged to him. He'd pushed them away. The little baby that waved to him from the sonogram. Kicked his hand when he ran the flat of it across Rose's belly.
Grace.
Rose wanted to call her Grace.
Sherlock dropped his phone hand and choked out a sob. He bowed his head into his other hand, tears now flowing freely.
"Sherlock."
Molly's voice from the phone.
His body felt wretched. His shoulders shook as the pressure he'd kept bottled up came spilling out. What had he done? Why had he chosen to hurt the ones he loved most in this world?
"Sherlock?"
Oh, fuck it, he thought, lifting his head from his hand and wiping his eyes. He looked to the ceiling and exhaled deeply to calm himself. Sniffing one final time, he decided that this was enough. That was the last emotional display. It was too late. He'd done what he'd done and now he had to get on with living.
Bringing the phone to his ear once more, he steadied himself.
Keeping his voice even, he said to Molly, "That... sounds like a good plan for another day. I'll call you later."
Light, swift footsteps in the stairwell. Not hesitating. Determined.
Molly Hooper.
Sherlock swiftly vacated his armchair and made a beeline for the bathroom. After locking the door, he pushed the plug into the sink and turned on the tap. He checked his watch. Not quite three. Clearly Molly had left work early after all.
The water slowly rose in the sink. When there was a sufficient amount of water in it, he turned off the tap. Just in time, too.
"Sherlock?"
He dipped his hand into the water and waited until her calls came closer.
"Sherlock?"
He abruptly lifted his hand out of the sink. Sherlock was pleased it made the required splashy noise.
"Molly?"
"S-sorry…" Her voice was just outside in the hallway. "Are you in the bath?"
Sherlock tilted his head toward the ceiling, forcing himself to slow down his breathing, which would render his speech indicative of someone lolling about in the bathtub.
"I just got in," he drawled. "What's wrong?"
Silence while Molly contemplated his situation, perhaps.
"Oh. Nothing. I just wanted to see if you were... okay. You probably are. It's fine."
Splashy sounds again.
"I can get out if you want."
"No! It's... okay."
"Don't be embarrassed, Molly. I have every intention of wrapping myself in my dressing gown before I open the door." Unlike the free exhibition he once gave Janine. Remember that? It was during the time I'd previously broken Rose's heart.
For Christ's sake! Will these feelings never go away?
"It's fine, Sherlock. I have to get to John's anyway. I'll see you later."
Sherlock withdrew his hand from the sink and shook the water from it. Still perched on the side of the bathtub, he bowed his head and strained to hear Molly's footsteps dying away.
His body was still tearing itself up from the inside, but now he also had a headache, thanks to that cut to shit gear Billy had brought around.
It will be over soon. He'd give Molly a few minutes to leave the area, and then he'd be on his way to Bart's for the supplies he and Billy needed. One batch. One hit. His body would heal and he would be in fighting shape again. He had to be fit enough in mind and body to fulfil Mary's wishes.
Go to Hell, Sherlock. Go right into Hell, and make it look like you mean it.
.
A/N: A few of the phrases/wordage Sherlock used in his emotionless speech to Rose, I borrowed from ACD.
