A/n: Just to thank you guys for the reviews and to answer some of the guests' questions. ali: The identity of the tortoise is revealed in this chapter. :) elementaryjoanlo: I read your review and hope this will give you a little insight to what goes on inside Sherlock's head!
(present day)
Your eyes flit open in the darkness. The old, familiar fear is back, the kind that gnaws on your stomach like cancer that cannot be satisfied. Much more than just the fear of the dark, it is something bigger. Of what exactly, you cannot pinpoint. Only that it slowly poisons your insides and rises to the back of your throat like bile. You cannot fall back to sleep. You feed yourself broken pieces of logic, but they are of as much use as prescription pills for an incurable disease. You do it anyway: swallow down the fear, shut your eyes, and tell yourself nothing's wrong.
Underlying the dissonance of the crowd of people talking, couples laughing, babies crying, kids screaming, is the low hum from the refrigerators in the ice-cream store. To the left, the arcade shrouded in darkness gives off bleeps and beeps from its various machines, waves of sounds that scrap their way into his inner ear down his throat. Neon lights flash every few seconds in rows and random patterns, liable to create a migraine or send a person into a frenzy if one stares long enough.
He looks away. His gaze collides with a teenager, dressed in jeans and sneakers, emerging from a second-hand shop. The boy's eyes flitter down to the left as he scurries away. He has no doubt if he scours that worn backpack in his clutches, he will find an item or two that belong to the store, but the youngster has already vanished in the crowd.
A faint shattering of glass from the café, hacking coughs, and the high-pitched jingling of keys sound all at once.
It is an accurate representation of the racket inside his head.
At the age of eight, his inability to focus and short attention span became an annoyance to those who thought his actions were merely those of an attention-seeking boy whose spirit needed taming. They, as well as he, had no clue that his senses were keener than most. Much keener. The sensitivity and expansive mind gained less praise and served more as a magnetic source of attracting boarding school tyrants, so at that age, he learnt to sit still and be quiet while his mind runs the speed of a bullet train.
Over the years, he created invisible barriers to secure a place for his thoughts, where worthless information and details are sifted out from the worthwhile ones as an effort to retain sanity. It has taken a truckload of patience to construct the walls of safety, yet within the span of one year, he has seen them slowly begin to disintegrate, allowing what was once held at bay to seep in and clutter his space, like pests invading his living quarters.
He has always prided himself for the uniqueness of his mind: the ability to be rational and logical, to analyze and carve away at enigmas, whittling them down to their simplest forms.
Perhaps the ultimate fate of every system is eventual self-destruction.
It is the natural process, is it not?
A quick glance shows that she is still on the phone. Her words are faint, much of the volume lost in the din of the crowd, but whoever it is on the line with her, she clearly does not have a close relationship with. Judging from the way her gaze wanders and the slight motion of her lips, she has every intention to end the call as soon as possible.
He contemplates her, convinced she is unaware of his scrutiny, and wonders when he came to be so utterly dependent on her. It is hard to pinpoint when exactly: the date, the time, the very second. He only knows that his life has sorely felt the lack of her presence. He distinctly recalls lying on a wide expanse of abandoned land one particularly trying night, picking out starry constellations in the black canvas sky while attempting to unravel the conflicting emotions that run turbulent within him. He should have known that it was a futile effort, that the emotions would unravel him instead. They always did.
Yet another unsolved case to join the others in his chest of failures.
She is placing the device back into her shoulder purse. By the slight lift of the corner of her lips, a smile offered for the interruption, and the faintest crease between her brows, he knows that an apology is on the tip of her tongue even before she speaks.
"It's quite all right," he says, a tad prematurely it seems, when he receives a perturbed look from her. Waiting for a response that he knows is coming is but a waste of time, but if he isn't careful, that very practice might just push her away. She, who fiercely guards her privacy, would most certainly not appreciate him delving into her mind as and when he likes. He does, of course, do so often without thinking, it being second nature to him, but he has taken measures to ensure that she doesn't feel as though he has overstepped his boundaries.
