Chapter 11: In which CCTV is used to Pry into the Personal Lives of One's Friends
When they arrived at the Yard, Mary was already in one of the interview rooms; Lestrade had phoned ahead to arrange everything. John insisted that she should have the first chance at the box; this was her treasure, her lost patrimony, after all. Lestrade and Sherlock raised their eyebrows, but let him carry the box into the dim room where Mary waited. They went down the hall to seat themselves in a cramped office where the CCTV monitor showed them everything in the interview room. Lestrade deftly picked up a chair and flipped it around. He sat down, straddling it, resting his chin on his arms on the back of the chair. Sherlock turned the other chair sideways, so he could sit slightly behind the Detective Inspector and look at the screen over Lestrade's shoulder, with his feet propped up on the wall.
Mary was nervous; now she would know the secret her father had never told her. Now she would see the treasure. "Hi, John. That's really it?"
"That's really it, and there's really no key." He put the box on the table and stepped away from it, feeling less pleased than he thought he should. She'll take the diamonds and run away to California. I'll never see her again, he thought.
She bent over and examined the box's sleek black surface. "It's so shiny, like a piano or a clarinet."
"Hmm-hmm. Something like that," muttered John, stiff, anxious, glancing at the box, at her.
She turned her attention to the lock, turning the box towards the light. With a little smile, she went to her bag and pulled out a knitting needle, inserted it into the lock, and, wiggling it a bit, jimmied it open. All three men grunted in admiration and surprise, it was so neatly done. She paused, took a deep breath, smiled nervously at John, and opened the box.
It was empty.
"Oh, thank God," breathed John and Lestrade, softly and simultaneously.
"Wait, what?" said Mary and Sherlock in turn. Sherlock leapt up; he wanted to pace, but the room was too small. In the interview room, Mary turned to John and waited. Lestrade opened and closed his mouth a few times, but didn't have to explain himself; he and Sherlock were too surprised by what was happening in the other room.
John took a deep breath and thought, The hell with it. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She was surprised, but returned the embrace. Lestrade sat bolt upright and Sherlock froze in his tracks; both men stared at the screen in surprise.
John and Mary held each other for a few moments, until she pulled herself away, patted his cheek, and said, "Oh, John, it's too bad that this is such a terrible idea." Lestrade and Sherlock gazed at the screen, each glad the other man could not see his relief.
"You didn't seem to mind it just now," John protested.
She sighed, again. "How can I explain this to you? You're handsome, smart, sweet, and so very, very good. But you're not right for me, and I'm not right for you."
"This is the strangest rejection I've ever received." John blinked a little. Not crying.
"You need action, movement. I'm done with that. I need stillness, a home. We don't suit. I won't be a damsel in distress forever, or even anymore." Mary rested a hand on the empty box beside them. "I can't give you what you need, and you can't give me what I need."
John furrowed his brow and pursed his lips.
Mary tried to explain again. "It's – it's - how you stand. You can stand still, unlike your friend Sherlock, but it's waiting, not stillness. You're really just waiting to spring into action. It's damned sexy, but I need someone who can actually rest, even if it's just from time to time."
He still seemed confused, so Mary kept talking. "The other day, for example. The three of you came to my flat, and I gave you soup. Sherlock's always in motion, and wouldn't take any – 'Digestion interferes with my thinking.'" Her imitation of his friend made John smile a little. "I pushed him, remember? Proteins and muscles and whatnot. Then, when he finally consented, I gave him the soup in a mug. I knew if I gave him a bowl, he wouldn't eat as much. But with a mug, he could stomp about the room, being dramatic, drinking as he went. And he emptied the mug, I might add."
"Wait, are you saying that you tricked Sherlock into drinking a mug of soup?"
"Either that, or he figured it out and played along just to spare my feelings. Which do you think is more likely?" John shook his head; in the CCTV room, Lestrade turned to Sherlock, chuckling, "I like this woman." Sherlock gave him a little grimace, then turned back to the screen.
She was warming to her illustration now. "And you, John, you took the soup, but you just barely leaned against the stool; you held the bowl in your hand and ate little spoonfuls, quickly, neatly, as though you weren't sure you'd have time to finish." Another sigh. "But Geoff," - at this, John and Sherlock both repeated Lestrade's first name in chorus; Lestrade himself froze at the sound of his own name.
"Geoff took that bowl of soup, and sat down. He put the soup on the placemat. He tasted it with his spoon, then paused. He crumbled in a few crackers, and enjoyed his soup. He could stop, sit, and just be still - a tired, hungry man with a bowl of soup. I need someone like that."
"Wait, you like Lestrade better than you like me because of how he eats his soup?" John was irritated. "Wait… you like Lestrade?"
In the CCTV room, Sherlock had figured out that he could watch Lestrade's reflection in the screen; he was amused by the Inspector's gentle smile, but he didn't say anything.
"John, I'm only telling you what I've observed. I'm not saying I can't be your friend, and I'm not saying that I'm running off with Geoff. The man wears a ring, for God's sake. I'm just saying that this won't work the way I think you want it to."
John considered this – all of this – with three pairs of eyes upon him. "I just thought – we really seemed to hit it off, and…"
"John, I'm not denying that I find you attractive. I like you, a lot. But I think we're best thinking of one another as good friends. When you're sick in bed and Sherlock won't bring you soup, I'm the person to call. When you decide you want to go somewhere, drink a little beer and learn about baseball, I'm there. When you want another hat because Sherlock has thrown yours into the river, let me know. But what you need is action and adventure and … derring-do … and I can't give you that. What I need is safety and home, and you can't give me that. You need Sherlock, and I need… someone else."
John sighed, blinked, and tilted his head, relenting. She smiled, and extended her hand. They shook hands, smiling, relieved not to have lost one another's friendship. He put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her to his side, and asked, "Why would Sherlock throw my hat into the river?"
"Because he hates it," she answered. "Don't you, Sherlock?" She looked directly at the CCTV camera at that moment, and John's mouth dropped. "Don't you guys have a suspect to interrogate? We're missing some diamonds here!" Mary called out, the brash American again. Lestrade and Sherlock saw no more; they were hurrying down the hall to the interview room, both grinning like schoolboys.
Lestrade turned to Sherlock at the door: "I told you I liked that woman." Then he composed himself, shaking out his sleeves before entering the room. He addressed himself gently to Mary, "Everything all right?" She blushed slightly, and said, "I'd like to watch the interview, if I may." He nodded and steered her out of the room, a gentle hand on her elbow.
John and Sherlock, left alone in the interview room, exchanged nervous glances. John gave a little cough, and, as was his habit, stood at parade rest, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.
"She's right, you know."
John sighed. "Right about what? I can't believe you watched that whole…. No, I can believe it. Right about what?"
"About that hat." Sherlock bent over the empty box, examining the lock to see how Mary had opened it. "And about how you stand. You're doing it now."
John's eyes widened, just a little. Mouth open, he turned towards his friend; at that moment Lestrade, humming a little to himself but otherwise all business, bustled in with the One-Legged Man.