A Cold Case
Chapter 16
"Take some more tea," The March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone. "So I can't take more." You mean you can't take less," said the Hatter. "It's very easy to take more than nothing."
(Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures In Wonderland)
He blamed the fridge. For the milk in the carton going off while he was in Serbia. (Or had it just been on the turn when John Watson made tea the evening before? Had he sniffed the carton, decided it was on it's way out, had meant to mention it….but then got distracted by argument? And decided bad milk was good revenge?) Blamed the butter in it's scruffy wrapper being rancid because he had not eaten it. Blamed the strawberry jam in the jar down to the last scrapings because he had forgotten to do such a banal thing as go to the shop. But mostly he blamed himself.
For not having been able to sleep. For his whirring thoughts. For too many dark corners in his mind palace. For having gone to Serbia and killed a man at Irski Zamat.
So how was it that killing the man whose behaviour had stopped him sleeping properly for years, now stopped him sleeping this night, now that man was dead?
He was furious. With life, with himself, with the enduring images behind his eyes of Iztvan Banduka. Images new and old.
So he lay in bed, tossed and turned, did not sleep, chased thoughts down the alleyways of his mind until he admitted sleep was never coming, flounced out of bed, showered and shaved in a temper. And was even angrier when he flung open the fridge door and found the only things edible in there was half a jar of olives, a lemon and two slightly wrinkled tomatoes.
Just when the stress and the sleeplessness had got to be too much, it was the little things that annoyed and frustrated the most. And the other annoying fact was the last thing he had eaten was a handful of odd items from a paper bag slung his way by Branko Ilic two days ago: an apple, some cold meat slices, and an energy bar. Not enough for a mouse to exist on, never mind a tall gaunt man still in recovery cum convalescence and was now in desperate need of food and a sugar rush. Even though nutritionists claimed belief in the comfort of a sugar rush was no more than an urban myth.
Urban myth or not, his transport craved strawberry jam and toast. Strong sweet tea. Apples and perhaps peaches. Pain au chocolat. Bacon sandwiches. Anything sweet or indulgent. Or both.
If he should ever admit such pathetic ordinary longings within himself, he might admit he actually now felt in need of something sweet and self indulgent, if impossibly trivial. Food was just an indulgence. A human weakness. And he had had his fill of human indulgence; his own, and that of others.
It had been an indulgence to go to Serbia. To engage Ilic again, to search the castle, to finally complete his last incomplete mission in some way, in whatever way he could. To find again the trail back to Moriarty that had been lost when he had been rescued by his brother. He supposed 'rescue' was one word for it. Even then; that rescue had been vainglorious, an empty gesture. Not so much to save his life but to gather and return to London simply who - what - was just the best tool to foil the second unthinkable Gunpowder Plot.
Himself.
So now he had returned, against all his instincts, to go back in time, pick up the old trail. And, as it happened, to kill Banduka.
Killing Banduka could perhaps have been avoided. Debatable in the cold light and logic of mission debrief.
Was to focus on self preservation a purely personal indulgence at a time of danger? Probably. Possibly But it had needed to be done, in the heat of the moment, because there had been no practical alternative. Yes. No: there had been no alternative. A length of pipe and a glint in an evil eye had made it so.
But, still; in the side pocket of the black combat trousers back in his wardrobe was a small evidence envelope that contained fragments of burnt paper and ash. All there was to be discovered in that empty, echoing castle. But whatever those fragments were, they had to have some importance, otherwise they would not have been destroyed, burnt secretly in a cold distant hearth.
Hope. A dangerous emotion to have, to hold, to dare to believe in. Tried to squash any thought of exhilaration that might have bubbled, that made the trip to Serbia worthwhile. For many reasons…
Later, when his head was clear, when his hands had stopped trembling, when he had slept, he would undertake the forensic tests on those fragile grey powdery remnants, and he would read those secrets, and they would create their own trail of breadcrumbs to lead him to Moriarty. He knew it.
But, he finally came to realise afterwards - he should not complain too much. If the demands of his transport had not got him up and out and about so unusually early, down to the corner shop two streets away that always opened at 6am, he would not have seen her. Assimilated the shock. Spoken to her. And more.
If he had not been up and out so early to find food he would not have seen her, stopped, studied, smiled, spoken. Not eaten breakfast and started the day with something else to think about. Something strange, new and puzzling.
But all that was later. For now, needs must. So he shrugged himself into the Belstaff, wrapped the blue cashmere scarf around his throat, stepped out into the January dark and drizzle, and hurried to Patel's. Even at 6.17am Paul Patel was smiling and determinedly cheerful and bright. Very annoying.
But thjs mission was successful. A bloomer loaf, butter, Tiptree Little Scarlet Conserve, pain au chocolat, milk, eggs, Braeburn apples, nectarines. He clutched the laden plastic carrier to his chest. He was cold, damp, and hungry. And food, sweet, warming food, would at least be a physical comfort. And this was another day, after all. A day after a day that had gone from bad to worse. But in smaller, more annoying, ways.
