We worked hard enough that morning that I momentarily forgot my troubled marriage. At noon, John announced to Sherlock, "I'm taking Trina to lunch."
"Don't we already spend enough on her?" Sherlock replied. "Let her be useful like she said she'd be. She can bring lunch back for us."
"No, Sherlock. Today I'm taking her out to lunch."
Sherlock shrugged, and we left. I hardly struggled against my feelings. What did it matter? My husband didn't love me anyway. But I knew John didn't love me either. He was just being friendly.
While we waited for lunch he chatted lightly with me about the case, but after the food arrived, he became serious. "Trina, I'm sorry. I know we've only known each other for about a week. But our work together has been intense, and I already feel that you are my friend, so as a friend, I'm going to ask you a difficult question." He paused, while I inwardly thrilled at the word "friend" and wished I was even more to him. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"What do you mean?" I asked. Why was I going on cases, after he himself had recommended it? Why was I falling for him? Did he know? Why was I letting my husband hurt me? I hit the nail on the head with my last guess.
"Trina, while your husband may not be abusing you, he is treating you brutally. He had an affair and came back to you without an apology, simply because the affair didn't work out. Why are you staying with him? You deserve better than this."
It was becoming difficult to eat my lunch. He was no Sherlock, but his timing was terribly off. "John, it is bad right now, but there was a time, before Samuel died, when it was very, very good. I love my husband, and I want him back. I want to fix our marriage, not throw it out."
"I respect you for wanting to save your marriage, but you seem to be the only one putting any effort into it. At what point do you decide it's a lost cause? At what point will you at least demand that he treat you with some respect?"
How could I explain this to him? He wasn't going to understand. I didn't completely understand myself.
"I'm afraid that if I push back, I'll lose him. He'll just walk out again. But maybe, if I can only remind him of what we had, maybe I can fix things."
"Look, I don't mean to hurt you when I say this, but it seems to me that you've already lost him. He may be living in the same house with you, but he isn't behaving in any way like he's your husband. There are certain things you should be able to expect from the man who promised to spend the rest of his life with you, like faithfulness and enough trust that you can speak to him about your marriage without having to fear that he'll walk out… again. If you think this marriage is worth saving, then fine, but at least promise me you'll speak to him about the way he's treating you." He was silent for a moment, watching me push my salad around the plate. "I'm sorry," he added. "I've spoiled your lunch. Sherlock must be affecting my social skills."
I managed a weak smile. "I ate a little," I said. "I can save the rest and eat it later when I get hungry again."
"Sounds like a plan," said John. "I've got leftovers, too. Guess I didn't spoil just your appetite." We asked for boxes, he paid, and then we stashed the boxes in the fridge at 221B, beneath the severed head, which I almost took completely in stride. Almost.
And then it was back to work.
###
When I went home that night at 9 – doctor's orders – the case was complete, and my husband wasn't home. I knew I was supposed to go to bed. That was what John expected. But I couldn't sleep. I needed to see my husband, to know that, even with the previous night's rejection, he still had some shred of love left for me, something I could build on. So I sat up, and once again, I fell asleep on the sofa. At 1, he came home, waking me as he snapped on the light.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Waiting for you," I said, gathering up my courage. "I wanted to talk with you."
"About what?" His voice was tense with the anger I felt simmering within him almost every time we talked. For the first time, I thought to ask myself why he was so angry at me. Did he blame me for Samuel's death, or for bringing Samuel into the world in the first place? Why had he rejected me so suddenly after Samuel died?
My heart hammered. Could he tell how frightened I was? I took a deep breath. "Jake, I don't like how you've been treating me. I don't know what's going on, but ever since Samuel died, you've been cold toward me, and your recent affair was the last straw!" I was surprised to find that I was angry with him, that I was actually yelling now. My hands were clenched into fists. Everything I'd been bottling up, every hurt I'd swallowed for the sake of our marriage, came bubbling to the surface. Now I was more frightened of myself then I was of Jake. "How dare you just waltz back into my life with no apology whatsoever? I'm your wife, Jake. I deserve better than what I've been getting."
For just a second, Jake looked surprised to hear me stand up for myself in this way, but when he spoke, he returned my anger with his own. "Trina," he said, "I don't love you anymore. I haven't loved you for a long time. I've tried – God knows I've tried – but I just can't stand to be around you."
He stood there for several seconds, waiting for my reply, I suppose, but I felt drained. I had nothing more to say. So he turned around and left.
###
I stayed on the couch, sleepless, for hours. Then I fumbled through the motions of my morning routine and made my way to 221B Baker Street without waiting for John to call. He and Sherlock were up, as I expected, and he looked at me in surprise when I arrived. He might not have Sherlock's power of observation, but he knew immediately that I had not slept well. "Alright, Trina, you're going back to bed right now," he said. "I'll fill you in on the case later."
