I can`t forget you,
when you`re gone,
you`re like a song
that goes around in my head.
(Like a song – Lenka)
Sherlock Holmes has been bundled into his brother`s palatial car and is being driven, hastily, back to the Diogenes Club.
Miss me?
Mycroft is sensible enough to say very little and Andrea is rapidly texting (as ever) in silence. Sherlock is tremendously grateful to have a moment to think.
He closes his eyes.
One might safely assume Sherlock Holmes is thinking about his most recent close shave; snatched from the jaws of almost certain death by a cartoon version of his arch-nemesis…but he isn't.
One may also assume he could be considering how he will endeavour to track down and hunt said nemesis; thus calming the hysteria gathering since Moriarty`s face had appeared on national networks all over the country…but he isn't.
Perhaps Sherlock is considering how wonderful it will be to see his parents and best friend again, after assuming the game was over. About his best friend becoming a father and all the excitement that should entail…but he isn't.
In the serene leather bound calmness of Mycroft`s sleek, black Bentley, Sherlock is thinking about something else. Someone else. Someone, who has gradually, imperceptibly, become a part of his life. Then, an important part. Then, an essential part. He is thinking of Molly Hooper.
Two months ago:
Molly is walking with Sherlock from Baker Street to Bart`s with an essential body part which he has `borrowed` and she has to be sure is returned. (Fuss over nothing – he was always going to give it back.) It was a nice day (apparently) and Molly knew he wanted to think, so she was silent. And he was thinking, but firstly, he was observing. He was observing her.
Observation A: A distressed elderly lady is looking, with panic in her eyes, up and down the street. Molly Hooper discovers (via Sherlock) that she is partially sighted, has lost her son and needs a lavatory. Molly thus, marches into a nearby swanky boutique and requests the use of their gilded facilities. She brooks no bleating about how they are for staff only, and the old lady leaves happy and reunited with her son, when Molly has found his number on his mother`s mobile.
Observation B: A small, bespectacled child is weeping near a tree. His mother seems at a loss. Before Sherlock can utter the words "kite stuck", Molly has shucked off her shoes and is scaling the lower branches to unwind the string where it has caught. The child and mother are outlandishly grateful. He offers Molly (and Sherlock) one of his sweets.
Observation C: Instead of ignoring or dropping a random coin into a homeless man`s cup, Molly enters Starbucks and comes out with a latte and a shortbread for him. Sherlock recognises Billy`s friend Joe, who looks at Molly with eyes shining with gratitude (or ketamin).
Observation D: She offers to take several photographs of a love-struck couple near Marlborough`s statue; ignoring Sherlock`s observations that they were both having affairs and cheating on loved ones who wait at home.
Observation E: As they near Bart`s, Molly still finds time to direct a posse of tourists to Baker Street ("We love Mr Holmes back home – I`ve knitted him a new scarf!") whilst Sherlock hides behind a phone box. She is laughing that at least he wouldn't be in to have to fend them off.
All in all, Molly Hooper is a creature made up massively of good deeds. As tremendously appalling as he is in assessing the emotions and needs of others, Sherlock knows, when he sees her with his new eyes, that she is a truly wonderful human being.
His eyes flash open as his mind palace opens the draw and the file on Molly Hooper; and he gasps in a massive breath, startling his brother. Even Andrea stops, mid-word.
"Problem?" Mycroft has one eyebrow cocked.
"I won`t be going to the Diogenes Club."
"Indeed?"
"I need you to drop me somewhere else."
Xoxoxoxoxox
But Molly Hooper isn't at home. She isn't in her lab at Bart`s and she isn't at the homes of her friends Sarah and Joanne either. The two women appear surprised he has knowledge of their whereabouts, but he has been able to hack into Bart`s database for many a long year. Sarah (a statuesque Kenyan girl who had an unrequited obsession with a married man living in the flat opposite, and a parrot who had a skin problem) takes a moment to touch his arm and give him the benefit of her wisdom:
"She can`t always be around to help you, Sherlock … she isn't your … pet."
