Chapter 6 - Reality
I've always liked Molly Hooper. As a friend, that is. At first, I thought her to be just another girl taken in by Sherlock's greatness (in every sense of the word), but after that ill-famed Christmas long ago now, I realized she had a spine of steel under all that sweetness. How could you not when dealing with Sherlock Holmes? For heaven's sake, she even helped the man fake his death and succeeded in keeping it a secret. That takes an indescribable amount of strength.
I'd been furious when I'd found out. How could she know, but not myself? The man who put up with all of Sherlock's shit and chased him across London on a daily basis? But then I'd realized that, without Molly, I probably wouldn't have Sherlock back today. Her part in the extravagant plan had been a crucial one, and Sherlock knew that.
"Hello, Molly," I say as Sherlock, Lestrade, and myself barge into her morgue.
She smiles. "Hello, John. Sherlock. Greg." With a quiet movement, she pulls the covering off of the man on her slab to allow Sherlock to examine it.
Sherlock barely says two words to her as he examines the body, his back stiff. Lestrade stands next to me and we give him space as he scuttles about the corpse, a bit like a ghost crab.
"You two doing okay, then?" Lestrade asks suddenly, pulling my thoughts away from comparing Sherlock to crustaceans.
I briefly hum. "What? Of course." I drop my voice slightly, aware that Sherlock can probably still hear us. "Why do you ask?"
He suddenly looks slightly uncomfortable. "Well, I…ah, well I just thought that with everything that's happened you two would—"
"We're fine," I interrupt.
He nods and turns back to watching Sherlock.
My eyes drift back to the consulting detective as well, but my mind wanders in a different direction.
Are we truly okay? Is Sherlock truly okay? The way he talks (or doesn't talk) about his absence makes it seem he is, but taking down an entire network of criminals couldn't have been easy. He certainly wants me to believe it was.
My mind flits over our confrontation several nights before. Sherlock's pure hatred for Moriarty's games had accidentally erupted out of his mouth in a truly telling moment of openness. The look in his eyes as he spit the words out was like nothing I'd ever seen before. That was Sherlock, and that had been the truth. Not necessarily the words themselves, but in those eyes.
Sherlock straightens and I watch as he feels a brief twinge pass through his chest. He brushes it off so quickly neither Lestrade or Molly notice, but he's also gone pale. "I believe you're looking for the uncle." That's when I hear the odd tone in his voice. "I need to go." He quickly strides to the door.
Lestrade's face screws up in confusion. "Why the uncle?"
Sherlock turns briefly and throws his hands up. "He was in the observatory!" With a brief look in my direction, he sweeps out. If I hadn't known better, I would have said it was desperation.
I give Lestrade a shrug and follow.
After Sherlock unceremoniously announced that he was going to die, all of the morbid statements and odd thoughts about death stopped. It was as if he had come to terms with it, and after stating it, locked it away. That was that.
I watch him openly through the kitchen doorway from where I'm standing in the living room, sipping my tea. He's bent over an experiment, hair that's getting a bit too long falling over his forehead and into his eyes. He keeps brushing at it furiously, and for a moment, as he eyes a pair of scissors nearby, I worry he's about to give himself a butchering haircut. Then he looks straight at me.
"Would you stop staring?" he says, harsh voice slicing into the lazy air.
I have to pause a moment. He didn't demand, "Do stop staring, John" as he normally would. He had phrased it a bit more like a request. Though that request still brooked no argument, it was unusual wording for the man.
I apparently pause too long, because he turns back to his work with a huff.
Unconcerned, I continue taking inventory of my flatmate's appearance. White dress shirt, rolled up slightly over his forearms and just a bit too tight. Usual black slacks and dress shoes. His long fingers are curled around a pen with one hand, jotting something down quickly on a piece of paper nearby (or at least I hope he's writing on paper). His other hand rests on his knee, fingers tapping the rhythm to a tune only the detective can hear. I briefly wonder if he's composing subconsciously.
My eyes narrow and I go over the scene before me again. "Why are you writing things down?" His mind is his notepad.
He shrugs.
I sip my tea.
I let a few days go by before I bring it up. Things are off, and I have the feeling they have been since he came back.
The truth is, I'm not over it. I'm not sure I'll ever be completely over him leaving. He was gone for almost three years before he showed his face again. In that time, I'd done my pathetic part in moving on, no matter how difficult it was. I was working, dating (if two awful, hour-long dates count), and pulling my life back together. It had been horrible, considering the first time I was in need of putting myself together was when I had met Sherlock. He had been the thing to bring me back to life. Hell, he had saved my life.
