Regardless of where we left Mr. Holmes last night, he's insisted to me that that was not the end of it. Forgive me, but this chapter serves to demonstrate Sherlock's...infinite variety. In other words, he's being his own wee difficult self in this chapter.
Sherlock Holmes was not yet good. He was Holmes, and contrary as a cat. That is the way of it, sometimes. Rub a cat's tummy and he may purr and purr, yet turn on you in an instant the second he feels vulnerable.
On the ride back to Baker Street, John wanted to talk, and Sherlock hated it.
John wanted to talk about Mycroft. John wanted to talk about that bloody video. Worst, John wanted to talk about Sherlock's behavior subsequent to the viewing, which according to him started out "well enough, but devolved into pure piss-ass mean-minded prick-dickery."
Sherlock wanted him to shut up—please, to just bloody shut up.
"I pointed out the obvious. That video was an appalling piece of manipulative sentiment intended to commemorate a man whose first instinct would be to arrange a surgical strike on his entire division to ensure the contagion would never reach the outside world. Mycroft would puke," Sherlock snarled, with the near-frantic savagery of an injured feral dog brought to bay. "If he knew they'd collected that heap of morbid, malodorous documentation and glued it together into such a maudlin peep show into his life he'd be ashamed of them."
John's jaw set, "Listen, Sunny Jim, you're treading close to the line. The least you could have done was respect that they love your brother and are afraid he'll die. That's really what it's about. That's real, even if you do think it's too bloody sentimental."
"They are agents. They're not supposed to be faffing about like wet, whiny berks at an office memorial service. 'Ooooh, he was a sweet fellow, warn' 'e?' ''E'll be missed, that's sure, ennit?'" He made a gagging noise. "Seriously, just because they can edit their images and package them like—like a Christmas special for the telly—doesn't make it real, and it doesn't make it right. That was Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft doesn't care. He thinks. He thinks better than I do, damn him. But he Does. Not. Care. Only idiots and morons and ordinary people care."
The figurative temperature of the cab dropped a full eighty degrees or so in a matter of seconds. John Watson looked at Sherlock with a hard, shark-eyed stare Sherlock had not ever expected to face. "I see. Got it. So sorry we ordinary mortals go about inflicting our filthy little feelings on the exalted Holmes Brothers."
Too late Sherlock saw where this was going. He tried to backpedal. "I wasn't talking about you. I wasn't talking about…It was about Mycroft. Mycroft would—he will hate that. He doesn't care. They made him look…"
"They made him look like the man I met in an empty warehouse the first day we worked together," John growled. "You know something? He was tough as nails and cold and distant as the sodding Himalayas in January, but one thing he never pretended was that he didn't care. I've known him years, now, and no matter how angry I've been at him, no matter what damned mistakes I thought he made, even I have to admit that he never, never pretended he didn't care. He cared about his work, and about the country, and about his own damned pride—but you want to know what he cared about most often and most openly? You, damn it. You. And you repaid him for it the same damned way you pay all of us. With a dagger for a tongue and the loyalty of an alley cat: here when you want your kibble, gone when you don't."
Sherlock was relieved as the cab pulled up in front of 221B. It gave him time to stall as he paid the cabbie, and climbed from the car. He stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, stamping his feet slightly, waiting for John to join him.
John didn't. Instead he looked at Sherlock as though he were many miles away, and of very little importance. He sighed, and grabbed the handle of the door.
"Aren't you coming in?" Sherlock asked. "After all, some bastard stole your key and copied it." He hoped the joke would bring back the old John…the John from just a few hours ago. The John who cared.
John's lips tightened. He looked at Sherlock and frowned. He made a small noise that didn't so much hold the promise of words withheld as the certainty of no words left, gave a tiny shake of his head in stunned disbelief—and closed the car door. In seconds the hearse-black cab had rolled away, leaving Sherlock standing alone.
The deep emotional waters of the past days—of the past weeks—seemed to draw back, and back, and back, leaving Sherlock's heart an empty beach strewn with wreckage and dead fish. For a moment he hoped this was the end—the end of feelings, and of confusion. The start of a cool, safe distance that would turn him into his own dispassionate ideal.
Then the wave of feelings heaved high, turned, and roared back. If it had been a real wave it would have filled the sky, veiled the sun with churning green. As it was it scoured all hope of dispassion from his heart. All he could do was hang on. It was too much. Too much to feel—and Sherlock didn't do "feel."