John Watson should not have been at Baker Street. Waiting. Should not have been worrying and watching. Should not have seen the pain and the damage. Should not have capitulated so suddenly to the often repeated idea of coming home, and bringing Rosie.
So the doctor had not been pleased to find his concern and his great concession rebuffed. The reaction to his definitive good humoured decision to move back to 221B with Rosie. Understandable, really. Perfectly normal, as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned. To have the goalposts in front of him suddenly shifted.
Oh, but then Sherlock Holmes had not been expecting that, that sudden capitulation after so many cross words and arguments exchanged about that very subject. For John Watson to decide that finally, properly, coming home from the place where he had inhabited his marriage with Mary, where Rosie had spent the first few months of her little life.
Such an unexpected and good natured unforced admission too - that 221B had been home, had remained the definition of home still, despite he and his daughter living elsewhere, in another Victorian terraced house that was brighter and more modern and more spacious…..but not right. Not his real place, not his real home. Nor his child's.
The scruffy old house with the noisy boiler, creaking stairs and clanking water pipes, next door to an eccentric café, an old fashioned house occupied by a feisty old lady and an eccentric antisocial genius - that was home for John Watson. Was the place where he really belonged. With the people he really belonged to. The place where Sherlock Holmes needed him to be.
But. Suddenly. Just not now. Just not yet.
John Watson had looked up at Sherlock Holmes with an open expression of shock and concern at such a negative reaction to his decision to come home; and Sherlock Holmes hated to see that.
But there was no fist in the face this time. No blows that took him down. No flare of anger. Just a silent thoughtfulness. Which was more terrifying in it's way than blows.
"What's got into you now?" the doctor asked, finally. "To make you change your mind? What aren't you telling me?"
"I've told you I killed a man today. Isn't that enough?"
"To do what?"
"Put you off coming back to live here. Protect your daughter from being anywhere near me."
John Watson shook his head.
"You have just been kneeling by her side, talking softly to her. Holding her hand and playing with her hair. Soothing her to sleep. Like a normal human being. Like a real godfather…."
"That was just a moment of weakness," he excused himself with a shrug and a sneer. "She as tired. And I am very….tired, too. It has been a long 48 hours."
"So what are you not telling me? What has changed?"
"I….." he started speaking, but words failed him, so he turned away. Tried again.
"In the early hours of this morning I killed a man. I didn't have any choice in the matter. Not really. But he was one of Moriarty's men, the Serbian torturer. His name was Iztvan Banduka. I left him alone and very dead in an empty castle, having made his killing look like an accident.
"When Moriarty finds out….." His voice deserted him suddenly. And he was hot with fear, with anticipation. But not for himself. He cleared his throat, tried again. "He will know it was no accident. Know it was me. And he will want his revenge. I have just ramped up the situation several hundred per cent. I have given Moriarty every reason to kill me now – and as soon as he can. Strike back. Show his underlings and other victims his power. By killing me.
"So you must not be here. So you won't meet my fate with me. Not by thought or association or proximity. You must be out of sight, out of reach, out of mind. And not near enough to be stupid enough to try to protect me. Because this is not just about you. Or you and me. Rosamund cannot be sucked into this and become an innocent victim too. So you must step away now, John. And stay away."
"I can't do that." John Watson's head went up at the challenge.
Yes, you can. You must. For both your sakes"
"You need me. At your back, with a gun, as always."
The smile was twisted, ironic, sad, before he replied.
"No. Not as always. Things are different now. You have Rosie to care for. She is more important than me."
"I also have Faithful. She will look after Rosie, keep her safe even better than I could. You know that. For God's sake, Sherlock! I can't let you deal with this on your own!"
"Of course you can! And you must! After all, you are only standing at my side for this because you don't believe what I'm telling you. Not about Moriarty, not any of it. You are just humouring the freak. Aren't you? Doctor?"
He could feel the panic rising in him; his need to strike out and push the other man away, as far away as he could. Waiting now for John Watson to get angry, to give him something solid and punishing to fight against, to give him the tools to push his friend away.
"Why are you being like this?" But instead of the anger he was ready for, depending on, the gentle enquiry that came now almost broke his heart, with so much unwanted empathy and understanding.
"To get you out of the way." Surprise drove honesty from him "Drive you away. It should be working! It always has before!"
"Calm down."
"I can't calm down! This is far too important!"
"Of course it is! But not just to you! Not any more! This is important to both of us – all of us. Rosie included. Because I was thinking about what you said the other day. We may be a strange sort of family, but we are a family. Life has brought us together, kept us all close. And after all, we are all each other have got when it comes down to it. You, me, Rosie, Mrs Hudson. We are a family and a team. And you know what else? None of us are much good without the others.