Still, old habits die hard.
They step into the quickly filling elevator. As the last passenger steps on, he hits the button to shut the doors.
"Your car or mine?" She asks in a low voice, characteristically conscious of surrounding people.
"Yours," he tells her, hands tucked in pockets, fingers doing their customary fidget against the wool flannel fabric. "Mine has been carted away to the repair shop."
It suffered major damage from an intentional car crash due to a certain impulsive nature, but she has no need to know that.
He'd seen it coming that night at that hospital: the breaking point. It had been sixteen months since he'd last seen her. When he did, he'd heard his own breath catch, the pounding of his heart in his ears taking precedence over the throbbing pains of the hand he had cut himself. He watched her, attentive to each and every detail, from the casual snapping on of latex gloves to the faintest hint of lavender amidst the smells of iodoform and rubbing alcohol; elements that awakened memories dulled by time.
It became apparent that she didn't recognize him.
He'd driven off with hidden spikes piercing his flesh and agitation in every bone. Minutes later, his car was totalled, meshed with a tree in his way. He'd emerged unharmed, but the rage was not satisfied until after he'd rammed his fist repeatedly into the wall. When the anger was spent, he realized that the stitches were torn, her work ruined. In the dingy one-room apartment that he'd rented, he re-stitched his own wound, and covered the bruised knuckles with the bandage.
It makes him unpredictable, the anger. It seldom shows its face beyond the boundaries of his mind, simmering beneath the surface beneath the calm exterior that he assumes. It lets itself be known as and when it likes, boasting its power over him in the occasionally lashing out when he is alone. He sees it in the toppled stacks of disorganized books lying unread in his room, the faint outline of footprints layered atop each other on the wall, and the little spider-web cracks in the mirror.
The red, raw knuckles, the dark circles, the bloodshot eyes.
And before he destroyed the mirror, lurking somewhere behind the anger, he saw it.
The guilt.
With it came the darkness, beckoning to him, tempting him to give himself up to sweet oblivion. It came back with a vengeance that Christmas, as he sat there at the bar, waiting for the opportune moment to bump into her. He, the man of details, overestimated his abilities, pitting his strength against addiction and nearly did disappear back into the abyss. It was impeccable timing, her showing up when she did, reeling him back in to safety at the last minute.
Where would he be now if she hadn't shown, if he'd somehow made a miscalculation?
"Here it is," she says as they stop by a black Nissan. He slides in, detecting the citrus fragrance of the air freshener. He scans the interior, noting the absence of any objects of sentiment. None of that junk he sees people fill their cars up with: no fluffy stuffed toys positioned in neat lines, no bumper stickers that he noticed, nothing hanging from the rearview mirror.
Neat, clean, impersonal.
"You were pretty good at the bowling alley," she says as she shifts the gears, and they inch forward. "I never would've pegged you as a sports aficionado."
"I'm not. I merely observed the players around me, judged the position and the speed required for optimal result, and applied it to my form. Simple calculations. Unfortunately, sports require more than just intellectual skills. I fell short of strikes due to a lack of muscle memory with said sport." He pauses. "You are quite proficient at it, I see."
He hears an amused expelling of breath. "I don't bowl much. I don't play many sports even. What I know, I learn from the games I watch, books I read, medical cases. I don't really have time to play. I got lucky today, I guess." They slow to a stop before a red light. "Thanks for accompanying me today. I don't usually go to these gatherings, but…"
"You feel obliged to."
Catching her startled glance, he purses his lips and decides to garner a sudden interest in the passing pedestrians before them.
As mentioned, old habits die hard.
He counts eight beats before she decides the silence would be too awkward if it drags out any longer. "So it's true that you managed to complete an entire book of crossword puzzles within a day?" she starts again, on a safer topic this time. "Jeremy was impressed with that."
