Joan's words were rushing through his head at lightning speed, and he was attempting to process the entirety of her sound, logical argument all at once, as he knelt before his tearful and distressed partner. But each time he thought of a counter-argument, or a potential option, he found it completely and justifiably defeated by her own infallible logic, or by the large mental brick walls which were constructing themselves in his incredible mind. As he knelt before her, his hand in hers, and listened to her painfully address an issue which he found heartbreaking and frustrating to consider, he found himself feeling incredibly overwhelmed by their inability to come up with a solution that would enable them to look after their child. The only thing that pained him in equal measure was the look of devastation and hurt on the face of the woman before him, a woman whose character and bravery knew no limits. Even now, as she was making the most difficult and heart-breaking decision she had ever come across, her bravery and her selflessness shone through. Her decision, and the reasons behind it, were based on the loving and intuitive logic of a woman whose mind and character he held to a higher regard than his own. It was for this reason that he found the present situation so difficult, frustrating and completely unbearable. If Joan Watson, as intelligent, loving, selfless and brilliant as she was, could find no other option than adoption to ensure their child's safety, he felt almost certain that he would fare no better.
"No" he choked, the thought rushing through his mind as he realised that he had offered her the last potential option he was capable of imagining, despite the hours he had spent attempting to figure out how to make it work. "No" he repeated, pushing himself from the ground and standing up as he felt his whole body burning with heat and passion and sheer terror. He knew that she was right, and she knew it too. But nothing pained them both as much as the realisation that, despite their verbal protests, their desperate bargaining attempts and overwhelming desire to be with their child, they were in perfect agreement. And that was too much for Sherlock Holmes to bear.
Sherlock turned immediately on the spot, walking briskly from the room and through the foyer, heaving the front door open and slamming it shut in frustration behind him. As he found himself standing in the cool air of the late afternoon, he felt no comfort or solace. Instead, the long streets and tall buildings made him feel even more trapped and helpless than he had been inside the brownstone, and so he walked. He walked briskly and without much thought, crossing roads without looking, passing past pedestrians without paying much notice, and darting down a small, dark, dimly-lit street, as the words of Joan Watson burned themselves forever into his memory. Sherlock ran his hand through his hair before coming to a stop against a cold, wet wall covering a somewhat familiar building behind him. He leaned against the wall and threw his head back, taking in some fierce, ragged breaths as he attempted to calm himself and catch his breath. He let out a final, shuddering breath before leaning down and placing his face in his hands, and feeling his whole body tremble. Sherlock sighed, rose his head and cleared his throat, before narrowing his eyes in confusion at the sight before him: a church.
The church was not one than was unfamiliar to Sherlock, although he had not set out from the brownstone intending to get there. He hadn't intended anything, really. He left in haste and desperation, finding himself walking faster and faster to dull the pain ad memory of the words ad realisation that had dawned upon him in the sanctity of his home. To blur out the memory of his partner in a heartbreaking and painful state of distress which he was powerless to rectify. Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration, as he tried desperately to push aside the memory of Joan's wide, pleading eyes and pained countenance. He shuddered at the memory, before pushing himself from the wall and facing the building before him. Although she was not by his side, and he had effectively abandoned her by storming from the brownstone, it was almost as though Joan Watson was still by his side. The church before him, which he had visited infrequently and rarely with her, was the location of one of the city's bi-daily addiction meetings, run by Pastor Jack Tanner. Sherlock pulled his phone from his breast pocket and checked the time. It was just a couple minutes after four o'clock, meaning that one of the meetings was about half-way through. He replaced the phone and stood motionless for a few minutes, before the images and memories of his recent discussion with Joan came flooding back. Sherlock inhaled a deep and shaky breath, before walking briskly forward and towards the church.
Sherlock passed through the familiar doors and made his was directly to the heart of the church, where the meetings often took place. He had not been to this particular location in several months, and doubted whether his presence would be noticed, or his person remembered. But it was. As soon as he walked quietly and cautiously into the room and made a bee-line for a back-row seat, he watched as the old, wise eyes of Pastor Tanner rose to meet his, and a small yet surprised look passed across his intelligent features. He nodded slightly as a form of greeting, which Sherlock returned immediately, before clasping his hands in his lap and tapping his foot nervously upon the ground, as he attempted to focus his energy on the young man standing a few rows in front of him, who was speaking to the group.