And now he's back, and there are so many things we have been ignoring and refusing to face, I'm not entirely sure we fully realize they are there. But our dynamic has changed. The atmosphere surrounding us has shifted.
If I had to pinpoint a moment I knew this, it would have been the night he returned, the first time he ever initiated physical contact in more than a friendly way, more than one of his fleeting touches at the height of his excitement over a case.
I had been overwhelmed with it all, sitting hollowly on the sofa, my head in my hands. He had sat next to me, put a big, warm hand on my back, and everything…clicked. When I say everything, I'm not even sure what everything is. It had just felt right, complete. Whatever it was.
It takes me the entire day to finally scrape up the courage to talk to him about it.
Grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, along with two glasses, I make my way into the sitting room. I find Sherlock lounging on the sofa. He's not in his mind palace, I can tell, and he has his hands folded neatly on top of his flat stomach. When I get closer, he raises a hand and I hand him the tumbler. I sit on the coffee table and begin filling our glasses.
"I know that you've been trying to sum up the courage all day to talk to me about something." The detective stares at the liquid in his tumbler as he speaks.
"Sherlock—"
"No, John. Listen." He takes a sip, then sits up, swiveling until we're almost knee-to-knee. "Everything has been different since I came back. I know that. I threw the proverbial wrench in your plan for moving on—"
"I never had a plan," I break in quietly, staring into the depths of the cup in my hand.
The detective falls silent.
Chuckling ruefully, I take a pull on the burning liquid. "I'm not even sure I was going to successfully move on." When I look up, Sherlock is staring at me with an unreadable expression. I sigh. "I just… Sherlock, are you okay?"
His eyes narrow slightly. "I'm fine, John."
I shake my head. "No, I'm not talking about right now. I mean, in general. Are you alright?"
After a long, silent moment, he sucks in a breath. "If you're talking about the ribs—"
"No, I'm not talking about the bloody ribs, you idiot!" I blurt.
Sherlock doesn't react to the anger, but instead studies me silently as if unsure how to continue. His eyes are steely.
"I know you don't observe, John, but did you even bother to look at the bodyin the morgue the other day?" he says harshly.
"What do you mean?"
"He looked like you!" he shouts suddenly, eyes wide, spilling whiskey over the edge of his glass. It sloshes onto the floor in a little puddle between our feet.
I remain still and silent as he sets his cup on the floor, rubbing both hands roughly through his hair and groaning angrily.
"He looked like you," he whispers before getting up and storming into his room, slamming the door.
The force of it sends ripples flickering through the remaining whiskey in his glass.
The next morning as I leave the flat (after waking up to find Sherlock gone), there is a black sedan waiting in front of 221. Sighing, I climb in and watch the passing scenery as the driver takes me to another abandoned factory. Anthea taps away on her phone, not even looking up as I exit the vehicle. Mycroft greets me with a cold, feigned smile, umbrella in hand.
Damn that umbrella.
"Doctor," he says as I approach him.
"British Government," I say in response.
He gives me a smile that clearly means I am not amused by your feeble attempt at humor. He and his brother share that look.
The doctor in me can't help but give him a quick once-over. He looks remarkably well for a cancer patient, if not a little hollow around the eyes from weight loss. "You're looking well."
A brief nod. "I've had the best of care."
I smirk. Typical Mycroft.
He pauses for a moment and we're both quiet. Finally, he speaks.
"It has come to my attention that my brother has not been entirely himself lately," he states bluntly, gaze unwavering. "Have you any ideas as to the reason for this?"
"You're as much in the dark as I am about this," I say.
His eyebrows lift slightly. "And who said I am in the dark?"
I tilt my head slightly in confusion. "Then why did you—"
"You see, John," he interrupts, "I merely wanted to know if you are aware of the things my brother is dealing with right now. For his sake."
I bristle at this. "Is he in danger?"
Another fake smile. "No, no. Quite the opposite. I have people taking immense precaution to ensure this."
"Of course you do," I mumble.
He taps his brolly before continuing. "It seems my dear brother obtained several…attachments before his simulated demise."
I step closer, angry now. "Don't you fucking dare bring that up again. I am fully aware what lead to his…absence, and there is no reason to relive or retell it." My voice is low and my hand has never been steadier.
There is a long, drawn out pause this time before the elder Holmes finally speaks.
"Caring is most assuredly not an advantage, as I've told my bother." He shifts his umbrella into the other hand and swings it around once before continuing. "But with you, John, I don't believe I'd call caring a disadvantage for Sherlock."
I wait for him to finish, and when he doesn't, ask, "What would you call it then?"
He smiles, and it's in his eyes. "Reality."
Reviews appreciated. :) -C