Sherlock

I didn't stay to see the other beds being opened up. First I went up to the top floor, where there ought to have been some sort of feed room from the security cameras. Not finding one, I went to the ground, told them I was with the police and asked where it was. The girl on the desk, already looking scared and harried since they're having to throw out all their existing guests, shook her head and glared at me. "I wish you people would talk to each other," she balks. Then lowered her voice to a hiss and said, "We told you all this before, there is no feed. They're not even real cameras. They're just a deterrent."

I got a good look at one before I left, just so I won't fall for that again. The lenses are dull black with nothing behind them. That's how I'll be able to tell in future.

Sent Lestrade a text telling him to ask around about the luggage trolleys they take up and down in the service lift, if any were missing or contained traces, but he hasn't text me back. I'm at home, debating whether or not to take that pin out of the map or leave it up just to represent that it happened. Chain-smoking again. It's too late to go to bed and anyway, how could I expect to sleep? So I'm just fussing over the stupid map and trying to think of anything, anything, anything that isn't five corpses, all tucked up inside their mattresses, in their pyjamas, in their accustomed positions, as if they just kept on sleeping until they started rotting away, how could I ever expect to sleep?

Please, make no mistake, I've seen bodies before. Death does not disturb me. I've come too close it on too many occasions to really care anymore. But that's it, that's the word, that's what disturbs me, care. The care that was taken over the corpses and their display and hiding them away and masking the smell and… and the three hairs. That means something. If he ever texts me back about the trolley I'll remind Lestrade to look into that, since I can't. And if he never texts me back I'll get Mycroft to put it to him. Yes, that's what I'll do, that's what I'll think about.

My hand stretches out, a finger to tap ash, but after that it just keeps tapping. I hate this. I know what this means. I'm so preoccupied with keeping those lovingly-handled corpses out of my mind that something else is getting the opportunity to slip back in.

That wasn't the point. The point was for it to be a distraction, to keep all of this away. But that's the thing about forgetting; it's the one process I've ever come across in all my existence that you cannot safely force upon yourself. It's the one thing that must happen organically. Because, short of knocking my head against the wall until it happens, the more I tell myself to forget, the more I remember.

It would be so easy. It would be like sleeping. I'm useless to anybody in this state, all wound up like this, and it would relax me. There are a thousand easy, easy reasons to do it. It would take me far, far away from all that… that craftsmanship. There was artistry at work in those hotel rooms. A bleak and sickening sort, yes, absolutely, of course, but no less worthy for begging to be denied. Guernica is beautiful, as is the richness of a bruise, the sound of a bottle breaking. Nobody thinks about it because it's difficult, but it is, and if you don't want to think about it how do you distract yourself? If you're weak and sick then what can you possibly do? And if it's a choice between living like that and doing one silly little thing you're not really supposed to, what sort of a choice is that? This isn't just justification, this is logic, damn it and if there are a thousand easy reasons to do it and only one against (and at that one which completely defies articulation), and if suddenly I'm able to remember all the words there are in telling myself to shut up and just go and do it then…

Then why not?

Heaven knows how long I'd sit here looking at a tiny, dead little girl chewing on her thumbnail, wearing one teddy bear slipper, if there were nothing in the world that could stop me seeing it.

I'm sorry, Mycroft. I know you tried, I knew that twenty-four hours ago, just as soon as you even asked. I know you tried. And we did really well, it was working but… But I'm sorry.

My resolve lasts about as long as the cigarette does. I stub it out, put my coat back on and fetch a couple of notes from the emergency money, under the skull. There's no hesitation this time, no shuffling at the door. It's not as if I'm even trying to convince myself that this is a good or healthy thing to do. I know it isn't. I just don't care. I know, already, how I'm going to feel tomorrow when I have to go through the sickness all over again, and so soon after last time, and when so many other avenues have been offered to me. The hate will crush me just as much as anything else. And it will hurt, oh, Christ, will it hurt…

Good.

Let the illness come. Let it do its worst, and wrack me body and soul. I don't want to be able to peel myself up from the bathroom tiles. I want it to hurt. I want it to hurt so much there's nothing left in me but the hurt, and nothing else, and there'll be no part of me spare to be selfless and think of anyone else. I want to disappear into it. That terrible place at the heart where me and my sickness are all there is, that place I was so desperate to escape less than seven days ago, take me back there. Christ, just let me get back there.

Jim

I must have slept in the end, because I wake up still on the couch. There's a knee in my ribs, and Dani standing over me, muttering something about 'Mein Fuhrer'. I point up at her in warning; "Now don't. What if I need you to go to Frankfurt for… I don't know, work or sausages or something, and they've barred you?" Sitting up I remind her she's already barred from Japan and take the cardboard coffee cup she presses into my hand. She sits down where my feet were and drinks from one of her own. "You're buying me a new coffee machine, by the way."