Unsurprisingly Sherlock was unable to focus on what the young man was saying. He vaguely noticed the words 'girlfriend', 'disco-ball' and 'highway', but he was paying no particular attention. He recognised the young man from the last time he had attended this particular group session, and felt he was probably revealing some painfully asinine tale about his immature and possibly sociopathic former flame. In any case, he had other issues to concern himself with. As he continued to remember the words Joan spoke, and the expression upon her face as she spoke them, the tapping of his foot upon the polished ground increased notably, causing several members of the group to turn to face him with a puzzled and quizzical expression.
"Mr Holmes" stated Pastor Tanner in his usual deep, paternal tone. "So good to see you again, it's been a while." Sherlock was drawn from his thoughts by the calling of his name, and nodded politely in response to the Pastor's verbal greeting. "We still have a few minutes of group left. Would you care to speak?" Sherlock shook his head in response, before adjusting himself in his seat and clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "You sure?" continued the Pastor, causing Sherlock's curious eyes to rise and meet the clerical gentleman's own. "You don't even wanna regale us with an interesting case you and your partner have been working on?" Sherlock stared at him for a moment, lowering his eyes at the mention of Joan, before leaning back in his chair and facing the Pastor directly.
"I fear it would be a waste of the precious few minutes that remain of this meeting. Please, give that time to someone who will use it effectively and with purpose" he responded in a low yet slightly animated manner, which he used in an attempt to normalise his voice. It fooled most of the group, as he intended it should. But not Pastor Tanner. Whatever reason Holmes had returned to the group, he needed to speak, that was clear. Just not in front of this particular audience. The Pastor nodded pleasantly in return, before calling on another member of the group, who spoke for several minutes. Again, Sherlock paid no attention to what was said, and instead found himself wrestling with the memories of his recent conversation with Joan Watson. He didn't know how long he had been thinking about it for, or what had happened in the room during his attempts at calm recollection, but he found himself drawn back to reality by the familiar sound of the Pastor's voice.
"Mr Holmes?" began the Pastor in a calm, genial fashion, causing Sherlock to raise his head. To his surprise, the room was completely empty, apart from himself and the Pastor, who was standing just a few inches before him. "You seem lost in your thoughts, Holmes" he continued, as Sherlock's keen and alert eyes scanned the room, before he pressed his hands on the side of his chair and looked behind him, searching for any remaining members of the group who may have felt inclined to linger. "Somethin' on your mind?"
"No" Sherlock lied, shaking his head as he readjusted his position in his seat.
"Hmm" the Pastor returned, before pulling a seat from the row ahead of Sherlock, turning it towards him, and sitting upon it. "And yet, you have the look of a man who really, really needs to talk."
Sherlock's wide and vacant eyes shone slightly at the Pastor's words. The use of the words 'really, really' caused an echo of Joan's voice to return to his mind. We need to make a really, really difficult decision she had pleaded, her beautiful eyes filling with tears. Sherlock closed his eyes at the memory, before raising his hand to his face and leaning upon it.
"Forgive me, but..." he began absent-mindedly, his tone low and filled with agitation. "I do not wish to talk." The Pastor was silent for a few moments, which was time he used to analyse the man before him. Sherlock Holmes was a singular, strange and incredibly particular individual. His eccentricities and odd behaviours were, by now, commonplace in the sanctity of the meetings held at the church. But something was different about him today. He had seen the consulting detective seem distracted, detached and even borderline unconscious at some meetings. But this was different, this was new. As he gazed upon the nervous, slightly shaking and frightened individual in front of him, he would say that he was distraught.
"Would you help me with the chairs?" the Pastor asked genially, his eyes drifting thoughtfully across the room.
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock responded, his glazed eyes narrowing in confusion.
"The chairs" he repeated simply, indicating to the right with his head as he spoke. "There's about fifty of 'em, and I need to stack them all before the cleaner arrived at five."
"I see" Sherlock mumbled, his eyes drifting towards his clasped hands as he spoke. "Very well" he stated, pushing himself from his seat and standing tall before the Pastor, who also rose.