Sherlock feels he has been emotionally slapped. All these emotions are harsh and – inconvenient. He would have to try and get them in check.
"Your opinion has been noted. Also, may I recommend Tark & Co. for your parrot." And he leaves.
Molly can`t be found in all the obvious places. He is standing in the street outside her house and literally, pacing. He is the only consulting detective in the world; he has a brain the size of a planet and he can`t track down one, small pathologist. What is wrong with him? Don`t ask that question, Sherlock; you might not like the answer.
Then he has it.
It is dark by the time Sherlock reaches Marylebone Park. He remembers the Anne Boleyn Garden, where Molly told him about the love letters Henry VIII had sent to Anne Boleyn. Before he married her, betrayed her and chopped off her head, of course.
My heart and I surrender
ourselves into your hands, beseeching
you to hold us commended to your
favour, and that by absence your affection
to us may not be lessened.
(July 1527)
Pale moonlight shivers over the white shingle and shells, scattered around the box hedges. Pots of rosemary and sage; mint and lavender, send their mingled earthy scents into the night air. White clematis weaves around artfully placed canes and canopies look like milky stars in a black velvet night. The night is still and there is not a breath of air.
And there, on a pale green wrought iron bench, sits Molly Hooper. The faintly glowing solar lights demarking the pathways reflect light up into her face. And Sherlock sees that her face is sad. And he doesn't like it.
"They`ve locked the park, you know. I had to climb over the fence. We could be in here all night."
And she looks up, aghast to see him there. Disbelieving and shaken.
"What the hell happened to your suicide mission?"
"Guess."
She goes from startled to rueful in a second. "Dead or alive, that bloke has everyone running around like headless chickens…what are you doing here, Sherlock? Come to feed the ducks?" A sudden realisation hits her. "Oh, my god! Moriarty! (a whisper) – he`s not here, is he?" She looks around, in fear and uncertainty, which gives Sherlock a lurch in his chest and a hammering heart.
"No, Molly, he`s not here. Just me. And you."
And they both sit on the bench, side by side, beneath the starry white plants and the starry night sky.
xoxoxoxoxox
I am beyond words to see Sherlock on the bench next to me. To see him here, not to have lost him to the east wind again. But how can you lose something you never really had? John Watson is right – how can you love someone who can never really love you back? I know Sherlock Holmes has had his uses for me – God, I`m no dupe – and I realise we have formed some kind of, bond, with our shared chats and walks and jokes (usually mine) that no-one but us sees. We`ve been through a lot, Sherlock and I; more than most have ever been through, in several lifetimes; but tonight, as much as I am overjoyed to see him, I know I can`t do this anymore.
"I am glad you`re back." I speak into the warm, still and scented night; not daring to look at him. If I look, I`ll not be able to say it.
"I`m glad you`re back, because I have some great news…about my Paper."
During Sherlock`s first hiatus, I used the two years to try and focus a little more on furthering my career. There was too much time for pining, and I needed to direct my pain to something useful. Thus, I had labouriously researched and written a moderately focused paper discussing the the initial steps of human pluripotent stem cells. Actually, Mike Stamford had called it `ground-breaking` and who was I to argue? Strangely, though, there was quite a kerfuffle about my little paper and today I found out I had an invitation to present it in Scandinavia; Holland; Switzerland and Belgium, at quite a selection of Universities and Institutes. Probably not Nobel Prize material, but touring with my Paper would just get me out of London and away from anything that reminded me of the man I could never have.
Sherlock Holmes greets my news as would a statue on the Easter Islands. In fact, I think an Easter Island statue would probably show more emotion. I sigh. Therein lies the root of it all. Sherlock does not have the range of … emoticons that most of us have. I have accepted it now and this is why I need to go.
"I did think you might be a bit impressed, Sherlock." Nervous laugh.
