Chapter 3
(2 years ago)
"These are the essential inconveniences of life, Watson. I'd much rather spend the time searching out mysteries of the universe than to waste it on such trivial matters. It is unfortunate one is required by laws of nature to perform such acts in order to function in a way beneficial to humankind."
Somewhere in the world, Sherlock Holmes is going off on a tangent about the unnecessary requirements of life and society. She wonders if it was the jostling crowd at the mall or the intention of the task that lies before her eyes that triggered the rant. It could be the combination of both. It could be neither. She has known him to rave about having to deal with the useless intricacies of the social structure at least once a week.
He is a rebel, against society and against the world. Many of his methods go against the grain of her upbringing, but she has, to a certain extent, familiarized herself with them. It is never pretty when they go head to head on an issue, yet any two people living and working together over an extended period of time will find themselves to have differences that threaten the harmony of their relationship. Whether or not the differences will eventually resolve themselves or drive them apart remains to be seen.
At the present moment, the combination of a nightmarish shopping trip, unexpected visitation plans, and the Christmas season has caused a rift between them, the suspected catalyst behind his current tirade. She usually finds ways to rebut him, but cleaning the Brownstone has left her no energy to form retaliating arguments.
His pacing comes to a stop in front of the stove specked with charred egg bits and dried milk spots. "You do know," he starts in a solemn tone as he rubs his chin with a thumb contemplatively. "That if it weren't for your utter lack of culinary abilities, we could have made a perfect Christmas dinner for your family, because, as one knows, an act done in person leaves a greater impression on the receiver. It would certainly impress your mother."
Taking deep breaths is the trick that she has discovered keeps her calm when her patience is wearing thin.
"In addition to that, you wouldn't have had to drag me to the mall. You wouldn't have been so embarrassed about me arguing with the sales promoter about his lies in public, and you would not have gotten so miffed to have stopped talking to me."
She detects a hint of frustrated resentment in his tone and halts in her cleaning.
Sherlock Holmes may be a genius, but he can also be a stubborn nimrod to whom admitting he has erred is like pulling teeth. She doesn't remember when it hasn't been a struggle; for him to accept that there are certain boundaries that one should never cross even if the truth is at stake and, as much as she hates to admit it, for her to learn that perhaps there are certain boundaries that should be forsaken for the greater good.
"Forget it," she says mutedly. "My family will be here in a couple of hours, and I really don't have time to do this right now."
That accursed spot obstinately refuses to come off.
"Fine," is his abrupt answer. He strides out of the kitchen, and almost instantly, marches back in again. "May I remind you that despite being smarter than everybody else, I am entitled to shortcomings and flaws like the rest of humanity?"
She knows that's as close to an apology that she will get from him today.
"Where is Ms. Hudson when you need her?"
"Probably halfway to Hawaii by now."
"How did I not hear of that?"
"You were busy obsessing over the lock culprit." She straightens, glaring at the stain in disgust. It is a lost cause.
"You know I am fixated on this case with good reason," he states empathetically.
She ignores his pointed look as she brushes past him. The things this man gets himself obsessed with when there isn't a dead body to keep him occupied. Peering in the dark corners of the cabinet, she notices dust bunnies that are bound to catch her mother's eye if she goes wandering here.
On a closer look, not just dust bunnies.
She pinches the edge of the container and draws it into the light, where its contents still remain unidentifiable. She cocks a brow, dangling the repulsive glob of mess before him. "Do I even want to know?"
"It's for science," he tells her and has the decency to look a little bit sheepish. He's smart enough to tell by her body language that she doesn't and astute enough to know not to go into the fine details of his experiment.
She carts the gruesome mixture away to the rubbish bin, aware that he is dogging her footsteps across the kitchen.
"Why do you care," he probes. "If your family finds these little treasures of mine?"