It was two books, to be precise, within the span of three hours when boredom was quite literally driving him out of his mind. However, Jeremy, as she so fondly calls him, comes across as an individual who would not take his word for it. Call it a hunch, a vibe, the result of years of reading people. For some reason, he decided to water it down for the man. Certainly not something he does often, or at all, but he's extracted a form of pleasure in fooling the man who seemed to have charmed the socks off every person at the gathering, including Watson.
All, but him.
Accolades and good looks one may have plenty of, but it does not speak much for one's character. There's something about that man that grates on his nerves.
He shifts in his seat. The needles under his skin resist his attempt to wish them away.
She glances at him. "Are you okay? You seem…" she taps a finger on the steering wheel. "I don't know. You didn't pull a muscle or anything during the game, did you?"
"I might have over-exerted myself," he replies. "I am seldom an active participant in strenuous activities. Might be the cause."
They park in an empty lot down the street that her place is located on. He lets her lead the way to her apartment even though he is able to make his own way there blindfolded. For thirteen days, he has familiarized himself with the life she has led without him: the route she takes to work and back home, the evening jogs, the habitual chat with the old man in the park, and the rare trip she takes to town when she isn't on the job.
On the surface, it might seem like not much as changed, and yet everything has.
"It's not huge," she says as she inserts the key into the slot and pushes the door open. "But it's my safe haven."
He steps in, and details lodge into his brain within a matter of seconds. The furnishings match with a style that he recognizes as distinctly hers: not showy, but modestly classy. A 32-inch flat screen television stands atop a wide solid black cabinet, likely to house her collection of DVDs, music, as well as a player. Two tall, dark speakers stand at attention like trained soldiers by its sides. The leather couch looks and smells as though it just arrived from the furniture shop. A glass table stands on a hand-knotted wool rug of rust, gold, and brown hues, revealing a small stack of magazines, Scientific American and National Geographic, below the transparent surface. Shoes are placed neatly on the rack: heels on top, sandals, running shoes, and flip-flops at the bottom. He notes with particular interest that on the three side tables he has seen, there are no picture frames.
His sweeping gaze stops at the terrarium, as well as his thoughts.
"That's Clyde," she tells him after dropping her keys into a wide, weaved bowl. He picks up feet that are suddenly heavy as lead, and they stop before the enclosure. "I've had him for about three years now." He hears the affection in her voice. "He's been a great companion."
He blinks, the sharp edges of his teeth cutting into flesh. His throat works to expel non-existent words before he accepts that there is nothing he intends to say. He turns away.
Carnations: still wrapped in their pink and white crepe paper, left on the study table in a hurry. He dismisses the thought that they are meant for her patient's death anniversary as soon as he spots the card lying beside.
They were not bought by her. They were bought for her.
He is unable to point out the order of which a particular thought or emotion occurred first, or if it all converged at once. Perhaps it started that very night in the ER, thirteen nights ago, the growing sense of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, the constant unpleasant sensation of needles pricking his skin. The guilt that still skulks in that broken reflection of his, guilt that nibbles at the edges of his mind, and the emotions feeding on the insidious voice that tells him his reappearance in her life is a misstep on his part.
Perhaps it is. He sees now the revelation with startling clarity; that Joan Watson has moved on with her life while his has come to a complete standstill.
There are no imprecations that flood his head, no sense of fulfillment at being enlightened, no compelling urge to seek for solutions. There is only a sense of total emptiness, of abandonment, and the one thought that he is mourning the loss of someone who clearly doesn't need him.
Not just someone, but one who used to be his sober companion.
Apprentice. Friend.
Partner.
The terms mock him now. He tastes blood in his mouth: metallic, bitter.
Through the fog of emotions clouding his head, a warmth breaks through: the warmth of a hand on his arm. He reads a mixture of questions and concern in her eyes. How often has she offered him comfort in the form of affection, a touch like soothing salve on an angry wound?
