Don't do love, don't do friends
I'm only after success
Don't need a relationship
I'll never soften my grip
(Marina and the Diamonds - `Oh No`)
Thursday 13th April
2.08 a.m.
St. Bart`s Mortuary
Not dead yet. Why are you texting at 2 a.m.? You regard sleep with such reverential delight as for it to be an actual act of worship. SH
Ha ha. New born baby, remember. No respecter of day or night – just empty or full. JW
A ludicrous notion. SH
We were all like this once. JW
I refer you to my previous text. SH
Even under risk of a horrible death by newly acquired virus, you remain – you. How do you do it? Special medicine? Meditation? Electrodes on the brain? You are incredible. JW
Thank you. SH
That wasn't a compliment. JW
I know. SH
Ah, I could parlez with you all night – kinda miss it really. I am worried about you and Molly, Sherlock. Mary and I obviously haven't said a word, but we know how serious this is. No symptoms? JW
We both remain in the rudest of health (although sleep is difficult, especially since Molly has banned me from sleeping in the drawers) and the testing is going well. Another two days and we shall know, one way or another, whether this is the CoriVirus. SH
And to think, I thought the worst that could happen would be she`d slap you again! I hope you are playing nice, Sherlock. She`s a fabulous girl and she`s under a hell of a lot of pressure right now. She needs your support. JW
John, I take offence at the idea that I would not be fully and utterly supportive of Molly and the work we are undertaking. You know me well enough to understand that personal feelings and past resentments will not contaminate the cold logic I hold dearest. To put your (wildly over-imaginative) mind at rest, I sent Molly to bed at 9 o`clock this evening and finished the slide analysis and contamination field data work myself. She appeared tired and her eyes seemed dull. She has this little crease between her eyebrows that deepens when she is (a) puzzled or (b) fatigued. From the data I had, I judged it to be the latter and sent her on her way. I made her a drink from the UHT creamers I found in the kitchen drawer. It was appalling, but she seemed pleased. SH
I am pleased too, Sherlock. That was very kind. JW
It was. I had to open thirty two creamer packets to make one drink. I also added a straw I found. Molly`s lips make the most perfect shape when she sucks through a straw. It really is quite remarkable – Pre-Raphaelite in every way. Flawless. SH
Very observant of you, Sherlock. JW
You know my methods, John. SH
~x~
Thursday 13th April
8.49 pm
St. Bart`s Mortuary
"What`s the word again? It escapes me …"
"Idiot."
"Sherlock, I`ve been drinking – be nice."
"No, the word is idiot – you first."
I crinkle my face into what I hope is a thinking expression. There is little point in doing this at present, since both myself and Sherlock are lying, prone, on two trolleys (which have served as our beds for the past few nights) parked up, side by side. I turn my head (slowly – room spin is quite a possibility right now) and observe his eyes are closed and his hands are clasped across his blue papered chest. For some reason, he has pulled up his hood, allowing a few dark curls to escape from the front and giving him the appearance of a twelve year old simpleton who has been institutionalised for many years. It is funny. Everything is funny after a quarter bottle of vodka.
"Erm … boofhead."
"Real words only, Molly Hooper. I cannot allow the insidious slurry of slang to seep in and contaminate my mind palace. Choosing the correct word is always of the greatest importance."
"Tis a real word! What about … dunderhead?"
"Nope. You forfeit. My turn. Dullard."
"Cretin!" I was getting the hang of this.
"Better. Ignoramus."
"Mmm … galoot!"
"Allowed, for historical interest. I propose simpleton."
"I propose Sanderson!"
And there is that laugh again, deep and rich and beautiful, like velvet sweeping over rough gravel and rendering it – a little bit sexy. God, I am becoming a touch obsessed by the sexuality of Sherlock Holmes and must take myself to task. Focus on game.
"Another word please, Sherlock. I wish to meliorate my word power."
He opens his eyes and turns to face me. I cannot make out his expression at all. Bloody vodka.
"What?" I murmur.
"Always continue to surprise me, Molly Hooper," says he, then (turning back), "new word proposed is `kind` (as in the adjective)."
I think for a moment.
"Gentle."
"Compassionate."
"Benevolent," I offer.
"Beneficient."
A pause.
"Obliging. Like me."