"Why do you bother asking when you already know the answers?" She makes a hundred-and-eighty degree turn, nearly causing him to collide with her. "You gonna help me clean," she says, crossing her arms. "Or stand there while your body does its obligatory rotting process by the second?"
"Watson!" His voice thunders through the Brownstone, and she nearly slips on the soapy floor when a faint silhouette appears on the door separating the shower area from the rest of the bathroom. "Your Mum wants to speak to you."
The faucet squeaks in protest as she turns the water off. Boundaries. What does that word even mean anymore? They clearly have none. She sticks a dripping hand out, and the phone is shoved into her grasp.
"Shall I wait while you answer that call? I have no wish for you to be electrocuted during the rest of your shower, especially when we have guests coming."
"Yeah, well, can you leave a little distance between us? I'll let you know when I'm done."
He complies, backtracking till he must be at the threshold of the bathroom, because she sees his silhouette no more.
She puts the phone to her ear. "Mom?"
"Joan," the familiar voice of her mother travels through the line. "Is that Sherlock in the bathroom with you?"
The answer is immediate.
Thresholds don't count as part of the bathroom. At least, not today. They do occasionally occupy the bathroom at the same time, which is to be expected when there is but one bathroom in the entire house, but no need to have her mother jumping to the wrong conclusions.
"He's just being a considerate housemate," she finally says after wracking her brain for a suitable reply that would garner the least questions.
Her mother conveys news that they might be a little late due to the bad weather. In the midst of their exchange, she manages to slip in a remark about how untidy and disorganized the Brownstone was the last time she came. Not this time. Today, the Brownstone will do her proud. At some point in the conversation, a dark patch on a floor tile catches her attention, and she rubs it with a toe.
Odd she hasn't seen that before.
His silhouette appears again once the call is over. She thrusts the phone out with a thank you.
"Just being a considerate housemate," he says loftily as the gadget is plucked from her hand.
Why is she not surprised he was listening in?
Just before she turns the water on, the sound of his voice halts her. "Just a little note, after you're done washing your hair, you may find your soap bottle to be empty." He pauses. "Being a considerate housemate, I thought you should know. It was the unfortunate sacrifice of an experiment. A different experiment."
She eyes the soap bottle by her conditioner. There's no need to lift it up to ensure he's telling the truth.
"You're welcome to use my soap if you like."
Silence has been by far the best passive aggressive weapon to utilize.
It is only after she hears the click of the bathroom door shutting before she turns the shower back on.
Sherlock Holmes can play the perfect host if he wants to: outgoing, courteous, and charming. It is a rare moment when he chooses to appear conventional. When he tolerates interactions that he deems to be pointless, he either does it in hopes of obtaining a crucial clue in unravelling a case, or he makes the exception for her.
It isn't often, and it may not seem like much, but it is a start.
Even before the tour of the Brownstone is over, it is easy to tell that her family is impressed by him, just like how it was when they first met her brother's then fiancée.
The gramophone plays a spinning disc of Christmas carols, a lifesaver found amidst dusty records, and they find themselves alone with little Josiah, her brother's son. When the boy waves a Rubik's Cube in his fist and proceeds to hurl it across the room, she asks if he would get it for her.
In a blink of an eye, he reverts back to his usual self. "Why?" is the answer she receives. "He should learn that if you do not have the ability to walk, don't throw things around and expect others to retrieve them for you."
She doesn't know she's impressed or if it's mere exasperation that she feels. "He's not even two, Sherlock. You can't expect him to know these things, just like you shouldn't expect anyone at this age to discuss mathematical formulas or deduction tactics with you."
"I was learning to write the alphabet when I was his age."
Of course he would find a way to make it about him.
She plops Josiah on his lap, trusting him not to drop the boy on his head, and moves to pick the toy up, ignoring his spluttering protests. She takes her time, finding it entertaining to watch the great Sherlock Holmes handle what probably qualifies as one of his greatest nightmares. He sits a little too straight, shoulders stiff, barely grasping on to the shirt of the fussing child.