"Thank you" he returned, nodding in response. Sherlock nodded too, before following the Pastor's lead by beginning to stack the chairs. "So, how've you been?" he asked, as he placed a chair on top of the small stack forming before him.
"Fine" Sherlock returned, pushing one chair upon another with unnecessary force. The Pastor turned on the spot, throwing a cautious glance in his direction, before continuing to stack the front row.
"And your partner?" he asked genially, his voice low and cautious. "How is she?" Before the Pastor had finished phrasing the second part of his question, the sound of a large clatter from Sherlock's direction could be heard. The Pastor turned to find that Sherlock had overthrown the stack of six heavy chairs onto the ground, taking out the entire second row. "Sherlock" the Pastor stated in a paternal tone, before placing his own chair back upon the ground and approaching the agitated detective, who was pacing by the fallen chairs, with one hand raised in the air, as he turned on the spot in agitation.
"Forgive me" he breathed, placing his hands on his temples and turning to the side.
"It's alright" the Pastor returned, picking up one of the fallen chairs beside Sherlock, and returning it to its previous position. "You wanna sit?"
"No" Sherlock returned in frustration, turning from the Pastor once more. The Pastor watched as the younger man's tense shoulders fell, and he turned slowly to face the kindly older gentleman, who was watching him with kindness. "I apologise."
"There's no need" he returned, taking up the seat himself, and watching as Sherlock seemed to relax slightly. "Is she alright?"
"What?" Sherlock returned, turning on the spot and staring at the Pastor like a lost and bewildered child.
"Miss Watson" he continued, watching as the detective's face fell. "Is she alright?"
"Yes" he choked in response, his wide eyes becoming glassy. Sherlock sniffed, placed one hand over his mouth and turned to the side, before clearing his throat and facing the Pastor once more. Jack Tanner remained perfectly silent for a short while, watching as Sherlock's wide eyes stared at a spot to the side of the room, before turning back to meet his own unfaltering gaze.
"You guys fight?" the Pastor asked tentatively.
"Not exactly, no" Sherlock returned, his voice low yet slightly more controlled. "In fact, we both found ourselves agreeing with a particular form of logic and reason. Which, ironically, is the problem."
"The issue is that you both agree on something?" the Pastor posed for clarification. Sherlock nodded slightly, his wide eyes glistening as he considered the confusing nature of that particular statement. "So why is that a problem?" Sherlock turned to face him with fierce, burning eyes, which soon calmed upon his remembering that he had not informed the Pastor of all the facts. Nor would he.
"She was crying" Sherlock muttered, drumming his fingers on his thigh nervously as he spoke. "She... she rarely cries. Seldom. Never, really" he continued, his agitation rising. "And I left."
"You left what?" the Pastor asked gently.
"The brownstone" he stated dreamily, his eyes glancing from the ceiling to the eyes of the patient Pastor. "She was upset and I, I just walked out." Tanner was silent for several moments, and watched the movements of the distressed man before him, who was clearly struggling to maintain his composure.
"Why?" he asked finally, causing Sherlock to glance up at him with a confused expression. "Why did you walk out?" he continued, watching Sherlock as he lowered his head. "Were you mad at her for crying?"
"No" Sherlock spat, his eyes blazing as he looked at the Pastor once more, who nodded slowly in response. "No of course I wasn't."
"Then why leave?" he asked gently, watching the detective carefully as he spoke. He could tell that Sherlock was incredibly agitated, and he knew that he was skating on very thin ice with this particular line of questioning. But it was clear that the consulting detective needed to talk. "Sherlock, why did you walk out?"
"Because she was right" he choked, his eyes glistening once more. The Pastor watched as Sherlock turned his eyes to the side once more, rose one hand to his lips, and then turned back to face him several moments later, appearing much more composed.
"I thought you said you both agreed on... on the issue you were discussing." The Pastor stated, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, before lowering his head slightly and staring at his feet. He lifted his head slowly just before the Pastor continued to speak. "Despite the fact that neither of you wanted to" he continued, watching as Sherlock's gaze met his own. "It sounds like you're both having a difficult time" he continued tentatively. "I've been reading about your latest case in the papers. The serial killer woman" he stated, causing Sherlock to eye him with interest. "Such a complex and high-profile case is bound to make it... a particularly tense period for you both." Sherlock nodded slightly, before placing one hand on his hip and rubbing his eyes with the other. After a few moments of silence had passed, Tanner looked up towards Sherlock, and posed the question he had been considering since Sherlock mentioned his partner's sadness.