He panicked. He didn't do feelings. He didn't. He never had. He was bad at feelings… He groped for straws in the torrent of feelings—anything to help him deal.
I don't do feelings. What I do, he thought, is really good drugs. It's been a very long time since I did really good drugs. Mycroft would kill me if he knew I was thinking of it. But that's rather the point. He doesn't know.
The aching longing for cocaine was suddenly almost unbearable. A couple lines, a good shot and he'd be back to the God zone of the rush, to that cocaine-conviction of control, dominance, and omnipotence even his best deductive frenzies could not quite match. Before cocaine there had been only the high of deduction. After cocaine he'd understood the true high deduction had only hinted at. And after quitting cocaine there had only been surviving from case to case, from challenge to challenge—and later, from MI6 hit to MI6 hit, as he worked with Mycroft's people to eliminate Moriarty's mob.
That mob had now proved to be only the messy remnant of an insane cat's paw, hardly important compared to whatever overlords had managed Moriarty to their own ends and goals. As with the Bond Air fiasco, Sherlock had been doing no more than fluttering at the edges of a far greater game—Mycroft's game. Even Sherlock's "death" and sacrifice, the suffering of his friends, all of it was part of Mycroft's larger game—a game so dire that even Sherlock understood why his brother had been unable to make a move to protect Sherlock and his friends when everything had started to drift.
The bitterness was beyond words. As always, he was reminded how much he was in debt to his brother, dependent on his brother, and truly, inescapably inferior to his brother. Mycroft hurt him, over and over again, without intent. Indeed, often the injury was collateral damage from Mycroft's constant attempts to protect and empower Sherlock. How could so much love go so very wrong, so very often?
How could Mycroft always be so loving and so damned cold at once? And damn John anyway, for pointing out that Mycroft always cared. Sherlock didn't want to know Mycroft cared. It was easier to stay sane believing him to be loveless, a Machiavelli without a heart or a soul. Sherlock could not say whether that made his imaginary Mycroft a villain to despise, or a role model to emulate. It had, however, made him someone Sherlock could ignore—and, ignoring Mycroft, he'd built himself a fragile, precious life filled with unexpected friends, there at the edge of Mycroft's surging ocean.
And now that life was gone, the friends were gone, Mycroft was gone, and only the ocean was left…and Sherlock was too far out, and not waving, but drowning.
"Sherlock, dear, it's cold out. Aren't you coming in?" Mrs. Hudson called from the doorway.
Sherlock turned and looked at her. She had a flowered synthetic satin bathrobe clutched tight at her throat, and fluffy feathered slippers on her feet. He didn't know what to say to her. She was very beautiful and very ordinary and very, very lost to him.
"Come on inside, love. I'll make us a cuppa. Things always look better when you've had a cuppa," she said, then, eyes announcing that she'd recognized something was wrong. "Strong tea and biccies, and you can talk all about it."
He shook his head, struggling to even say, "No." There were no words, no sounds.
He raised his hand, waved, and walked away into the tidal wave.
He walked for hours. Along the way he visited old haunts and met with old associates. Then he cruised Central London from end to end, looking for a place to use the near weightless packet now in his pocket. He considered the London Eye, but it was closed for the night, and waiting until 10:00 A.M. just to fall from grace someplace dramatic seemed juvenile and petty. St. Paul's? At least the stairs were accessible, but so often populated with a blend of street people and sightseers even at night that it seemed a poor choice. He wouldn't go back to Baker Street. That would be to betray Mrs. Hudson in her own home. The feather-light burden he carried was betrayal enough without adding that. In the end he concluded that there was really only one perfect place to fall from grace. After all, there was such enormous precedent.
The roof of St. Barts was dark and empty. A light wind blew, sending Sherlock's coat out in satisfyingly dramatic sweeps and flutters. Sherlock looked around, finding in his mind's eye where Moriarty had lain all those months ago. He wondered if Moriarty's blood remained, trapped forever in the gritty grey roofing paper.
He walked to the edge of the roof, stood on the edge, and remembered what it felt like to fall, not knowing for certain his plan would work.