"So we should come home, Sherlock. It's the least Rosie and I can do."
The kindness and consideration, the thoughtfulness, was breaking him. He had to rally; had to change John Watson's mind.
"Two days ago I would have been thrilled to hear you say that. But things have changed, John. Due to me. Not you. My actions, my fault. It's for me to take the consequences of that. Not you."
He sucked in a deep breath, worked hard not to show his panic, his frustration. Or how close he was to tears.
"So please? Do this for me? Go back to your little home, and stay there. Stay there until this is over. And don't come back until it is. Because I don't think retaliation will be long coming. Retaliation. Retribution. Revenge. Whatever you want to call it. I can't have you both caught up in this. Not now."
John Watson listened, and heard.
"OK, so what about Mrs Hudson?"
"Mrs Hudson is tougher than both of us. She also has an escape room below her pantry and a direct line alarm to Mycroft. I insisted on both being installed when I….when I jumped from Bart's. Mrs Hudson will be safe, regardless."
"You thought of everything, even then?"
"No. Not everything. I never assumed life would keep rippling outwards. I assumed I had stopped the clocks; that life would not go on without me. That life would not change without me. I was wrong. Of course I was. I always get something wrong. And sometimes it is the biggest thing I get wrong.
"And yet….here I am, again. Facing more consequences."
"Stop it, you idiot! Just stop beating yourself up."
"Why? This. This is all my fault."
"No, it's not. It's Moriarty's. You could never have known – when all this started, with Carl Powers, all those years ago, when you were just a kid – that Moriarty was a psychopath as well as a killer….and I know that doesn't sound right, but you know what I mean." He laughed a little, despite himself. "This is not your fault."
"Perhaps not. But I made it worse," he stated baldly. For this was no time to start telling John Watson about Dark Star; about Moriarty's sexual obsession and possession. About the videos on the dark web and secret knowledges and skills he had learnt – in fear, in loathing, in domination and despair - as a child that had made him untouchable, unknowable, unlovable and morbidly unique.
"How?" The single word was not a question, but a challenge.
"By breathing, I suppose. Still breathing. I've told you. He is obsessed with me. Seems he always has been."
"Why? I mean – apart from the fact that you are brilliant, successful, unique and ridiculously handsome?"
"Oh, please! Do shut up. I am none of those things."
"You may not think so. But that is how you appear. And to appear so is enough. Especially for the Moriarty's of this world. Because that makes you the eternal, irresistible challenge. On every front possible."
"You see my problem."
The words were stark; an admission. And John Watson's response was almost as bleak.
"Yes. I think I do. I think I do, now. But it doesn't make any difference. I'm damned if I am going to let Moriarty – or whoever is standing in Moriarty's shoes – take you down."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to let that happen either. I never have, and I'm not starting now. But you see why you and Rosie have to get away? Stay away from me? For now?"
There was a long silence. A long, considering look. An acceptance of fate.
"Yes. I don't like it, but yes. I do."
"Good. Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Not until this is over. Because I am going to stay in touch, going to text and call. Keep checking on you…." He grinned, and was calmer. "It is going to take the workmen a good few weeks to get 221C livable. And by then…."
"By then it will be all over, I think. One way or another."
"So can Rosie and me…." He hesitated, but ploughed on. "Can Rosie and me come home then?"
He wanted to say yes. Clap John Watson on the shoulder, laugh and release all that tension within him, within them both. Because John Watson had capitulated and had not thumped him. Had understood his reasons and agreed to act on them.
But he could not say 'yes' as easily as that. However much he wanted to. Too much loomed ahead of him. And all too soon. Because he had killed a man who had needed killing. So he simply nodded briefly, and said: "We'll see."
Because, for now, that was the only honest answer he could give.
o0o0o
When John Watson and his daughter had left for the place they lived, their current home, Sherlock Holmes packed away the playpen and the toys and slid them all under the leather sofa, out of sight. So no-one would see, and would know, that his goddaughter visited, and even stayed there.
Their leave taking had been what anyone else might call upsetting.
John Watson had packed his daughter's belongings into her haversack, which he shrugged into and settled on his back, scooped Rosie, now dressed again in her coat and woolly hat, up onto one arm and paused in front of the consulting detective, and held out a hand.
Sherlock Holmes looked down at it blankly.
"Shake my hand. A proper goodbye," the doctor urged.
"We don't do that. We don't shake hands. Just twice, in all these years….."
"Then shaking hands is overdue."
There was a long pause while Sherlock Holmes thought about it, then slowly lifted a hand. But withdrew it as the smaller, squarer hand rose to meet his.
"No," he said with terse finality. "Too formal. Too final. Tempts fate."
"You? Superstitious?" The question was half disbelieving, only half mocking.