He catches the scent of lavender and lilac petals, the fragrance a tantalizing familiarity. Comfort. He feels the throbbing of his head start to ebb away. The tension melts away, as does the frustration in the slow expelling of breath.
What is that intangible element about this woman who has always been able to pull him back up on his feet whenever he goes into a tailspin, and why can his mind not grasp and solve this riddle?
He is weary of thoughts with no answers. The influx of emotions crashes over him like waves, and he finds no strength or will to fight the current. Why not accept that he is a drowning man?
He doesn't know who leans in first. Perhaps it is simultaneous. He cups her face, the coolness of her skin against the heat of his palm, and imagines her kiss washing away the guilt that stains his conscience. A fleeting thought darts in and questions if what he's doing is against his better judgment. It fades as she returns pressure for pressure on his lips.
He hopes she does not taste the bitterness on his tongue.
In her room, his fingers trace the fine lines on her lower back, caressing the sea-green ink and cursive letters. It almost feels like going back, back to the Brownstone.
Almost akin to a shot of heroine.
Her lips seek his out again. His hands tangle in her hair, silky blackness spread out on white pillow. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he is faintly aware that his brusqueness might leave marks on her skin in the morning, but the barely audible whimpers urge him on, driving the concern from his mind until all that's left is her name drumming a rhythm in his head.
After, as she lies beside him, he gazes at her sleeping form, too fixated to tear his eyes away. Gentle breathing punctuates the stillness of the room. He finds the sounds therapeutic, settling his frayed nerves. On a sudden impulse, he lifts a tentative hand and carefully brushes the hair back from her face. Affection is not a language he is fluent in, but perhaps in time to come, he will understand the way it works. His touch lingers on her cheek, and he is entranced by how different the strong, feisty, intelligent Watson appears in slumber.
Or perhaps the word to use is vulnerable.
His eyes wander, running down her arm and stops at the thin lines of broken skin where his nails had drawn blood. He blinks, taking in what he has done, and he pulls his hand away.
The curtains flutter slightly as a draft of wind meanders into the room, and that one voice, like a wisp of smoke, seeps into his head.
You didn't come back for her, Sherlock Holmes. You came back for you. Because you needed her.
It has always been about you, hasn't it?
The prickling beneath his skin starts up again.
A ray of golden sunshine bravely creeps across the kitchen table towards a hand. She inches a finger into it, feeling the warmth on her skin, then scrutinizes him as he so thoughtfully fills her glass with orange juice. Lots of pulp.
He sets the container on the table. Nearly empty, judging from the sound of it.
She thought he'd left when she got up this morning. Her bed was empty, and she heard no noises from the outside. Turns out he hadn't. After a quick exploration before the mirror in the bathroom and grimacing a little at the number of bruising patches on her body, she donned a pair of shorts and a tank top. She found him sitting on the couch in the living room, intensely staring at the table, or rather, at her pet tortoise, which had been plucked out of its terrarium and was very gradually crawling across the glass surface. "I've made breakfast," he said without looking at her.
Now he sits with her at the table, but doesn't eat. His eyes flicker to her left upper arm.
She follows the direction of his gaze. It's a purple-blue mark the size of a hand.
A man's hand, to be exact.
"It happens," she says, putting her arms under the table as though it might help take his attention off the mark he had inflicted. "I bruise easily."
"No, it doesn't," he states in a strained voice. "I'm not usually…I don't…" he falters, the same conflicted look she'd seen on his face last night re-appearing. Then, it clears up, and she wonders if perhaps she'd imagined it all. He pushes his chair back, straightening slumped shoulders. "I have a couple of errands that I need to run. Can I help you with something? Perhaps get more orange juice at the store, or drop a parcel off at the post office for you?"
She shakes off the odd sensation and goes along with his change of subject. "Yeah, actually, you can." She dusts the crumbs off her hands before disappearing from the kitchen. When she returns, she has a white envelope in her hand with a neatly written address. "It goes to London. Express Mail."
"I've got it."