"This amuses you."
"I'm just picturing you as a dad. It's—"
"Disastrous. I urge you to perish the thought."
She places a hand on her hip. "Babies are adorable, okay."
"Debatable. Babies are predictable, therefore, boring, utterly inflexible, incoherent, resulting in their caretakers having to guess their needs, and have an extremely limited brain capacity." He stands, gingerly holding Josiah as though he were handling a ticking time bomb, and deposits the gurgling toddler in her arms. "Your brother's offspring just cleansed himself. Problem identified. Very high chance the solution can be found in your sister-in-law's bag."
Dinner at the Brownstone was a last-minute addition to their plans, thanks to Sherlock, who offered to prepare the meal. She had her doubts about his ability to churn out a substantial dinner at the start, but he has proven himself to harbour a hidden talent. When she sees what he is capable of, she considers telling him that his skills are in no way inferior to that of his brother, but finally decides not to. He wouldn't see it as much of a compliment.
"It's the least I can do," he says, modestly deflecting the praise that abounds at the table that evening. "When Joan found out I couldn't be with family this Christmas, she wasn't willing to leave me alone. This is one of the few ways I can show my appreciation."
It doesn't exactly ring true, but she lets it be. The situation doesn't get much better when the topic inevitably moves on to childhood: her childhood, in particular.
"Josiah's a lot like his father," Mary Watson says with a glimmer in her eyes. "Sleeps on time, wakes on schedule. I never had any trouble with him. Now, Joan was different. She was a colicky baby. Getting her to eat or sleep was always a battle."
"Mom."
"No, please, carry on. I'd love to hear more."
She stares at Sherlock, who is intentionally ignorant of her glower.
"I've always told Joan she came out a hard-headed individual the day she was born. You'd be hard-pressed to change her mind when it's made up."
Oren, who borders between being a doting brother and an annoying older sibling, doesn't help matters any. "Once she came across a stray kitten with a thorn in its paw, and she insisted on taking it home. Mom's allergic to cats, so there was no way of housing it, but she was adamant on getting it treated. She was, what? Thirteen, fourteen?"
"She paid for its trip to the vet out of her own pocket."
"Sounds like Joanie always has the heart to help," Gabrielle says with a warm smile.
"Yes, it does seem that way, doesn't it?" her mother remarks with an indecipherable expression. "She's turned out pretty well, carving her own path out."
"She certainly has." Sherlock scoots his chair back from the table. "More banoffee pie, anyone?"
As the night wears on, she manages to relax a little, even enjoying a bit of banter with her brother. In the few moments that make her want to take shelter beneath the table, she finds that her gaze, searching for an unobtrusive place to land, often falls on Josiah, who naps in his portable bassinet. One can certainly be envious of an inflexible, dependent being with limited brain capacity when that being is blissfully oblivious to awkward surroundings.
Before she knows it, the clock strikes ten, and they get ready to leave, bundled up in coats and scarves. She watches the backlights of their car disappear around the corner amidst the whiteness that blankets the neighbourhood. When she turns back, Sherlock has vanished. Almost as if with a sense of loss, she wanders back to the study area.
The Brownstone is quiet once more sans the fire that crackles and casts dancing shadows on the ground, the darting flames creating a mesmerizing image. A single Rubik's Cube lies before it, disturbing the unnatural tidiness of the house.
It must have been left abandoned in the family's rush to avoid the worst of the snowstorm.
She takes a seat in the brown leather chair by the fireplace and pulls strangely cold feet up, hugging her knees to her chest. The scent of her mother's perfume still lingers after a parting hug, and it gives rise to an emotion that hasn't made its presence felt in a long while.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
His voice startles her.
He lowers himself to the ground. On the tray that he sets on the floor sits two ceramic mugs of steaming beverages, tea, she guesses, and a rolled-up pair of pink-and-green striped socks with musical notes haphazardly decorated on them. He picks up the azure-coloured mug and the woolen socks, offering them to her with an expectant look.