"Not at all. You know I don't…." He hesitated, flailed the hand still hanging uncertainly in midair. "Do that. Touch people."
"You have touched me before," There was an intensity in John Watson that appeared suddenly, and without constraint. "Just the other day. Held me close. Held me up. When I….I broke down in tears."
"The exception that proves the rule, then." The words were brisk. "But don't ever expect me to let you return the favour. Or whatever that was."
"Touchy. Prickly." The words were stern, but their tone wasn't.
The free hand not holding the child reached out, went around the waist of the taller man and dragged him into an awkward half hug.
"Put up with that, then," he ordered. "Just in case I never see you again."
Sherlock Holmes felt himself pressed tight into a strong shoulder, and felt his goddaughter very close, her talcum powdery smell and her breath on his face.
He shook his head and pulled away before the emotion of the moment showed on his face, or in his bearing, before he was tempted to return such a simple human contact.
Said nothing more, but ushered doctor and daughter out of the door and closed it behind them.
He crossed the room in five strides to the window, was in time to see them step onto the pavement just as an immaculate Bentley glided to a halt beside them. He cursed, stepped back a little, even though he already knew he was not in sight to those outside.
John Watson leaned in to the open rear nearside window and there was a brief exchange before he stepped away, heading to the nearest Tube station.
Predictably, a tall, elegant man in immaculate evening dress left the car, approached the heavy black door to 221B, opened it and came up the stairs. The door to the flat opened with a similar lack of formality.
Sherlock Holmes, who had retreated to his Memory Palace position, stretched out full length on the old leather sofa, hands together before his face as if in prayer, and with his eyes closed, did not deign to recognise the presence of his older brother until Mycroft stood in front of him, leant down and flicked his nose sharply with a disdainful index finger.
He refused to flinch, and opened his eyes slowly.
"Bit overdressed for visiting here, aren't you? Or is this your version of body armour?"
"Is that intended to be amusing?"
Mycroft Holmes was even more immaculate that usual, evening dress tailored to perfection, smoothly shaved and groomed, trailing a hint of Clive Christian Number One cologne, with it's distinctive overtones of lime and pepper, cardoman, bergamot and artemisia oils.
His brother closed his eyes again and wriggled down further into the cushions behind him, sibling dismissed.
"Juvenile of you not to respond to my texts."
"Better things to do."
"What? Returrning to Serbia? Couldn't you stay away?"
"No. Business to finish."
"Ah. Baron Maupertuis, I take it?"
"Not exactly, no. Iztvan Banduka."
"Who?"
"The charismatic chap with the length of pipe and the shaven head. The guy who had been in the Navy. Had an unhappy love affair and an adulterous wife. Remember him?
Not especially."
"Pity. If you had – if you had been thorough – if you had been more focussed on me rather than just mission – you might have killed him for me that night. Saved me having to do the job. Yesterday."
"I'm sorry." The tone was not apologetic, but peeved.
"So you should be. Would have saved me a lot of grief."
"Do you actually know what grief is? Priorities? The call of duty?"
"Better than you do, it seems. I never betrayed you to Moriarty. Told him your history, your secrets. Gave him leverage."
"Oh, God! Not this again! I told you; it was a ploy. To get him to speak, to open up, and then defeat him….."
"And it didn't bloody work, did it? Was never going to, was it? You hung me out to dry. And at the end of it you sat and watched me being tortured. And did nothing about it."
"Nothing? I went in. I got you out."
"No you didn't. You got an operative out. Not me, not your brother. You condescended to go back into the field to fetch nothing more than the one tool you needed for what you considered a more important job than destroying Moriarty and his web. Very inconvenient for you to have to swot up a language and get your hands dirty. I do apologise for being captured and tortured in such an uncivilised country as Serbia. It must have been awful for you."
"Stop it."
"Awful. All that nasty leg work. And still not finishing off my job for me. Killing Moriarty's torturer for me. Closing down the connection. Picking up any leads. Leaving me to have to go back and do it for you."
"That is what you were doing? On your flying visit to Serbia?"
"Of course. Someone had to."
"That mission is over and done. Years ago. Was then, is now."
"No. If it had been finished then I would not have wasted two years of my life almost achieving it. But as it was…you left loose ends. And those loose ends are going to kill me before too long."
"How many times do I have to say this? Moriarty. Is. Dead."
"So you are putting everything that has been happening the past few weeks down to my over heated imagination? The trainers? The mystery phone with it's messages? The attempt to run me down outside Angelo's? All the connections to Moriarty that have been flapping in the wind the past few years? Because no-one picked up on them? Not even me?"
Melodrama."
"Fact. You just don't want to see it. Because it shows you up….."
"Stop it. Just stop. I've had enough. I didn't make you go to Serbia in the first place, nor to go back there now. You followed a trail only you can see. You did this, all by yourself. You are fixated, you are ill. You still look like death after going down into the depths to rescue John Watson. And what was that about?"