It had been horrible—the worst moment of his life. His last view before dropping face first toward the street had been John in a panic, seen through the blur of his own tears. Even so, it had been—exhilarating. Never dull. Never boring. He'd never hurt so much, or felt so alive, or been so afraid. In a very real sense he had died—and lived, and been reborn. He could reach out in his mind even now and feel where everyone had been at the time, as though a physical cord tied him to those places. He could feel John at the end of the turn-around, his view partially blocked by a building, by buses and trucks. He could feel Molly, lurking ready to do her part, below him and out of sight, where John would not see her. He could feel Mrs. Hudson in her home, puttering around, dealing with the workman who intended to kill her. He could feel Greg Lestrade in his office, targeted by one of his own. He could even feel a cord to Mycroft, helpless to change what was coming, like the fairy godmother in Sleeping Beauty who could not lift the curse, but only ameliorate it.
He could feel how very much, in that moment, he had loved them all: loved them so much his heart had threatened to break. He could feel how very much he loved them still; how much his heart was breaking.
I'm not good at this, he thought. I'm really not good at it. I'm not even ordinary at it. I am bad at it.I don't do "feel."
I do good drugs.
He slipped the little plastic packet from his pocket and let it lie on the black palm of his glove. He moved his hand so that both the pavement and the packet could be seen in a single view. Which one was the object of attention was determined only by a shift in focus.
What had John said, that very first case? That he'd have taken the pill? That he took risks to prove he was clever.
Of course, John had also pointed out he was an idiot.
He missed John pointing out he was an idiot. He missed them all. Missed Lestrade putting up with him, carrying him through all the bureaucracy and team backbiting just to let him do what he was good at, offering him those sudden unexpected smiles. He missed Mrs. Hudson clucking and brooding and fussing over him, all with her falsely cranky cleverness and kindness. He missed Molly, though the new Molly drew him and terrified him in equal measure: a little mouse turned tigress before his eyes. She still counted. He missed…
Mycroft. God. He missed Mycroft…just the knowledge of him, steady as stone. Always there. Maddeningly better than him. More responsible. More successful by far. Better integrated. Better socialized. Stronger…and always, always, always smarter. And always, always, always someone to whom he was eternally indebted—which was very close to unforgivable of him. Maddening as Mycroft was, Sherlock missed him terribly. He could feel that limp hand in his far more completely than he could feel the packet of cocaine. Mycroft's hand, even in memory, had a heft and weight the cocaine lacked.
He looked at the packet of cocaine, increasingly visible in the bleached, cold dawn. It was a choice, wasn't it? If he didn't take the cocaine, he still might not find a way to win back his friends or stand by his brother. But if he did take it, they would be lost from him forever. He'd been down this path before, and he couldn't lie to himself about it. He could cling to the cocaine, or to the hands of the people who'd somehow stolen his heart, but not both. Never both.
He heard the rooftop door open, and the heavy crunch of footsteps on gritted roof paper. He heard them stop.
"Lestrade," he said.
"Sherlock. You know, you really do know how to screw up an otherwise pretty good evening."
"Your date with Molly went well, then?"
"As first dates go, it was a winner. Until we got the angry call from John. And then the panicked call from Mrs. Hudson. We've been looking for you."
"Who guessed I'd be here?"
"Tie between me and Molly: we were kind of collaborating, there."
"Is that what they're calling it, these days?"
"Jerk."
"I'm not going there even to satisfy comic inevitability." After a few minutes of shared silence, he said, "Why don't you come join me?"
"Is that what I have to do to talk you off the ledge?"
"I'm not on the ledge."
"Don't look now, but…yeah, you kind of are, sunshine. In more ways than one."
"Granted a certain literal veracity to the statement, I must still insist I'm not on the ledge."
"In that case, do you mind stepping back from that one?"
"Afraid of heights, Detective Inspector?"
"Afraid of leaving them abruptly."
He thought about it, and snorted a soft laugh. "Yes. That is the thing, isn't it? Very well, it reduces the melodramatic element a bit, but I shall humor you." He turned and stepped down carefully, then walked to Lestrade, his fist closed on the packet of cocaine. He met Lestrade's eyes, and asked, "Can you choose not to be a policeman, for just a minute?"
"Should I? Or are you going to make me regret it?" The faint smile in Greg's eyes, though, suggested he was already sure of the answer.
Sherlock smiled at him, appreciating him. "No regrets, I think."
Lestrade nodded, smile growing, crinkling his faint crows-feet. "Consider me a civilian, then."
