Author's note: More than ever I want to thank my wonderful betas. Not only for their grammatical input and stuff but also for their advice and support when it comes to dealing with rather peculiar comments. ;-)
Emmi is a miracle.
I need two days to fully observe and catalogue everything she has learnt during our separation (sitting, crawling with her belly rubbing on the floor, eating pulp, biting).
I try to deduce how those weeks have been for her but my experience with babies is limited at best. She speaks less than she should (according to gruesome online portals that seem to be visited mainly by mummies with too much time and too little brains). That could indicate that John has been silent most of the time.
On the other hand, she is able to play on her own longer than a nearly nine months old infant needs to be able to. Probably indicating that John spent more time watching her than playing with her.
But well, the list is as endless as it is fruitless. It all boils down to one fact: John has been responsible but distant. I figured out that one before, thank you.
Yet one thing is clear without complicated deductions: Emmi is craving attention, and so am I. We are the perfect match. My parents take care of her when I am working on the unknown sailors' identities but I cannot bring myself to turn my attention away from her for long.
I was right, nearly two years ago. Babies change everything. Emmi alters our routines, for example. Suddenly there are regular feeding times and naps. I need to eat because she quickly starts to refuse her baby food if I do not eat something as well. (So much like John.)
I need to talk more so she will as well. Before long, she is happily babbling at every possible occasion. I can even deduce from the syllables she uses if she is informing me about stuff or complaining about it. (Informing sounds more like dadadamama while complaining is wawawawa.)
When she goes wawawawa about the need to get the nappies changed she looks exactly like John when he is complaining, lop-sided mouth and everything.
I miss him.
###
Time passes. Autumn gets darker, the island even more empty. My heart, on the other hand, grows fuller and fuller because of Emmi. I no longer think about every sentence I want to say before really saying it (only about half of them). I sleep and eat and know many nursery rhymes and children's songs by heart and know which way to the beach can be taken by a buggy and which cafés offer a good place to change nappies.
Yet, there is one thing I do regularly I would rather not have to. Every morning (and several more times on bad days) I check every available news source for reports on suicides of middle-aged men in Scotland. There have been two so far (one an overdose of sleeping pills, the other one a shot gun), but none of them John.
###
"Your daughter is so lovely," the girl with the two German shepherds (who always tries to flirt with me) says one day. "Where is her mother?"
"He is in Scotland," I say.
She no longer tries to flirt with me afterwards but Emmi is still allowed to learn how to pet dogs without pulling their hair.
###
One day (when I am reading Carle's "Do you want to be my friend?" to Emmi for the nth time) my heart tilts and the world stops turning for a second.
Because my mobile receives a text. From John.
I hit the wrong button three times before I finally see his text on the screen.
"Pick me up at 4.20 pm?"
I stare at it for a long time while my mind delivers four different routes he could have taken from his little Scottish refuge to the ferry that left Dagebüll one hour ago.
I try to deduce more from his text but fail (too short, too impersonal, not enough information). I do not know anything about his mood or his intention or his state of mind or his degree of sanity. Should I go to the harbour alone? Should I take Emmi? Should I buy some kind of welcome present? How deeply am I out of my depths if I seriously consider a welcome present?
After a while, when I am able to breathe again, I write an answer, "Of course!" I delete the exclamation mark, then I add it again, then I delete it again, then I add it again and then I press send before I can delete it again.
Thirty more minutes before the ferry arrives. It would be reasonable to wait another twenty minutes before leaving the house.
Three minutes later I am standing at the harbour. (Have decided against taking Emmi. John has been in a gruesome state of mind when Daddy was with him and it is highly unlikely that he is completely fine now, only twenty days later.)
I grow more and more agitated with every passing minute. (That poor man who happens to wait next to me for his future daughter-in-law.) (My first mean deduction after many months. Is that another sign that I am getting better? Well, maybe it is just a sign that I can still be an arsehole occasionally.)
The ferry lands (finally) and (a few) people come off. John is the last of them. (Walks painfully slow. Exhausted. Hesitant. Not all right.) He spots me (but his pace does not increase). I feel the need to run towards him in every single muscle of my body but I refrain from doing so. (Do not want to overwhelm him.)
When he finally reaches me I do not know whether to embrace him or to shake his hand or just to nod. He does not give me any hint in that respect.
Then he looks into my eyes for a second. What I see there is painful. I take a second to take him in completely. (Dull hair. Wrinkles around his eyes. Dark bags underneath them. Barely any physical tension. Looks at the ground to avoid my glance. No emotion on his face other than resignation and tiredness.)
My stomach clenches painfully. Suddenly I am not sure that there is enough of John left inside that man to be saved.
But I have to try. So I push that thought aside (which takes an enormous amount of strength) and grab his bag instead. "Let me carry that," I say instead of "Welcome" or "I missed you".