"Nothing to do with you."
"Of course it is! When it does – this – to you!" He made an elegant, all encompassing gesture, something between distress and disdain.. "Makes you belligerent, blame me for everything. One of these days you are going to knock once too often on death's door. And then what are we going to do? Eh, Sherlock?
"Mummy? Papa? Martha and Molly and Lestrade? Even all the drop outs and failures in your homeless network? What do we all do then? Have you thought about that?"
"Now who's being melodramatic?"
"Not me! We used to be brothers – proper brothers - once. But that was before Sri Lanka. When I wasn't there to….save, or help or do whatever you felt was needed. When I let you down. But since then, since that day when Bradshaw and Gallagher returned something that looked like you back to us from those kidnappers and whatever they did to you, they returned something that was no longer the little brother I knew; and since then we haven't been how we should be, have we? Proper brothers. Connected.
"I looked at you as you walked towards me then – so damaged, so disillusioned and hollow somehow, eons older than you had been six weeks earlier when I saw you last. And I didn't recognise you. You looked at me as if I was a stranger and said William was dead, you were Sherlock now; and there was nothing I could do, or say in reply.
"And there hasn't been anything I have been able to say to you ever since."
There was a silence that held for a second too long.
"Get out. You're droning. And I'm bored."
"You may be bored, but at least you are safe. Think about that."
He straightened the knot on his tie, shot his cuffs.
Self protective gestures. Interesting.
"Anyway: I need to be gone. I have a formal state banquet at the Foreign Office, and I must not be late."
"Bully for you."
o0o0o
In the time since he had been awake the memories of the unexpected events of the previous evening, and the thoughts and reactions to his fleeting but fatal visit to Serbia the day before, tumbled over themselves in his brain. So much so that showering, shaving, dressing and shopping had been a matter of functioning on atuto pilot – the real world was the one in his head.
But now, as he walked home in the cold drizzle with his bag of groceries, it was the unexpected sight of a familiar face in front of him that spun him instantly back into the immediacy of the here and now.
A woman was standing alone on the wet empty pavement, looking across the road at 221B. With everyone else scurrying past with their heads down, those early commuters to their work, the stillness and the concentration of this woman caught his eye.
A trim figure in a traditional camel duffle coat with horn toggles, denim boot cut jeans, black block heeled biker boots, leather crossbody messenger bag. Shoulders hunched, fists deep in pockets, face upturned. Looking towards the double front windows of the first floor flat. His flat.
She had not noticed him. Not yet. So he had a split second to decide what to do. And how. Fate, he thought. Scouting ahead. Testing the waters. Stepping ito the enemy camp. Scenting the scene. Or.
Building defences. Applying whitewash. Camping it up. Wide eyes innocence. Cat and mouse. Mouse and cat.
So he drew himself up to his full height, kept walking, crossed the road to join her. Watched her eyes widen in surprise at the sight of him.
"Good morning, Mrs Lake. How lovely to see you again. But such a cold wet morning. Care to come up? You can get warm and dry again inside. Have some breakfast with me, perhaps? I have just been out to forage for fresh supplies. My feast is yours."
He offered his best smile and relaxed, all open body language. Shuffled his bag so the contents rustled their identity, pulled up the pack of pain au chocolat to prove what he said was true. Gave a little nod of confirmation of his words and actions, then turned on his heel to cross the road and open the street door.
Did not look back, could not hear her because of the swish of passing traffic, the footsteps of pedestrians. But as he leant on the door to open it and turned slightly, he saw her oscillate a little on the pavement as she decided what to do. And then follow him.
Her choice. No pressure. How interesting.
He supressed a smile and walked slowly up the stairs. Heard her shut the front door behind her, heard her feet on the treads, following him. Upwards, across the half landing, up to the first floor, to hesitate in the doorway.
"'Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.'" She quoted. "Is that it?"
He put the shopping carefully down on the kitchen worktop, turned and leant back into her view across the sitting room.
"Not at all. You are no fly – no victim of mine. And I certainly won't eat you! It is your son who is the spider. In fact. Weaving his world wide web of crime and intrigue."
She looked at him, impassive, and took her time replying. And he waited. Blinking. Not helping.
"I have no idea what you are talking about," she said, the picture of innocence apart from her sudden haughty look, her clenched hands. "My son – all my sons – are dead."
"So I've heard." He kept his voice mild, neutral.
He held out his hands to her in the silent age old gesture, offering to take her coat, and waited patiently while she made the decision to step deeper into what she clearly wanted – needed - to consider a trap. But was convinced by his moderate tone, lured in by his quiet patience and physical ease; her need – he thought – to see him as villain or victim or victimiser – before she finally removed it, and he accepted it, hung it on a peg in the corridor nearest to the radiator.