"Isn't that supposed to be bad for me, sleeping during the day?"
"Normally, yes, but you're in no condition to be working or, for that matter, driving. You're coming up to my room, and I'm going to give you something so that you'll get some significant rest. Then I'm taking you home tonight and dosing you up again." His mouth was set; his voice businesslike. He was all doctor now.
"You're not pregnant, are you?" he asked as we headed up the stairs.
"No, I'm definitely not."
"Good. Are you taking anything else besides your antidepressant right now?"
"No."
"Also good. Go ahead and lie down. I'll be back in a moment."
He returned with a tablet and a glass of water. "This should do the trick," he said. "I'll check on you in short while, to make sure this is working and that there are no side effects. I'll ask Mrs Hudson to check on you from time to time while we're out." I took the pill wordlessly; I was too tired to fight over whether or not I needed medication. Sleep overtook me quickly.
###
When I awoke, the flat was quiet. I was still groggy, but I wondered if I should go back home; it felt odd to be in John's bed. He'd placed a blanket over me; I warmed at the thought. My husband was so cold, and John was so caring. How could I not fall for him? I recalled that he had said he would take me home and dose me up again. Best to wait patiently for him and Sherlock to return. But when would that be? I was hungry. I looked at my watch. It was nearly four o'clock. I'd slept through lunch – no wonder I was hungry! I went downstairs and poked around in Sherlock's refrigerator. Mrs Hudson heard me moving around and poked her head in.
"John told me to watch out for you, dear. He says you are not to go home, but just wait for him to come get you. He's such a nice man, isn't he? Can I get you some tea and a sandwich?"
"Oh, thank you, Mrs Hudson. You read my mind," I said.
"Sit down then, and I'll bring it to you in a minute."
I selected a chair and idly leafed through papers nearby. Nothing of interest. Sherlock kept no novels; he had no use for them. What would I do to distract myself while I waited for John?
Mrs Hudson brought the tea, and I felt better after eating. I wandered back up to John's room. I noticed a book on his dresser and picked it up. Poetry. Oh, I liked that man. I sat on the chair – the bed felt too awkward, though the chair was not very comfortable – and lost myself in the words and rhythms of the poems. At 8:30, I heard footsteps, and John poked his head in the door.
"I've left Sherlock at the laboratory," he said. "I've come to take you home. How are you?"
"Much better," I said.
"Well, I want you to get another good sleep under your belt before you get back to work. Sherlock's almost finished with this case, but we already have another lined up, so there will be things for you to do tomorrow. Do you need something to eat?"
"Mrs Hudson gave me tea at four, but I am feeling a little hungry again."
"Then we'll stop for a quick bite on the way home, and then it's off to bed for you." We walked to the car, and he said, "Now, tell me why you were sleepless last night."
I felt a chill come over me, and I shivered. John reached out his hand and took hold of mine, to stop me from walking further. He looked me in the eye and waited.
"I had it out with my husband last night, like you suggested," I said. Come on, Trina. Did you need to say that? Are you trying to make John feel guilty? It was too late for me to take that back, so I continued. "It didn't go well. He told me he didn't love me, and then he left." I started to cry.
I wanted him to take me in his arms, and let me cry on his shoulder, but he just said, "Trina, I'm so sorry," and stood by awkwardly while I cried it out. After I stopped, he put one arm around me. "I'm so, so sorry," he repeated. I nodded, sniffling. He took the car keys out of my hand, opened the passenger door for me and took the driver's seat himself. I sat in the car as he drove, mulling over my conflicting feelings. I was totally obsessed with both John and the desire to see my husband again, to have him say that he was sorry and that he really did love me. How could my heart be split in two like this? I said very little during dinner, and John was content to leave me to my thoughts. He seemed to know that I was emotionally exhausted and needed space.
When we got to my house, it was dark. John pressed his lips together. "Any chance he came home and went to bed early?" he asked.
"It's doubtful," I admitted.
"Look," said John in a hushed voice. "If he is there, I shouldn't just walk into your room. Why not check for him? If he's there, I can dose you up outside the door, and then I want you to pop directly into bed. If he isn't there, I can give you the pill to take while you're in bed. I don't think I need to stick around, since you didn't experience any side effects with the first dose."
I nodded, went up to my bedroom, and quietly opened the door. I let my eyes adjust to the dark. The bed was made up neatly. Of course, he wasn't there. I started crying all over again, and John was at my side in a flash.
"Calm down," he said. "Trina, it's going to be alright. You'll feel much better when you've slept some more. I promise."
I nodded dully, and sat down on my bed, fully clothed. John went off to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. I took the pill he provided and lay down, feeling my eyes grow heavy almost immediately. The last thing I heard was John walking away and pausing at the door. "Good night," he said. And I was out.