Mycroft
She got interested in John Watson's blog thanks to her friend Amanda. She would have never heard of Sherlock Holmes if it wasn't for her. Amanda used to work for Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. Of course, her job at the Holmes brothers' eldest office was a very secretive one but that was just another reason to brag about it. She would always talk about the secret cases she dealt with, the latest secret national threat or the super-secret place she visited. But most of all, she talked about Mycroft Holmes.
"He is the most brilliant of the country. Governments change, Mycroft stays. That's what everybody says at the office. Marigold, do you listen?"
It was a Friday evening and they were sitting at their usual booth. Amanda stared at her with her big blue eyes for a moment, then continued.
"You do not realize how important he is for our country. If we can live in a safe and peaceful country, it's only thanks to him. Of course, nobody outside the office knows it, he doesn't boast, and we can't talk about it of course. Non-disclosure agreement, you know."
"Amanda, then maybe, you…"
"He is just so down-to-earth. Always very smartly dressed. And so polite. And his mind, uh! My god, he's so brilliant. You should see him think. It's so fast. So quick. And when he has one of his strokes of genius. He is so calm, but you can see he found it, that little clue that saved the day. You know what they say, brainy is the new sexy."
"I'm sure he must be very interesting."
"He is a genius, Marigold. A genius."
Obviously, Amanda had a huge crush on Mycroft Holmes. It was a pity that England's super servant wasn't interested in blond, featherbrained top models. Sometimes, she wondered if the man was interested in romance at all. He seemed like the type of men only interested in their job. Maybe, he was in love with the Queen - in a platonic, respectful and courteous way of course.
Amanda would spend evenings talking about all his coming and goings. Sometimes, she would even text her about a so important event that she couldn't wait the next evening to tell it. One evening, she rang her friend, irritated.
"Marigold! You won't figure out who I just met. Sherlock Holmes! The weird guy with the hat. The detective."
"I don't who he is, Amanda."
"Where do you live Marigold? In a cave? Don't you ever read the news? Or go on the internet? He is the detective. Mycroft's brother. The sociopath. He's got a friend which likes to write about their adventures. James Wutton, something like this. Anyway, people think he is one of the smartest persons of the country. Well, they're wrong. He's so rude. Nowhere as clever as his brother. I wonder how they can be related. He's so dumb. Mycroft's too good to him. He doesn't deserve such a brother."
Later that night, she googled him. Sherlock Holmes. What drove her to do so? She didn't know. Curiosity or maybe Amanda's obsession had gained her as well.
She found John Watson's blog right away. The latest post was about the famous philanthrope Culverton Smith. It appeared Mr. Smith was a serial killer who had built a hospital with secret passages to patients' rooms, using them to commit his misdemeanors. His crimes were so meticulously executed and hidden that there was no reason to suspect him. But Sherlock Holmes's intuition is rarely wrong. He uncovered the truth and, putting his own life at risk, he recorded the man's confession. The case had a huge effect on the political and business spheres. Nobody suspected anything. Once again, Sherlock Holmes was the savior no one expected.
And she read, read and read. She stayed awake the whole night, devouring cases after cases. She had never been a huge fan of detective stories, but she loved every one of them. It was not only the plots, she loved the incisive, ironic, yet factual tone of the author. It wasn't another praise for the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, it was a matter-of-fact portrait of a misfit genius, whose mind was as tortured as astute. People found Sherlock Holmes brainy and sharp, she found John Watson clever and fantastically interesting.
From that day on, she became one of his most active admirers. She began collecting cuttings about the two friends, joined some fan groups and started an online life, miles away from her real one. The discussions were on various things, from basic everyday life topics to theories on Jim Moriarty's return or intel about the next case.
Sherlock
She looked at the black door thoughtfully. 221B Baker Street. It was strangely calling her. Here was the place where everything started. Every story, every case began this way. Some stranger wondering if he should go in, then timidly climbing the stairs. The chair he would sit on. The case. The investigation. The answer.
She had to go to them.
She went up the stairs, resolute, and knocked on the door. Somebody inside said something. She entered.
The room was dark. Two windows cast a dim light on piles of papers and stack of books placed on the desk. On the chimney, a clock that didn't work and just above it, a mirror so dusty that it hardly reflected anything. There was an odd smell, something like powder or chemicals. One man was sitting in an armchair, tall, dressed in black, eyes red. His hands brought in front of his eyes, he seemed in a rather deep reflection.
She coughed. She could've thought of something better to make her presence acknowledged, but nothing else came to her mind.
He looked at her inquisitively for a second. Then he returned to his thought.
Another man came into the room. He was smaller, with grizzled hair and a more welcoming face. John Watson. He invited her to sit.