"Sherlock, did you relapse?" Sherlock removed his hand from his face and turned towards Tanner, watching him with an intense and penetrative look. "Is that why she's upset? Is that what you were talking about?"
"No" he stated calmly. Tanner watched him for a few moments with a wary look.
"Okay" he said, nodding slowly.
"Why would you-"
"From what you said, I... I thought that you had relapsed and that, that you and Miss Watson had both agreed that you needed to return to rehab." Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head slightly as the idea swam in his mind. In a way, he was grateful. He had been beginning to worry that he had perhaps given away too much information, and that the Pastor may begin to suspect the truth. Clearly, he did not.
"I haven't" Sherlock responded calmly, turning to face the Pastor. "But I understand why you would think so, and I thank you for your concern."
"So" Tanner continued after a brief pause. "What can I help you with?" The room was silent for a short while, before Sherlock exhaled a long, shaky breath, and began to speak.
"I'm an addict" he stated simply, nodding in his usual animated fashion at the end of the sentence. "I have been for... for several years and... and despite everything, I... I have been successful in my sobriety" he continued, nodding again as his wide eyes travelled across the room. "I have kept my addiction at bay, I have, I have resisted the thing that I have desired more than oxygen on may occasions" he continued, turning towards the Pastor as he spoke. "I've thought about it, I've... I've remembered the taste, the smell the feeling... But I have resisted. Time and time again I have resisted. Because I know that it is... harmful. Not to my body or to my mind, but to the trust and commitment that those closest to me have honoured me with."
"Yes" the Pastor stated, after Sherlock had not spoken for a short while.
"Giving up something poisonous, dangerous and debilitating for those you love is difficult" he stated simply, nodding once at the end of the sentence, before rising his eyes to meet the Pastor's face. "So how on earth does one surrender something... something pure, and... something wonderful."
The Pastor considered this question for a few moments, and watched as Sherlock's eyes widened and shone with the clear remnants of a recent memory, and the pain associated with it. He was used to Sherlock speaking in riddles, but he was certainly surpassing himself today. The kindly Pastor did not understand what it was exactly that he was referring to, although he had a good idea. He had long suspected that Sherlock had been romantically interested in Miss Watson. And, from their present conversation, he believed that both parties had just discussed the potential of them engaging in a romantic relationship which, as would seem evident, they both decided against.
"You've answered that question yourself" the Pastor answered kindly, as he gave Sherlock the same sympathetic look he gave to all who suffered from unrequited love. "Whether a person is able to give something up is dependent almost entirely on what they gain from surrendering it, as opposed to surrendering themselves to it" he continued, causing Sherlock to look up at him and watch him with curious eyes. "Miss Watson is a beautiful, smart, warm and empathetic person, and her presence in your life has undoubtedly improved it, and helped you to retain your sobriety" the Pastor continued, watching as a curious look passed across Sherlock's face, before he nodded in agreement. "But, as I am sure you are aware, your sobriety is not the only thing she influences. In fact, I would imagine she has had more of an influence and positive effect over parts of your life that you are not even aware of. I'd imagine she gives you something new, something positive and something very, very appealing. The world she has opened up to you by becoming your companion and then your friend, is more addictive and has more potential than any drug."
"Yes" Sherlock stated in a low, kind tone, nodding in agreement with the Pastor.
"But, as Eve found when she was in Eden, there are limits" he continued, and Sherlock rose his weary eyes towards the Pastor, attempting to conceal his disdain for religious metaphors. "And you must be sure to be wary of the snake. Giving Miss Watson the apple of your affections could result in you both being banished from your paradise."
"What happened to the apple" Sherlock asked cautiously, rising his eyes to meet the Pastor's. "When Adam and Eve were banished from Eden, what became of the forbidden fruit?" he continued, although he was loathe to refer to their child in such a way.
