3. Loss

5.42 pm

I decide to put the cup down before the panic surges to a level I cannot predict the outcome of, its protection ruined, redundant, gone.

I lean forward, closing my eyes against the sudden yet familiar nausea rolling across me, breaking sweat from every pore without announcement or prognostication (rude). I am still, so still, since the delicacy of my current internal gyroscope remains shamefully unpredictable at present. The price I pay, I suppose, for my recent melodramatic indescreditions. I am assured these moments will decrease into nothingness in time, but a schedule has not been assigned and I, who do not deserve the assurances of the usual convalescent, find some comfort in my punishment.

I deserve it, and more.

As the sickening disorientation decreases and the sudden rush of heat dissipates as though it had never been, the sweetness returns, less delicate, with notes I find I recognise this time.

"Hibiscus." I say, to the fading afternoon sunlight. "With undercurrents of neroli and…" I close my eyes again for focus. "Black peppercorn, for a bitter finish."

Clair de la lune.

Of course. Too much sweetness simply wouldn't have done, would it? I open my eyes into the empty room, and suddenly, it is full of her and I can scarcely bear it, so I stand abruptly, almost staggering from the exertion and my repellent weakness of body. One, two, three steps, and I'm into the kitchen; four, and the expertly disguised fake tile lies in the palm of my hand; five and the box is open, syringe untouched by any agency but my own…

Six.

I stop, staring down at the sweetest poison, slightly dizzy, slightly disappointed in the inept sweep of friends, family and people who care, and the ticking of the clock cutting through, syncopating incongruously with my yammering heart.

Thirteen more minutes.

I only need three.

~x~

4. An Obvious Fact

6.07pm

I sit in John's chair (a little out of alignment, but housekeeping was never Sherlock's forte) and I contemplate as he pours the tea (hand only slightly shaking, so good progress there) and I see a Sherlock Holmes who exists beyond the arrogant (black, two sugars), the cruel (Christmas), the fearfully heroic (I think I'm going to die), the judgemental (I lack the practical experience) and I see him without any of the armour he felt he needed over the past seven years and a breath hitches in my throat as I see him, entirely unprotected.

"Milk?"

He gestures bleakly towards the jug, cuff loosened, smile clearly improvised and casual hospitality becoming a distant memory.

I nod and embrace the involuntary panic, the lurch of fear and anticipation, since I can't quite reconcile to the semblance of calm proffered up. Jesus, did I not dissect people's physicality on a daily basis? Did my professional vivisection not come to yield more than a passing nod to the science of … noticing stuff?

The desk. Not always tidy, but the bright scattering of notepaper across its surface seemed wrong, almost impertinent. I look away, wondering if he is watching me as I sip, but he seems distracted by the rug rucked up beneath the table, toe-ing it ineffectively as he watches the traffic rumbling by below, oblivious to us and our little lives behind the brick and glass. There was nothing written on any of the papers, just a sudden disarray, like a flash flood or an unexpected shower of rain, but my heart thumps a little more, fuelled by inexplicable adrenalin.

I decide to stand, putting down my cup and making to busy myself in the chaos of the kitchen. Sherlock has picked up his violin, apparently unperturbed by the need for conversation and social niceties, which was strangely comforting just then.

"Goodness."

Involuntarily, the word escapes my mouth before I could check it.

Dishes absent, tea towels dry and neatly folded on the rail, sink wiped down and spotless and a disaffecting absence of stains, smell and suspicious substances. In fact, the only item out of place was a random kitchen tile, lying across the bench near the toaster, orphaned from its origins somewhere else in the kitchen. I run the water, wondering how I could deflect the weight of my curiosity; something told me he should not see it.

"Would you like a biscuit Sherlock?"

But any answer was moot, carried away on a slightly discordant parry of notes as he tested the strings, which gave me a moment to turn off the tap as I retrieved his phone, placed dangerously close to the edge of the sink. Please be aware I am no snooper of people's inboxes since I have seen the damage caused by such betrayals of trust, but my anxious fingers fumbled my grip, causing the screen to light up, displaying a picture. No crime scene - no stomach-churning close-ups of charred remains, bloodied body parts or obscure ciphers - but a perfect, smiling, golden-haired innocent, as yet unaware of the chasm yawning across her childhood:

Rosie.

Hating myself, and with furtive glances to the living room, I swipe image after image of John's daughter; laughing at a bemused cat, curled sleeping across her father's chest, heartbreakingly cradled by her mother. Frozen in time, yet lost forever. I sigh, close my eyes for a moment and set my shoulders before walking towards the fragile notes now emerging with a semblance of order from Sherlock's violin.

"Sherlock," I said, strong, decisive. "Sherlock, where is the list?"

~x~

5. Confession

6.20 pm

She knows.

Of course she does. I left enough clues to seduce even Anderson, but am not honest enough to admit how many of them were consciously done. The tile, the stationery (this is my note), the cuff unfastened, recently rolled back? Perhaps it was the chair, moved out of my line of sight, because I can't be reminded of John's loss. I had already lost him physically from Baker Street, but to lose his friendship can only be construed as unbearable, and I am clearly not in the habit of 'bearing' things am I? Not with my recent lifestyle choices. Was it entirely 'for a case'? Why don't you tell me, Mary? You are everywhere, seeing everything, knowing everything.

She is staring at me, holding out her hand, holding out my phone, and I realise I don't see Mary now, only Molly Hooper, whose mouth is set, but whose eyes are kind.

"You've taken up sewing...no, no … knitting. You are finding it troublesome, but are sticking with it. You like the feel of wool between your fingers, the idea of something growing out of nothing."

I recall Molly's nervous chatter from around a million years ago, but she remains silent, letting the nervous chatter be mine.

"There's a new heater in the doctor's lounge at Bart's. It isn't as good as the old one - drying. It dries your skin. You might need to use more moisturiser."

She stands, fingers curled around the phone, illuminating the image of Rosamund and I feel a prickle in my throat and a breathless hitch, but I plough on (it's what people expect of me. Isn't it Mary?)

"There's someone new; an admirer who wishes to know more about you…"

"Sherlock…"

Danger danger, my kidneys hurt, my skins is raw - on fire - but I find I can't shut up.

"He waits for you at lunch time, but you've changed your habits to av-"

"Stop it." Calm, deathly. She won't be slapping me today. "Where is the list? What have you taken?"

Then, she really looks at me, eyes widening.

"Oh god, you haven't written one have you? You thought about it - " gesturing wildly to the notepaper - " but this is it, isn't it? You really mean it don't you? You haven't written a list because you want to end it. You want to die."

She whispers the words, barely able to form them, but it is the single tear that wells up within her left eye, trembles at the edge of her lashes then spills over, rolling slowly down that has me undone.

"Molly, no!" I grasp her arm, clattering the phone to the ground, galvanised by that solitary trickle of hopelessness.

"Please, Molly! I didn't take it! I didn't - I couldn't!" I stride across to the cavity, ripping out the box, showing the hypodermic, desperate to prove; ashamed of what it means to someone else - to her.

We stare across the table at each other, both breathing heavily, suspended above a precipice. I speak first:

"I don't want to die," I say, words spreading out like lava, slow but irreversible.

A moment, a heartbeat.

"But I'm just not sure how to live."