"I will be controlling your caffeine intake until I know it's healthy. You will get a new coffee machine when I decide you can be trusted."

"Now who's the great dictator?"

She puts a finger to her lips. "Don't forget about the sausages." She seems in a better mood, anyway. Or maybe it's because I've had a bit of rest, everything seems a little brighter.

"Any messages this morning?"

"Just the one. An excited, Peter-Lorre-sounding gentleman rang up and oozed down the phone how, and I quote, 'they finally found the sleeping beauties'. He swore it would mean something to you." Well, it's about time. They were going to open those beds someday and just find skeletons instead of stuffing. I explain what happened there to her and, once she gets over her initial revulsion (I felt the same, but a client's a client), we end up taking bets on what the tabloids are going to call him. There's smart money on both 'Sandman' and 'Night Nurse'.

She texts Moran and his answer comes back, 'What's wrong with 'mass-murderer'?'

"You did say 'tabloid' in the message, didn't you?"

Dani shrugs, "Maybe he's being sarcastic? You can ask him when he gets here."

"What?"

"I said I'd make breakfast. What with you having slept, you've got something to celebrate, and he's off on his hit-slash-dirty-weekend as of this afternoon so… I thought I'd get us all together." Oh, she just thought. It's never a good thing, when Dani starts thinking, y'know. Dani always thinks of things that complicate matters. But… But she does make a nice fry-up, so maybe I'll trust her for an hour or so. Then she says, over her shoulder, all sweetness and light, "You don't mind, do you?"

That's how I know she's got more cooking than eggs and bacon.

I follow her out of the office, on my way to change out of this fetching t-shirt and duvet combo, watching every move. I know this sounds paranoid again, but honestly, I watch her butter toast and the first thought comes into my head is of being buttered up. Naturally I try and put that sort of thing away, not giving in to that sort of thinking. Moran and Danielle are my very nearest associates. They would never have gotten that close if I had anything reason to suspect that they would ever plot against me. Something might well be going on, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. No, they couldn't have gotten this close to me if I'd ever thought for a second I couldn't handle them. I'm alright. Totally alright.

Moran is coming in just as I come out from getting dressed. It's the first I've seen him since he finished his football team. He looks… I'm sorry to say this, because it's making me feel ill, but honestly? He looks post-coital. He's rubbing his hands together, grinning all over his face. "Morning, Jim-" shouting past me towards the kitchen, "Where's this feed then?"

The call comes back, "Don't worry, dear, I'll whistle…"

"She just call me a dog?" he says to me. Then grins again, "Lighten the fuck up, mate, crack a smile!"

Moran is on a whole other plane of happy. I'm so glad for him. I'd get him to kill every footballer in the country if I thought he could keep this up. I suppose it's been the process of getting them all, right down to the goalie, and now the fact that he gets to go and hide his head… I'm sorry, I can't finish that. But really, I am, honestly, glad for him, that he turned out to be so easily pleased, that all his dissatisfactions have apparently been solved by one busy, dangerous week.

Again, I find myself following them around in my own home. He goes through and starts sniffing things over Dani's shoulder, until she puts him back. Turns around and pinches his cheek, hard, "How was Manchester then, Sebby?"

Look at him. Look at his eyes, drifting, fuck's sake. Honest to God, the lunatics I've surrounded myself with, it's just plain distasteful.

But anyway, me and him get seated along the breakfast bar, as you do. Dani dishes up, but stays standing. Easier for her, probably. And then she stops looking at me. Moran talks and talks about Manchester, about his revelation, and she doesn't even have a crude joke to make about any of it. So after a while, I put out a hand to him. "Listen, please don't think I'm being really rude. I'm truly happy for you and obviously I do want to hear every detail. But can we have a To Be Continued, for just five minutes here?"

"What's the matter?" he says, offended despite all my attempts to placate him, and completely clueless. But Danielle has looked up from picking at her breakfast.

Just to steady myself, I fold a slice of bacon up inside my toast and bite into it. Nodding at her, mouth full, "Go on ahead there, love. Floor's yours."

It makes her nervous, being called on so directly. But she tosses her head and starts in regardless. Says, "Do you remember what we were talking about, before you fell asleep?"

"Yes."

"There's a way around it."

Of course there is, but I'm supposed to spot it. "Well? I'm all ears."

"All you really need is another face."

There's a moment's silence. Moran, because I don't think he can bear the thought of anything serious right now, starts laughing, "Jesus, Dani, between calling me a dog and now-"

"Shut up," I tell him. "She's onto something."