It's almost uncanny how often he's able to tell her moods without her having to speak a word.
She takes a whiff of the tea.
Chrysanthemum.
Her chest gives a twinge. Her mother used to make tumblers of it for her.
"Full scholarship to Yale, first place in a local piano competition at the age of ten, a fondness for Chopin pieces, an aspiration to be a vet." He rattles off bits of her life as if they were written lines of a fictional composition. "I learnt more about you today than what you've ever told me, Watson."
The tea is hotter than expected and scalds her tongue. She sets the mug down in silence. There is no reason to refute his words. He is not oblivious to the fact that she likes to keep things to herself. That is why their partnership works. Unlike other relationships that need constant two-way communication, Sherlock Holmes, the man with a penchant for deciphering people through mere observation, doesn't need her to verbalize in order to know her.
She watches him silently as he picks up the Rubik's Cube, ignoring the voice that accuses her of using her companion as an excuse to maintain status quo. He has never complained about her need for personal space, and why should he? For every one question she asks about him, he manages to deduce ten things about her personal life. Even though a tiny part of her resents that invasion of privacy, the unevenness of the playing field, she does not begrudge him his gift. It is what he does, and it isn't as if he can decide to cease noticing details and putting together puzzle pieces.
He carefully places the toy on the floor between them. All it required was little turning here, a bit of twisting there, and the inanimate puzzle is solved, all fifty-four squares of the six sides restored to their rightful place. Simple as that. She wonders if he views people the way he views the lifeless object; a mere puzzle to be solved, only in a more fascinating way.
"You never speak of these things, Watson."
She busies herself with the newest trinket encircling her wrist. The row of six cut diamonds set in the slender bracelet sparkles, reflecting the firelight in numerous directions. "I didn't see a need to," she finally says. "You already knew most of that."
"Because I deduced it. Not because you told me."
"Is there a difference?"
She isn't looking for an answer, and he doesn't give her one. The unsettling wind howls around the walls of the Brownstone, accompaniment to the fiery orange flames that spit and hiss in their dance.
"She's proud of you, you know," he utters quietly, staring into the fire. "Your mother."
Her eyes flicker towards him in surprise, thoughts diverted by the slight wistfulness in his voice. Perhaps despite being a rebel, despite raving against the superficial concepts of society, marriage, and the like, there is a part of Sherlock Holmes that craves for acceptance, to have someone be proud of him.
The clock strikes eleven. He excuses himself to go to bed.
They don't wish each other Merry Christmas. They do not have that habit.
The airborne plane suspended in time amidst a bright blue, cloud-speckled sky. The faint tinkling of scales on a piano. The images of smiling faces followed by a thunderous roar of applause. Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition.
Joan.
Oren's booming laughter. The lingering fragrance of cherry blossoms. The gently twirling descent of a single leaf, caught and played back on film. The multi-coloured spokes of a Ferris Wheel, spinning faster by the second. The cacophony of gaiety. Adrenaline coursing through veins.
The paralyzing fear.
Joan!
The muffled calls echo, persisting in their urgency and dragging her from the thick fog of restless sleep. She fights against the grasp, her chest tightening with each struggle to breathe.
In the pale luminous light that trickles in from the windows, he comes into focus. Words tumble from his mouth. It should have been a forewarning; the fact that he is calling her by first name, but it doesn't register until later, much later after she hears the word that life has taught her to detest, that one word that wraps thick coils of dread around her heart, sinking in venomous fangs of fear.
It is said that an individual experiences many different moments in life; joyous instances, poignant ones, moments that have been dulled by time, and plenty that have already been forgotten, lost in the abyss of the past. Few are considered life altering, and they are the memories that have been etched so deep in your mind that, no matter how hard you try, they stay with you till the day you die.
The night of the accident becomes one of those moments.