But before she could say anything, the man abruptly rose from his armchair. He turned to her then away, looking at his poor reflection.
"Let me guess. You are woman obviously, in your early thirties. The stain on your sleeve, gouache I would say, you tried desperately to wash it several times, but it still wouldn't go away. On the other hand, you're neat. Too neat. Nanny? No, you don't take care of another spoiled child. Kindergarten? Yes, kindergarten. Your little fellows can't be older than six. You used to like your job, but not so much these days. You want to change, hence the highlighted offers in the newspaper, in your bag. Anyway, you're tired of your life. You go out every other night, thinking that's what should be done if you want to keep your friends. You don't even put make up on the dark rings under your eyes anymore. Hmm, and is it alcohol I smell? Hard to tell considering the amount of perfume you sprayed on yourself to conceal it, but still noticeable. Evidently, there is a sloppiness in your life. You've been biting your nails lately. Anger? Stress? Your boyfriend left you recently, you think it's because he's been seeing another woman, and you want me to clear up the mystery. The answer is no. I don't do love affair. Unless, there is a murder. Or occult forces at stake. In other words, cases not like not your case. He left you because he was bored. You go out every other night to forget your life's boring. Hop, case closed, now go out, and stop wasting my time."
"But you…"
"Do you listen? I don't have time to waste. Now go. Please?"
She turned away and was already at the door when another voice raised in the room.
"Marigold. Now I remember. Your name is Marigold. We met about two months ago. In a pub. I can't remember its name. That's why your face looked so familiar."
"Yes, Mr. Watson. It was nice seeing you again."
"I'm sorry for my friend. It was nice seeing you too."
She left. There was already someone waiting outside, obviously distressed. He looked frightened. He must have run, his cheek reddened by the race.
As she went down the stairs, she could hear Sherlock shouting to Mrs. Hudson and the old landlady yelling back at him.
John Watson
She was on the pavement, just outside the porch of 221b Baker Street. Her thoughts were still up there, in the room with the stacks of papers and the old sofa.
He was right on everything, except for one.
She left her boyfriend two weeks ago.
Her life was boring, that was true. Days went by and each one seemed more and more like the one before. School and its babbling, noisy, exhausting children. Home and his exasperating dullness and empty words. Even her friends were annoying. Always talking about their problems, or about how great their lives were, or about what they should absolutely do next weekend. Self-centered not because of their egotism – well, not only because of that – but rather because they had nothing else. They had passed the zenith of their existence and now, life had nothing new to offer. They were bored, but they couldn't face it, so they had blinded themselves in some tiring routine.
He was right on everything, but she wasn't so surprised. She kind of expected it. Everybody was gossiping about him, telling how cunning he was. There was not a week without a buzz on another case. Wherever mystery popped up, Sherlock Holmes deciphered it. He was also as rude as he was said to be. Cold. Ill-tempered. Chaotic. No wonder he understands mad men so well. She didn't see the hat though. She would have liked to see the hat.
And John Watson. Surprising, that he remembered her. The pub was so crowded that night. He looked old, tired, lonely. That's probably why she went to chat with him. He was different than every other man that night, clashing with the surrounding glee. She almost regretted when she addressed him. "John Watson? Marigold. Sorry to interrupt. Don't want to be rude. But… Big fan of your blog. Couldn't help. Really big fan." He looked blankly at her, like he just saw a ghost. He didn't answer for five very, very long seconds. Then, at last, he said: "Yes, I am John Watson. I am glad. I am, hm, very glad to meet a fan. Always a pleasure. Do you? … hm. Do you always speak like that? I'm sorry, I mean, with these very short sentences. No subject, no verb, just the essential."
"Oh, sorry. No, I usually can make a correct sentence. Too nervous. Sorry, I just did it again. But I really, really love your blog. You have a way to make the storied so vivid."
And the conversation went on for hours. He was such a funny guy, full of life and fine wielder of self-mockery and irony. When he learned that she worked with toddlers, he lengthily talked about his daughter Rosie (the name was the same as her deceased sister, but she didn't tell him), praising her intelligence and boasting about her precocity, but he never mentioned his wife. Nor Sherlock Holmes if that matters. They exchanged numbers but he never called. She didn't expect him to. No one likes to meet again ghosts. That's also why she didn't call him either. But she kept thinking about him. And curiosity grew, grew and grew, every day stronger. He was the man of the blog. He was the famous John Watson.
She had to see him again, in the very place where things happened! She had to go to 221b Baker Street! Intoxicated, she made up her mind the evening before. What did she have to lose after all?
Rain began to fall. She was still at the same place, waiting for nothing. She knew he was going to throw her out, she knew his reputation. But she didn't go there for him, whatever he could think. She went in there for a good reason, and she left satisfied.