"I could not say" the Pastor answered, in a slightly bemused fashion. "I'd imagine that it simply fell to the ground and rotted, it was so filled with temptation, evil and ruin. And I expect that Adam and Eve both loathed the fruit for the rest of their days." Sherlock watched Tanner with curiosity for a few seconds, pushing aside the anger he felt at the prospect of loathing their child.
"Was it?" Sherlock asked dreamily.
"What?"
"The apple." He returned simply, turning towards the Pastor as he spoke.
"I don't understand."
"Was it the apple which was, as you said, filled with temptation and evil and ruin" Sherlock began, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "Or was it Adam and Eve?" he mused, his eyes leaving the Pastor for a moment. "Perhaps it was not the apple that corrupted the lovers, but the lovers whom corrupted the apple. An apple which, until it was used as a pawn in a senseless, cruel game, shone brightly on the beautiful tree upon which it was adorned. Safe from harm, corruption, and those who would wish to use it for darker means" Sherlock continued, before drumming his fingers on his thighs for a few moments, and then turning to face the Pastor with an animated expression. "Thank you" he stated, nodding hastily, before turning on the spot and walking straight from the building.
For the first time that day, Sherlock left a building with a definite understanding of where he should do next. He had considered the brownstone, but he felt that it was too soon. Watson would need longer to recover, if she even wished to see him at all. And after the devastating recent affirmation of his previous agreement with her logic, he needed to let off some steam. Sherlock walked briskly down the familiar route to the building where he boxed, the words of Tanner dancing in his mind, which was filled with naked women, snakes and shining fruit. Sherlock shook his head at this, wishing to banish the religious metaphor from his mind, but at the same time hoping that it remained in order for him to analyse it further. After his discussion with the oblivious Pastor, he found himself in possession of a greater understanding of what Watson had meant when she referred to the effect of their lifestyle upon their child, and their inability to provide him or her with a safe and stable environment. It was not being removed from the paradise of their world that he feared, nor did she, of that he was certain. Instead, they feared the apple being plucked from the beautiful tree, used as a pawn by the snake-like villains they encountered on a daily basis, and consumed by the corruption of the world that they sought to maintain. He understood this earlier, having considered yet attempted to displace this idea whilst his partner lay unconscious in her hospital bed. But affirming the fact that she was right, and that they were both powerless to assist and dangerous to be involved in the life of their child, filled him with a deep sense of frustration and failure that surpassed anything he had ever felt or encountered before. It was completely overwhelming.
Sherlock walked swiftly into the familiar boxing room, the scent of sweat and adrenaline heavy in the air. He pulled on a pair of the gloves that lay by the side of the bag, and began to hit it repeatedly and with great strength. As he did so, he found the memories of his discussions with Watson and Tanner running through his mind, their words and their logic making more sense each time he considered it, and destroying a small part of him as it did. Sherlock moved from hitting the bag to beating it mercilessly, his face reddening and contorting fiercely as he punched it so hard that the metal chain pulled plaster from the ceiling. After a few solid minutes of this, Sherlock found himself remembering the pained look in Joan's eyes, and found himself remembering how terrified she had looked as he had knelt before her. He hit the bag harder and harder as he vividly recollected himself leaving her in such a distressed state, and walking from the building. Sherlock closed his eyes, pulled of his gloves, and began to hit the bag even harder than before. He thought of the pain she must have felt, and the desperation in her choked voice, as he continued to punish himself by beating the heavy bag with his bare hands, causing them to burn at the contact, as they became bruised and deeply cut. After a few minutes more he delivered one final punch to the bag, resulting in it falling completely from the ceiling to the ground, with the metal chain which fixed it in its place coiling beside it like a snake. Sherlock stared at the chain by the bag, his eyes alight with anger and frustration. He blinked himself from his thoughts, dispelling his anger, and finding himself once more remembering the sad and desperate eyes of Joan Watson. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. He could not put into words how he was feeling at that moment, but whatever it was he was experiencing, she was going through tenfold. Joan was pregnant, frightened, confused, and, thanks to his actions, alone. Sherlock's eyes snapped open instantly, and he found himself walking straight towards the door, and out of the building.
After a brisk walk along the now darkened streets, Sherlock found himself standing before the brownstone once more. It was encased in darkness, with no lights inside indicating Joan's presence. He breathed in a deep, uncertain breath, before running up the steps towards the building, and placing his key inside the lock.