Sarah is ready to stick a fork into the back of her hand.
"So when your Great Uncle Beaumont was just a wee lad, we all moved out into the country, and well, that really was the beginning of it all, let me tell you-"
Despite all her deft avoidance maneuvers, Sarah is trapped next to her Great Aunt Giselle, who is pushing ninety and notorious for telling the same interminable stories of her youth over and over again. Sarah has heard this particular tale many times in her thirty-seven years, and she knows that she is about to lose twenty to thirty minutes of her life listening to it yet again.
Thirty-seven.
Her eyes glance over the hall, her family gathering for her cousin's wedding reception. So many gingery heads ranged at tables around her. So many wives and mothers.
Knowing that she is only required to nod and hum at the prescribed pauses, Sarah's mind wanders as the story continues.
So many children.
She has never yearned for children the way some of her friends have, as though life simply could not be complete until they had experienced motherhood. Any romantic notions about marriage or parenthood she may have had have been wiped away by reality, by half a lifetime of seeing the best and worst of love within her own family.
And yet, lately, she is finding life a bit . . .
Lonely.
Quiet.
Dull.
And, here, surrounded by the chatter of nearly two hundred people, she feels alone. Overlooked. Loved, yes, but in the abstract. The specifics are not of interest. Sarah is gripped by the sudden urge to dye her hair purple, to wear too much eyeliner and punky black outfits, to declare publicly:
I have sex.
I have stared down abusive husbands until the police arrive.
I have fought off Chinese gangsters.
I have fallen desperately in love with a man who is probably in love with someone else and I will not get back together with him because I respect myself.
Because it certainly seems that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are more involved with each other than ever.
Three days ago, she had gone to the cafeteria at St. Bart's to meet a friend. Arriving early, Sarah got coffee and sat facing the main door and the wall of glass with a view to the hallway outside so as to catch sight of her friend.
What she saw instead was John and Sherlock, coming off the lift. Before she could register any one emotion of her own, she noticed Sherlock's excitement, John's grim face. Sherlock bounced ahead down the hallway a ways before noticing that John had stopped, hands clenched, gaze to the floor. Sherlock returned, stopping quite close, leaning against the wall, saying something.
John shook his head.
And then Sherlock inclined his head until their foreheads touched. His hand nearest the wall came forward and clasped John's fist, sliding around it until John unclenched and then for a moment, their fingers intertwined. John said something, and the detective smiled.
An instant later, Sherlock was off again down the hallway, John grinning to himself and following a pace behind.
Sarah had found herself overwhelmed, jumbled, conflicting emotions clamoring inside her. She abandoned her coffee, texted a note to cancel the plans with her friend, and ended up crying in an empty stairwell with nothing but scratchy cafeteria napkins to blow her nose, to press against her eyelids to stop the hot, stinging tears.
And now, sitting across from her great aunt, she nods and hmms and wonders what it means. Because she thinks it means it's over.
Whatever might have happened with her and John-
Whatever balance she was hoping John could strike between Sherlock's desires and his own-
Her hope is gone. Her tears are gone.
She is going to die of boredom in this very chair and no one will ever know how interesting and strong she actually was.
"Sarah! There you are!" says a bright voice to her left, and Sarah startles as though she had been asleep. She looks up to see her absolute favorite cousin beaming down at her. Ginny is six years younger than her, already has found and married the love of her life and had no less than three children, and yet she never makes Sarah feel defective or behind or boring.
"Sorry to interrupt, but I simply have to steal Sarah from you, Great Aunt Giselle," Ginny says, and Sarah could kiss her right then. Ginny puts her hand around Sarah's arm and urges her to stand. "The little ones are doing my nut in-you know how it is," Ginny continues, smiling apologetically. "So I've come to enlist Sarah as co-wrangler."
"Yes, dear, of course," the elderly woman says, willing to do anything to help a fellow wife and mother and probably hoping Ginny's example will rub off on Sarah. She waves them off and Ginny leads Sarah directly to the bar.
"Here," she says, handing Sarah a glass of something amber-colored that smells enticingly flammable.
"Bless you," Sarah says, taking a sip. Whatever it is, it is perfect. "And the kids?"
Ginny waves a hand and shakes her head. "Oh, no, they're with their father. His turn to be on-duty," she answers. "I say we go find a corner to hide in until cake time."
Sarah smiles and lifts her drink. "Cheers."
"Cheers," her cousin responds, raising her own glass. "Now come and tell me absolutely everything."
Sarah smiles and thinks maybe she will do just that.
x-x-x
Notes: Hugs to Jude and Armada for being Betas Full of Speed and Awesome.