John does not object to me carrying his stuff (not good). He does not look at me again, just follows me wordlessly. When he is sitting inside daddy's car, he gives me the address of his holiday home (Nebel, nice house on the land side of the island). Then he looks out of the window in silence.
When I stop the car (after an eight minute drive) he looks at his feet. "Coming here was a mistake," he says softly.
I am out of my depths at what to answer.
"No," I blurt out the only thing that comes to my mind. I continue telling him how glad I am that he is here. That he is surely exhausted from the journey. That I will give him some time to unpack. That I will come back at eight so we can have dinner.
"Okay," he answers mechanically and leaves the car.
I wait until I am back home before I cry a little. Only a little. Then I cuddle Emmi and prepare to take John for dinner.
###
When I pick up John at eight, he has taken a shower, is shaved and wearing fresh clothes. His bag is not unpacked. He does not smile or touch me but follows me without resistance.
At the restaurant, I have to chose for him and make him eat.
I tell him more about Amrum, unimportant things like that the windmill in Nebel is now a museum or how important the island is for shelducks. He sometimes looks in my direction but never into my eyes. I do not think he is listening, so I refrain myself from telling him important things. He would most likely miss them anyway.
I am sure that in that ninety-eight minutes I talk more than I did during the last few weeks.
When I ask him if he would like to take a walk to the beach or go back to his holiday home, he just shrugs.
That could have gone better but at least he is here now.
###
When I come to pick him up the next day, he is moody. He still does not say much but when he does it hurts. So instead of talking, we spend most of our time together in silence, walking around the island. (Him trailing after me like a puppy without a will of his own).
We always have to take little breaks because John is downright exhausted. His eyes are blood-shot and his movements stiff. That is not just the result of the long journey yesterday. John has been exhausted, utterly so, for a long time now.
He gets angry with me for almost everything. For explaining the wildlife to him ("Do you have to show off?"), for deducing the people around us ("Leave that poor woman alone."), for suggesting breaks ("I can take care of myself."), for not taking breaks ("You are so inconsiderate.").
The terrible thing about it is that he is hurting himself with it, too. I can see it in his face every time I cannot hide my pain. When we are back at his holiday home after two hours we are both glad to part for a while.
Why is he doing this? Why is he hurting me when it hurts himself too? There is no logic behind his actions. I ponder it for a long time but have to admit that I am out of my depths.
The most unpleasant feeling when it comes to John. Because the truth is that I miss him terribly. Now that these strange new versions of him are here, I miss him even more than before.
###
Later that day, when we are having dinner together in a little pizzeria (or rather the little pizzeria, the only one on the island) he is all silent and absent-minded and I almost wish for him to lash out and hurt me again, for everything would be better than silence.
After resigned John who arrived on Amrum yesterday, exhausted John who spent the first evening with me and mean John from this morning, this is the fourth version of him that I have to deal with.
To think that this is the same person who once said brilliant instead of fuck off... Who always kept me right. Who gave me a hand job in the bathroom when I had cut my finger on purpose. Who took care of me after Mycroft had died in my arms. Who forced me not to give up in that (despicable) cellar.
It seems impossible that this is the same person.
Silent John is alert, I can see that from his eyes. He takes me in and thinks a lot but does not share those thoughts with me.
I think I like him less than all the other Johns I have met so far.
I do not know how I make it through the entire dinner without going insane. When it is finally over, I return him to his holiday home and leave the car in front of our house without going in. I need to think it all through. I need to understand what is happening inside John's funny little head.
"It's really not such a big riddle," Inner Mycroft tuts. He has been walking next to me for quite some time now. It is high tide, the dark beach is empty. Little waves are splashing onto the sand, the smell of algae is overwhelming. Occasionally the scream of a sea bird pierces the silence.
"Imagine a client tells you that her husband behaves differenly every time she sees him. What would you think?" Mycroft goes on. It is unthinkable that his expensive shoes get ruined by salt water, so my brain makes him walk just slightly above the ground.
"Multiple personalities," I start and he frowns. "Multiple siblings," I go on and he frowns even deeper. "Lousy acting," I try again and he finally smiles.
"And why would John act instead of being himself?"
This one is easy now. Because being himself is not what he wants. Because being himself scares him. Because he still believes Mary's lies.
"Because he still loves me," I conclude, a bit surprised.
Mycroft gives me a sad little smile, "Of course he does, little stupid brother."
Of course he does. And it scares him so much that he tried four different ways of coping with it.
He spent three months in Scotland trying to un-love me. He gave Emmi away so he could un-love her too. But apparently it didn't work. So he came here now to un-love me while spending time with me. (That's why he was so grumpy this morning. He was focusing on everything one could dislike about me.)
"How can I save someone who does not want to be saved?" I ask Inner Mycroft.
My dead brother shakes his head. "That is the wrong question, Sherlock," he tuts again. When I fail to answer, he goes on, "The better question, the only question is, how can Sherlock Holmes save John Watson?"
A good question indeed.