The crinkle of paper tells me he has turned to look at me again and there is a pause where I hear him breathing, but I don't look because I am focused on the game …
"Bounteous," states Sherlock Holmes, firmly.
"Indulgent," I return. "Once again, like me."
"Propit – propitious." And I realise he`s had his share of Sanderson`s bottle too. I, however, have a trump card, as a distant memory from a TV game show swims back into my addled brain. I will fix him – I am gonna be the winner here.
I shift on the trolley (not too bad, comfort-wise, considering they are used primarily for the transport of dead people) and hit him with it (the word, not the trolley, obviously).
"Another word for kindness is eleemosynary. Saw it on Countdown. You are owned. I win – oh, hello."
Suddenly, he is standing by my trolley (mercifully, the hood has been pulled down) and swaying slightly at the rush of the blood to the head (or maybe alcohol) and staring down at me.
"I think I must concur," he says, softly.
~x~
Friday 14th April
12.29 a.m.
St. Bart`s Mortuary
They say the darkest hour comes before the dawn, and as the vodka wears off, Sherlock and I are affected by a surreal and other-wordly kind of melancholy, as we know the final results will be ready in less than eight hours. Have we been exposed to a virus so deadly, a pandemic could hatch and spread from this very room, or did I merely dissect a smuggler with a pile of coins in his arse and everyone (bar him) goes home happy?
As I say, surreal.
~x~
Molly Hooper`s small face is lit by the blue glow of my phone screen as she plays Tetrus (her own phone ran out of battery three hours ago) and pretends she is not thinking of the test results (a mere four hours away). I need no further distraction, since I have distraction a-plenty via recent observations and deduction of her – A Study in Molly, if you wish to be picturesque about it.
Molly`s facial/emotional interface:
John Watson still does not fully understand how I know things about him, as he fails to believe how his emotions play out so plainly across his features. Molly Hooper, if it were possible, is even more unable to separate her inner joy or turmoil from her facial expressions. Every nuance, every up and every down display themselves as the time on Big Ben, or an advertisement on a billboard in Times Square. The crook of an eyebrow, the quirk of the corner of her mouth, the way she runs her tongue across her teeth and sucks her top lip if she is nervous or uncertain – all as plain as the nose on her face (which, incidentally, is most un-plain and has a retroussé tilt I find most agreeable and appealing).
Molly`s body/emotional interface:
Whilst I despise the term `body language` (pure sleaze), I have observed many tics and mannerisms which telegraph her feelings and moods. When she runs her hand down her pony tail and twists it into spirals, she is thinking of her mother (probably her first hairdresser); when she places her fingers atop her shoulder (same side) and gently rubs it, she is contemplating exercise or some sort of physical effort (even a walk to the bathroom – every observation of this has proved true); when she stands at her workbench, her left (never right) foot can stretch and circle about the floor beneath it, drawing imaginary circles with her toes – this happens when she is contemplating her findings and deciding where to go next, and can be further accompanied by the drumming of her left hand on the counter. This happens in almost 85% of cases.
Changes observed during confinement:
Since our quarantine began, I have also observed several alterations in the facial and body/emotional interfaces of Molly Hooper.
Eye contact – initially, bold and open (almost challenging). Now, more guarded and less confrontational. She often speaks to me when we are side by side, in semi-darkness, or in separate parts of the room; face to face eye contact is rare. This puzzles me, since I find her anger to have completely disappeared.
Bodily contact – Molly no longer examines me with her hands. We perform our own swabs and observations are made by mirror. Although I seldom enjoy being touched by others, I found her to be gentle and considerate. I quite miss it.
Social contact – Molly has become a most excellent player of word games and her grammar and word power is developing at a rate of knots. Her outward appearance once exhibited mistrust and trepidation, but I now find her laughter (and occasionally teasing) a more common occurrence. Why this is, I am unsure, since I do not feel I have become more amusing or more irritating than I was at the beginning of the quarantine. Further observations pending.
Confidences – Molly has shared several confidences with myself (involving both parental and fiancé-based failings) and I now admit to sharing some with her. If I regarded myself as a changeable person, I would wonder if this also reflected upon me.
In conclusion:
I must now infer that, although Molly`s trust in me has grown in several areas, some areas of contact have decreased (see 1 and 2). Why this disparity exists needs further investigation and observation.
Three hours to go.
I have plenty of time.
~x~