"Then, Citoyen Lestrade, you may help me celebrate." He opened his hand, displaying the packet. He picked it up, and realized his gloves were not going to make this easy. Looking uncertainly at Lestrade, he asked, "Um…you're not wearing gloves. Can you open it for me?"
Wordlessly Lestrade took the packet and opened it, handing it back gingerly.
"This really would have been much more epic on the edge of the roof," Sherlock told him, sternly. Then he tipped the bag over and emptied it into the morning breeze. "Vive la liberte." He handed the packet to Lestrade again. "I suggest you burn it or flush it, Detective Inspector: your fingerprints, not mine are on the bag."
Lestrade's mouth quirked. "Always were good at the details. It's really a blessing you're not a crook." He tucked the packet in his pocket. "So, you talked yourself in off the ledge?"
"Off of several of them."
The older man nodded, pensively. "Good. It's really better that way, if you can manage it." He turned and looked out over the city blushing before them in the rising sun. "We know it's not easy, sunshine. We do understand that."
"I'm not good at feelings," Sherlock said, voice a bit whiny.
"You don't get to be good at everything. I wanted to be the best husband in the world—and then reality declared otherwise. I wanted to be the best detective in the world—and life sent me you. I wanted to play the hottest jazz sax in London—and ended up with no lip. Sometimes you just have to play the cards you're dealt."
"It would be easier to just avoid it all."
"That's a choice you're going to have to make—you can, you know. In a lot of ways it looks to me like that's what your brother's done: built a world where he can feel, but doesn't have to feel too much most of the time, and only what he's ready to deal with. You can shelter yourself."
Sherlock had not thought of it that way. "What are the other options?"
Lestrade shot him a wry sideward glance. "Are you making me do your thinking for you, Sherlock?"
"Role reversal," Sherlock responded, tartly.
"Score," Lestrade ceded.
"Consider yourself a consultant," Sherlock comforted him. "This is your area of expertise."
Lestrade laughed. He had a big, roomy laugh. "Well. Okay. Other options, then. First one: do what you just did. Accept you're not always the best, and ask for help."
Sherlock bridled. "I do not beg for help."
"I didn't say 'beg.' I said ask. Which leads to my second suggestion: get over yourself a bit, sunshine. Pride's one thing, but if your nose were any higher in the air you'd have low-orbit satellites caught in your sinuses."
"Ah. Humility. A concept. I'll take it under advisement. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Quit hurting people on purpose."
"This will help me improve my emotional skills how?"
"By reducing the number of people who want to deck you? Believe me, it's easier to deal emotionally with people who aren't having to forgive you every time three words or more escape your bitchy mouth."
"Oh, I can be offensive in one word—or less, if you count meaningful non-verbal vocalization."
"It's not an accomplishment, you idiot."
"Maybe not for some," Sherlock grumbled, "But I assure you—"
Lestrade threw his hands up in the air. "Ok. Enough. You've got three suggestions; that's enough to be getting on with." He stretched. "Damn. I need a cup of coffee or I'm not going to make it through the day. Are we settled for now? Can I call Molly and the rest and tell them you're fine, so they can stop holding their breath?"
"Yes. Um… How is Molly? I'd really prefer she not fear she went to the trouble of saving me only to have me undo all her good work."
Lestrade looked at him, cocking his head and pondering. "That's not what you really want to ask, is it?"
Sherlock gritted his teeth. "What do you mean?"
"What you really want to ask is if I'm going to keep dating Molly."
"Ridiculous."
Lestrade waited, too obviously amused.
"Well…are you?" Sherlock finally asked, curiosity breaking his will.
"Yes. If she's interested."
"Why?"
"Because I like her. Because if she hadn't been crazy for you all these years I'd have asked her years ago. Because I'm not getting any younger and, sometimes, I still dream of being the best husband in the world—for someone. I can see the possibility of being the best husband in the world for Molly."
Sherlock grimaced. It was an entirely too admirable answer. In the end he said, "Just—you're not hurting Molly. I'm not having it. Do you understand?"
Lestrade looked at him—a lazy, amused look—and said, very softly, "Understood. And back-atcha, sunshine."
Sherlock stuck his nose in the air, refusing to even consider the low-orbit satellites or his sinuses. "I'm not the one dating her."
Lestrade chuckled as he started for the door. "Maybe you should be."