Nothing. Still, he probably has had a bit of a shit day, to be fair.
xoxoxoxoxox
I am unsure of what to say or do. All I can comprehend at present, is that Molly is going away. Probably, for months. She has been successful in her career. Molly is a clever, competent woman…she has chosen ill-advised partners and jumper designs, but that does not affect her competency and achievements. Molly is three-dimensional. She is a rounded person and can appeal to many people on many levels. And she is leaving.
Molly cares; she makes jokes no-one finds funny; she stammers and blushes when nervous; she listens; she puts others first; she is a good, good person. And she is leaving.
Molly has straight, shiny hair; lipstick that comes and goes; the velvety brown eyes of a marmoset or bush-baby and the small capable hands of a life-saver. And she is leaving.
xoxoxoxoxox
Sherlock has been silent for many minutes. I have lost count. He must be in his Mind Palace; maybe Moriarty should be worried already? His dark hair hangs limp in the evening air and his face is drawn and tired. I long to reach out; to touch him, but I can`t keep doing this. Fixing him. I need a man who can love me right back. Why, then, do I actually turn to face him and gently touch his shoulder instead.
"Sherlock – "
His eyes snap on and look at me.
"Molly – "
I listen to what he wants to say. His face looks stricken.
"Molly, I have a pain inside here – " he touches his chest and I am thinking, old wound re-opening; stress induced heart attack…
But, no.
Sherlock Holmes takes in the deepest of breaths and gives me the strangely latent heat of his aquamarine gaze – full on and full of … trepidation? He speaks softly, but with purpose.
"Everything can be attributed to science. We both know this, as scientists. We formulate a hypothesis, then a question which tests this hypothesis. We then devise a fair test which can challenge this question to, hopefully, its logical conclusion. Variables are either fixed or changeable and data can only really be assessed fully when all the results are collated."
Inside I smile. Sweet talker.
"Love is the obsession of the human race. It has caused wars; deaths; heartbreak…"
Oh, dear…
"…as well as all the joy and delirious happiness that can be found in this life. I know this from poetry; art; music; literature; as well the questionable romcoms John Watson has imposed upon my life."
I smile, but he is in the zone…Sherlock rakes his hand through his dark locks. He is readying himself for something. I know the signs…
"So, Molly Hooper – can science explain love? It can, as we both know, through study of hormones; testosterone, oestrogen; of neuro-transmitters like dopamine or serotonin. These can send a person temporarily insane, in the name of love. Norepinephrine – an adrenalin which makes our hearts race in the presence of someone we `love`."
Where are you going with this, Sherlock? My adrenal glands are going into overdrive – yet again…I just hope the darkness hides the creeping crimson tide of my blush…
"Oxytocin; vasopressin; pheromones which unconsciously repel and attract us – whenever and wherever the cruel caprice of nature decides." He stands up suddenly, and shakes his hands, arms, like a boxer going into the ring. Then, beginning to pace. Lots of pent up adrenalin in him – unsurprisingly.
"Sherlock, you don`t ha – "
"Yes – " he stops, mid-pace; the solar lights highlighting his cheekbone and tensed jaw – "Yes, I do. All that I`ve just said – all that science is reasonable enough. Until … until it doesn't make any sense, anymore. I have always relied on hypothesis; test; result – the holy trinity…always." His feet, crunch, crunch, crunch in the pale, moonlit gravel.
"Now…now, all results are here, as plain as day, and I must draw my conclusion, Molly." He stops.
"I have eliminated all of the other possibilities and can only make a final deduction…" And Sherlock Holmes slowly kneels down in front of me and picks up my hand – my actual hand – and holds it; quite tightly, actually.
"…all I can surmise is …" I can`t help him this time, he has to tell me himself.
"… I`ve examined and re-examined all collated data and…well…" there is an infinitesimal tremor in his voice and vivid pale eyes look up into mine.
"I think I must love you, and there is nothing I can do about it."
And there lies my little miracle, new born and beautiful, for all the world to see.
X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x00x