"It will dry quickly there," he explained reassuringly. "Be warm to put on again when you leave."
"Thank you," she said faintly; and he smiled inwardly how his unexpected courtly good manners had put her off balance. Instinctively, he had made the right decision.
"So: what can I do for you?"
"I was nearby. Just gave into an impulse to see where you lived."
"No. I meant – what would you like for breakfast?"
"Oh!" She was flustered, and watched him empty the bag, as if disbelieving his capacity for domesticity; watched bread, jam, fruit, pastries, milk, appear. He buried his smile behind the groceries.
"As you can see, all provisions are fresh from the shop. I haven't had a chance to poison anything."
His words were so softly spoken she clearly could not tell if he was apologising or joking.
She thought about it, and chose to laugh. A nervous, embarrassed sound. Stayed in the doorway, just watching, as he washed the fruit and put it in a bowl in the centre of the old scarred table. Unwrapped butter he laid into a butter dish. Switched on the grill, the kettle. Laid two places with plates, napkins, cutlery, condiments. Filled two small dishes with warm water and a slice each of the lemon. All without comment, but with sure, economical movement. Knew she was watching his every move. Saw her raised eyebrow towards the dishes.
"Finger bowls," he said.
"You are…unexpectedly competent," she observed.
"When I choose. Yes."
He did not look at her, was happy to encourage her unease. To see what turning the tables on her revealed.
"Tea or coffee?"
"Tea. Please."
She had agreed to sharing breakfast without realising it.
"English Breakfast or Russian Caravan?"
"Russian Caravan."
He took down a canister, spooned rough black tea leaves into a pot.
"Please relax. Your son took afternoon tea with me some years ago. He left safely and in one piece. Not poisoned."
"Well, that's reassuring."
He put milk into a jug, sliced the rest of the lemon that had been lurking in the fridge into a saucer, presented sugar cubes in a covered pot.
"You are…unexpected," she saw, awkwardly, as if despite herself. As if she had to say something.
"Thank you. I consider that a compliment."
"Hmn. Really? Well…." She reacted as if stung. "The flat's too small. Shabby. Scruffy. Why would someone like you live over a seedy little café? Surely you could afford something bigger? Better?"
He gave the appearance of thinking, considering her words.
"I suppose I could. But this is comfortable enough. Convenient. Suits me. I live frugally, and alone. I have no-one else to consider, and need nothing more."
"Alone? Really?"
"Yes. As you can see."
He swept a hand around the room. Thanked fate for having tidied away the playpen and toys. Part of his split second decision to invite her into his home had been to prove to her, on Moriarty's behalf, that John Watson and his daughter did not live with him, were no longer an important part of his life. Or at best, not enough a part of his life to become targets in their own right.
"Didn't you once live with your assistant? Your blogger?"
"Years ago. We were younger, and both hard up. A mutual friend introduced us, and together we could afford this place. Hardly unusual. Then he got married, had a child. Moved on. As people do."
She nodded, looking round. No Watson coats on the coat hooks, no Watson shoes in the hall. No toys or baby books. Not even any visible items left by other visitors. What she could see was nothing but the shabby detritus and surface untidiness of the busy life of Sherlock Holmes.
He put a rack of toast on the table, made tea as they spoke.
"But one would expect to see some significant other in your life," she protested. "You are good looking," she declared, looking at him as if for the first time. "Handsome even."
"If you say so." He shrugged, patently disinterested, concentrating on food preparation.
"Surely you are the very definition of tall dark and handsome?" She prodded further, seeking reaction.
His laugh was unforced. "There are many men taller, darker and far more handsome. I do not seek intimacy." He calculated before he spoke again. "Perhaps I just remind you of someone?" He made the self deprecating suggestion as if he had just thought of it. She had given him the opportunity; so the push and the probe was easy, and sounded merely natural He watched her flush a little and drop her eyes. Pushed again. "Some film star, perhaps? Some faded prog rocker from your youth?"
She pulled a face at him, saying 'as if!' as clearly as if she had spoken. He hid the interrogation behind another question, sounding light hearted, and distanced; because he had not missed the sudden snatch of breath and tiny crack in her confidence.
So. The memory of Dragan still remained close to the surface. Thank you, Conrad!
"I don't think so. I was hardly a teenage fan girl."
He pushed gently forward, just a little further. "Or even a lost love, then? If so I am sorry. There has been more than enough tragedy in your life."
"What?" It caught her unawares; her response was sharp.
"I mean your sons. Losing all three of your sons."
"Oh. Yes. That."
He watched her shoulders relax.
"Yes. That. So I apologise. I seem to have been involved, somehow, however accidentally."
"You were interested in Carl's death. A lot of people were. It made all the newspapers. And apparently you were with Jamie when he died." Statements. Almost accusatory.
