Chapter Four

All right, back to college tomorrow! I hope I have time to write.

William had spent the rest of lunch with them and then took his leave when they went back to work. And no matter how much he tried, Molly just would not leave his mind. He had thought meeting her would end this obsession; he could finally put it behind him. But all it did was make it worse.

Now, he knew what it felt like to see her smile at him, hear her laugh when he made deductions about the people around them, feel her touch as she brushed her hand against his. Well, that wasn't quite true. He was an angel; he didn't feel anything. But the hum of the numbness at her touch had to be just as good as the real thing.

And it was intoxicating.

Then there was the mystery of John Watson. It couldn't be a coincidence. The fact that the best friend of the woman he was infatuated with (because it was obvious he felt for her; maybe not as much as Michael insinuated, but it was definitely something) was the same little boy he had befriended thirty years ago couldn't be ignored. But what did it mean?

And that's what had brought him here.

If the morgue and lab were his home, then the library would be his home away from home. For the other angel, it was their favorite place to congregate, but not for William; that was the morgue. And then there were days like this. When he wanted to understand human things like sentiment, this was the place to go.

And he had fully intended on getting to the bottom of these feelings he was experiencing. He had headed towards the self-help section and everything.

Until he passed someone reading a mystery story.

William had instantly become enthralled, figuring it out as soon as the clues where laid out in front of him. But he had listened on as the library patron read through to the end, wanting to know if he had been right.

("'…a little clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet here, and, as you see, I made him keep the appointment.'

'But with no very good result,' I remarked. 'His conduct was certainly not very gracious.'

'Ah, Watson,' said Holmes, smiling, 'perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings.'")

The young man's thoughts came to an end as he closed the book in front of him and stood to leave. William watched him go for a moment before glancing down at the cover of the book: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. William was impressed; whoever this Doyle was, he was clearly more intelligent than the average Briton. A passing fancy to meet this author flitted through his mind before he realized that he had gotten side-tracked.

William turned from the table and made his way towards the self-help area.

Nothing. Not a single thing had helped. William had lurked around the library all day and all night, but no one had been reading anything remotely helpful. And unless he wanted to become visible to read them himself (not bloody likely), he was on his own.

Or maybe not.

William appeared in 221B Baker Street, turning on the spot to find John. It was clear he was never going to solve this around Molly; she was the cause of all of this. For some reason, he figured John was the one to go to for advice…even if he couldn't see him.

John was limping around the kitchen in pajama pants and a worn t-shirt as he made himself some tea, having clearly just woken up. William moved over to join him, now faced with a new dilemma. How was John supposed to help him if he couldn't see him? Should he show himself to John? That would probably be a bit not good. The doctor might even faint in shock. Best to be subtle.

William instantly moved down to the street outside, glancing around to make sure no one was around before letting his natural cloak fall. He then raised his hand and lightly banged the knocker against the door. He waited a moment before the door was unlatched and opened.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him as she stood in the doorway. "Oh, hello, dear!"

Drawing on the human encounters he'd seen over the years, William smiled at her. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Is John in?"

"Oh, yes!" she said, opening the door further. "Are you his friend?"

"From the hospital, yes," William replied, stepping into the foyer. "William Scott."

"So nice to meet you," said Mrs. Hudson. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," said William, smiling at her before heading for the stairs.

He made it to the first floor landing and knocked on the doorframe of the kitchen.

John turned and looked surprised. "William, hi." He then frowned. "How, um…how did you know where I lived?"

"Molly told me," said William. "Well, mentioned in passing. I thought, um…I thought you could help me."

John nodded once, pouring two cups of tea and setting them on the table. "With what?" He sat at the table, gesturing to the chair opposite.

William slowly made his way to the chair, sitting there and staring at the tea in front of him. "I find myself…confused. I don't know how to deal with, um…sentiment."

John frowned. "Sentiment?"

William hesitated, grimacing in distaste. "Feelings."

"What kind of feelings?"

"Well, that's just the thing, I don't know," said William. "I don't have much experience with emotions."

John stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. "Well, why don't you tell me about them?"

William sighed, placing his hands in front of his mouth in a prayer position. Again, that odd look from John.

William lowered his hands. "I can't get her out of my head."

"Who?" asked John.

"Molly," said William.

John stared at him. "Molly…"

"She was a mystery to me," William told him. "She was more interesting than anyone else. No one has been able to hold my attention like that before. But the more I'm around her, the more she gets into my head. She's all I can think about."

A knowing smile appeared on John's face. "And have you told her?"

William frowned. "Told her what?"

"That you fancy her," said John.

William scoffed. "I do not fancy her."

"Trust me, mate, you do," John told him with a smile.

William sighed. "You don't understand, John. I am literally incapable of emotions."

John gave a laugh. "What are you, a sociopath?"

William shrugged and gave him a look. Or something.

John waved a hand. "Okay, then there's something you should know." He gave a heavy sigh. "Molly's moving."

William's eyes widened. "What?"

"She's leaving London," John told him. "I just found out last night."

"She can't!" William exclaimed, feeling panic rise up inside him. "She loves London! And what about Bart's? She just got her job there, and—" He came to a stop and narrowed his eyes at John, who was smiling smugly at him. "She's not leaving London, is she?"

"Nope," John told him. "But what did you feel when you thought she was?"

William frowned, not understanding what he was getting at. "Panic."

"And isn't panic an emotion?" John pointed out.

William froze, his mind completely shocked at the implications. Was it true? Was he actually capable of feeling?

"Looks like you're not as much of a sociopath as you thought," John told him.

Or a cold-hearted angel, William thought.

"John, you here?"

John and William glanced up at the kitchen doorway to see Greg Lestrade stepping through it.

Greg came to a stop when he saw William. "Oh, I didn't know you had company."

"It's all right," said John, gesturing to William. "Greg, this is William Scott. He's a, um…well, I don't know what he does, exactly. He volunteers to visit patients at the hospital."

"I'm a messenger," William told them.

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. "A messenger, huh?"

William frowned at him.

Greg blinked and extended his hand. "Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard."

William shook his hand. "Pleasure."

"Yeah…" Greg stared at him a moment before releasing his hand. "John, I was wondering if you could come down to identify the shooter you saw."

"Oh, yeah, sure," said John, standing and heading upstairs. "Give me ten minutes."

"Take your time," Greg told him, watching him go. He stared up the stairs until he heard John's door close, and then he turned back to William. "So, where'd you get the last name from?"

William frowned as he looked up at him. "I'm sorry?"

"The last name: Scott," said Greg. "Where'd you get it?"

William blinked, startled by the question. "It's my name—"

"No, it isn't, because you don't have a last name," said Greg confidently.

William's eyes widened. How did he know? How had he figured it out?

"You also don't have a job, although your description of 'messenger' isn't far off," Greg went on.

William's jaw began to drop in shock as the inspector went on.

"You spend your free time in the library, you gather to listen to the sunrise, you travel at the speed of thought—"

(—and you're reading my mind right now.)

Greg gave a smug smirk. "Did I get anything wrong?"

William stared for a moment, his throat working, before he spoke. "I spend my free time in the morgue. The library is only useful when I need information."

Greg nodded. "Hmm. You're one of the odd ones, aren't you?"

"How?" asked William.

"Because I was where you are once," Greg told him.

William frowned in confusion.

"I used to be one of you," said Greg.

Oh, snap! I went there.

The story excerpt is from "The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.