Brainy is the new sexy. What a silly phrase. She had never been attracted to these so-called geniuses and their brainwaves. Maybe that was Amanda's type, but she thought them conceited and boring. They were what people wanted them to be. Sherlock was expected to be odd, patronizing and hyperactive, and the more peculiar he was, the more it proved his cleverness, the more it highlighted his uniqueness. The same assessment went for Mycroft. The Holmes' brothers needed to be recognized for their intelligence, this recognition gave them some reason to be and thank God, they use their incredible minds for the well-being of people.
John Watson was different. Slower when it came to solving mysteries or deducing from a stranger's face who he was and what he came for, but so much smarter in so many ways.
He was human, and he knew it. He didn't want to exceed his own condition. He thought for what he thought was right. He knew when he was wrong, and he wasn't afraid to admit it.
He didn't hide behind his cleverness.
He didn't justify his errors by his intelligence.
He didn't think he was some elite ill-appreciated by the rest of the world.
On the chimney, near the clock that didn't work, was a frame with a photo. She couldn't help but noticing it when she was up there. It was the photo of John Watson, some elegant woman and a baby. At that moment, she understood why he thought he saw a ghost that night. The woman on the picture looked just like her, maybe a little older. They had the same fair and curly hair and the same green-blue eyes.
A wave of sadness overcame her. She reminded her of Rosie. Her sister had disappeared far too young. That smiling, happy face on the photo, that's why she might have looked like if she had lived.
She cast a last glance at the windows, wondering what was happening in the dark living room, and walked away. It seemed a page of her life had been turned, that she had been living a dull life but that she could now begin again. She had learned what needed to be learned from this story. She was free of her weird obsession for the doctor and his friend.
She felt that a world of adventures, full of opportunities and new encounters, had been waiting for her for far too long. But she was ready now. She was free to live at last.
Mary
No sooner had she left the room than another man entered. He was pale and frightened, shivering like a leaf, his hands nervously creasing the bottom of his shirt.
Sherlock jumped on his feet, and without a look for the poor man, mumbled: "Where is my tea?" And as there was no tea, he shouted: "Mrs. Hudson! Bring me my tea!"
The man was still standing speechless and puzzled, when Mrs. Hudson burst into the room. She looked furious.
"Sherlock, how many times must I repeat it: I'm not your housekeeper!"
"But you're my landlady."
"Exactly. Landlady, Sherlock, not housekeeper. And if you continue summoning me like this, you will have to find yourself another one. Oh, John, I didn't see you were there, do you want some tea?"
She smiled, and all her wrath seemed to have gone away.
"I would love to, Mrs. Hudson."
"I will be right back."
The man was still there, awkwardly silent. Now he was rubbing his hands twitchily, his eyes fixed on the floor. Sherlock turned toward him, finally acknowledging his presence.
"Can you come back later? Your case seems quite interesting but there is another one I would like to deal with before."
"But Mr. Holmes…" His voice shattered. He was on the verge of crying.
"Let's say come back in a week. No, I think I can solve this one quickly. What about three days? Yes, come back in three days."
"Mr. Holmes… I… I am scared… I can't go back to my house… He… He…"
"Then get a hotel room. Or a B&B. Whatever suits you."
There was no point in arguing, so the man left the room, his eyes full of fright.
The detective turned around. Mrs. Hudson entered the living room, carrying a tray with two cups and a teapot. "Here is for you, John. And for you Sherlock."
He didn't react. He was looking through the window, watching the street and its hustle and bustle.
"John, did you notice?"
"Noticed what?"
"The woman. The one who left. She looked just like…"
"Mary. I noticed. The first time I saw her, I thought she was a ghost."
"The eyes, John… The eyes… And the name. Marigold. Calendula occicinalis. Rosamund, rosa munda. Rosamund Mary Watson."
"Do you think they can be related?"
"Why not? We know nothing of Mary's old life, the one before A.G.R.A."
"But Mary is American. That woman…"
"She was too. She has lived in London for a while, and she hates her mother country. She lives a lonely life, despite what she wants others to think. Why? What drama made her come here, what made her hate home so much?"
"Maybe for the same reason Mary chose to join the CIA."
"Yes… How did Mary become their agent?"
They remained silent for two very long minutes. Sherlock was still watching the streets, searching his minds for plausible explanations.
"John, do you want us to look into this case? We don't have to clear this mystery. We can choose not to discover Mary's past."
"I want to. I think that's what Mary would have wanted to. If she is part of her family, if she is a close relation, we have to find her. She is my wife, she is the mother of Rosie. We need to know."
A smile popped on Sherlock's face.
"Then, it's on."