"Carl was a puzzle I responded to. I was very young. But I never forgot him. As for Jamie….I had never expected – never anticipated – he would do what he did." He made no effort to keep the honesty and the reaction from his voice or his face. "Believe me. If the course of action he took had ever even crossed my mind, I would have stopped him. Believe that, too."
He spoke as sincerely, as pragmatically, as if he had asked her whether she took sugar and milk. But had also avoided all the trigger words. Murder. Drown. Poison. Bullet. Gun. Suicide. Mad.
"You're just getting that, now?" Echoes of the past, played on repeat…..
Sitting opposite him, watching him calmly pour tea into her cup – from the same Ali Miller Home Sweet Home teaset he had used to offer afternoon tea to Moriarty – she was very still, very self contained, barely breathing. And he also saw how she was being so very wrong footed by him, exactly as he had intended, trying to decide how to read and assess him. Because he was not behaving in any way she must have expected. But exactly as he had planned.
So. She had been taken aback at being seen, so very early in the murk of a winter's morning, at a time when she had never anticipated he would be out and about. At being greeted with politeness, invited in with old fashioned consideration and courtesy rather than the barbed coldness with which she had always greeted him. Unsettled by merely watching him do something as mundane as prepare breakfast, and with economic efficiency. And how none of that had sat comfortably with any her preconceptions about him.
Preconceptions given by Jim Moriarty.
Good. More than one way to skin a cat, Jim. To settle on an opening gambit in chess, to spin the gun barrel when playing Russian roulette…
Are you really so naïve?" she asked, watching steam curl from her cup, reaching for a slice of toast. He offered the butter dish, popped the metal lid and pushed the fresh strawberry jam towards her.
"Not at all. Are you?"
Their eyes met across the table. She blinked first.
"Are you normally so solicitous?" she parried.
"I don't know. Are you normally so affected by receiving common courtesy?"
Her mouth twisted a little, and she hid it by biting into her toast.
An interesting reaction. Struck deep into the past, did it? Reflex? Pain? Self protection?
"You have the look of your mother about you."
The judgement, the sudden acid tone, came from nowhere, That was not what he could have expected her to say.
So she was still deep into the past. A past always close to the surface. Always lost in her head somewhere?
'Recollection is not something that I can summon up. It simply comes and I am the servant of it' Now - who said that?
Let her tone roll past with a bland expression.
"I am sure it must be so much easier to get on in the world if you are beautiful. Like she did." There was a sharp edge, almost of spite, to her words. And he thought about the schoolgirl at St Aldate's with ambition beyond her ability, her resentment beyond reason. Her rejection of objective assessment, of truth.
"I have never thought about it," he said simply, as if he never had. "What's the old saying? 'Brains before beauty'? That was always the automatic assumption in our house. I always just accepted my mother was a mathematical genius. Even allowing for the fact little boys are meant to go through a phase of idolising their mothers." He made the words casual, flippant.
"Do they? Should they? Really? How wonderful it must be to have been born with that silver spoon….."
"Rammed between my teeth, you think?" he interrupted. "An easy, if incorrect, assumption."
"Oh yes?" The cynicism, the blighted soul, was never far below the surface. He needed to remember that. "And that explains your….." she sought the right word. He affected not to notice. "….emotional inadequacy? Lack of human connection?"
"Oh?" He did not rise to the bait. "I do not see my emotional detachment as a flaw, but an advantage. No emotional messiness intrudes into my life."
She sat and watched him crumble a pain au chocolat on his side plate.
"Emotions override ambition, detour plans, change and destroy lives. Not my thing." He continued, and popped a sliver of pastry into his mouth. "Such a pity to underachieve because of something as untidy as emotion. Wouldn't you agree?"
The tiny spot of heat on her cheeks told him all he wanted to know.
"Love is destructive," he continued. "Distracts and derails. So not for me. Yes, indeed. Emotion pushes people onto unexpected life paths. But there you go. Shit happens."
Her fingers were white as she held the teacup.
"I can't believe you are so cold blooded," she said. But she could. He knew she could.
"One lives and learns. Usually the hard way." He sipped tea elegantly. "Take your son, for example," he said as if indifferent. "He was quite obsessed with me at one point…."
"Oh, really? Only one?"
He put the cup down into it's saucer. Leant forward.
"No. For most of his life. As you know. Firstly, because I knew about Carl. Right from the first. And your Jamie couldn't stand that. He thought Carl's death was perfect in execution and solution. Until I came along and blighted his perfect little victory. And he never forgave me for seeing that.
"So he always wanted to beat me. Any chance he got. Defeat me. Humiliate me. Top me. Top me in every way. In fact. That's….."
And then the telephone rang. The landline. Tucked away beside the bookcase in the sitting room.
It rang. And rang. It was an interruption. Broke his hammer blows of words, his concentration.
"Do please answer your phone. Don't mind me," she said. Smiled. Recognised the interruption had broken the tension, his command of the moment, of any need to reply.
And so he had to rise then, murmuring a polite "Excuse me…" and wiping crumbs from his mouth with his napkin, go into the other room, answer the rarely used landline.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said.
"Hello, darling. So sorry to ring at this ungodly hour. ….." His mother spoke in her cheeriest rallying-the-troops tone. It was exasperating.
"What can I do for you?"
"I need to see you. Asap. I have told your father I have a dental appointment in town. That I had forgotten all about. So are you in to visitors today? No other appointments to get in the way?"
"Yes. And no."
"What? Clarify."
"Yes I am here. No appointments."
"Good. Then I shall see you later."
"Something urgent?"
"Yes. Something has arrived in the post. Something I need to show you."
"What sort of something?"
"You want me to tell you now? On the phone?" The objective interlocutor in the velvet voice.
"Yes. I mean no. Sorry. I have a visitor."
"At this hour? Must be a client, then."
"Hmn. Sort of."
"Clear as mud, darling." She was not phased, objective achieved. "Until later."
And she was gone.
He put the telephone down and stood for a moment, lost in thought.
Returned to the breakfast table.
Joanna Lake was segmenting a nectarine with precise deliberation and eating the pieces with care.
"Are you OK? You look a bit distracted. Rather early for a client calling, I would say. Family? A family problem, then?"
"Not at all," he denied, instincts on alert. She did not believe him, he could tell, but there was nothing else he could say. He did not like her smile, and a cold feeling of unease settled between his shoulder blades.
"Oh. Dr Watson then? A problem with his child? Life can be so fickle at her age…"
He was about to answer when they both heard the front door open, then close, and light steps make their way up the stairs.
o0o0o
He recognised the tread on the stair. Of course he did.
The cliched phrase that always came to mind when she appeared in front of him was "raven haired beauty" and then a cautionary something about the female of the species being more deadly than the male. But that was too obvious a judgement as well as deeply inadequate.
Lean and wiry rather than classically slim and curvaceous, her symmetrical and unforgettable face held distant and distinct beauty, and the indigo blue eyes had depth and challenge and sometimes even an ironic smile.
She opened the door without knocking, as if she owned the place, and stepped into the sitting room and through the sliding doors into the kitchen with complete confidence and lack of hesitation.
A long black Alexander McQueen evening dress in shot silk had shimmering crystal decoration on the bodice, no other adornment. Classical, classy and a magnet to the eye. Her hair was up in a smooth simple chignon, and she would have taken the eye of anyone in any room she occupied. As intended.
Straight here from a formal dinner, he deduced. On the arm of a rich and influential man utilising her professional services as foil and shield, companion, escort and social buffer. She looked stunning and irresistible and probably quite literally, a million dollars.
She was carrying in one hand a pair of black leather Christian Laboutin court heels that had evidently been on her sheer black stocking clad feet all evening, a black silk pashmina over her arm, a tiny JW Anderson crystal layered bag on a silver chain on the other shoulder.
"Hello, Sherlock."
Her voice was a low purr, her eyes on him fierce and feral, and only he could tell that she was slightly tipsy.
"Oh, hello, Kate," he greeted her with unruffled welcome, as if her appearance in the flat was a regular occurrence. "Had a good evening?"
"Super, thank you. Perhaps went on a little too long, but that's an occupational hazard in my line of work. What time is it?"
"Just gone 7am. Give or take. Breakfast?" he asked with amused irony, as she had already reached out to snaffle a pan au chocolat, to nibble elegantly around the edges, tossing bag, pashmina and shoes vaguely in the direction of the brown leather sofa on her way to the table. The items landed on the floor, just slightly off target. And were ignored.
"Why not?"
Only then did she affect to notice there was another person in the room.
"Oh, hello." She offered a polite slight smile in the general direction of the older woman already seated at the table Her eyes narrowed and assessed, and she looked back at him. "You have a visitor already, then? A client?"
"As you can see, a visitor, yes." he responded, catching that fleering look, shot sideways at him on the other woman's blind side as he spoke. And wondering about that look, unable to interpret it. Which annoyed him. "Allow me to introduce you: Joanne, this is Miss Kate Sheridan, businesswoman and entrepreneur. Kate, please meet Mrs Joanna Lake; mother of an old acquaintance of mine."
Irene Adler reached across the table and offered the older woman a slim hand to shake (fresh manicure, Vamp Tramp deep red nail polish, white gold cabochon cut opal ring worth thousands, as the iridescent stone was a White Cliffs, the most expensive opal of all. The deliberate choice of any opal for such an evening intrigued him: a stone associated with love, desire and eroticism. Supposed to intensify emotion and release passion. And inspire truth and faithfulness. It was always an irony to see her wearing an opal.)
After a brief hesitation, Joanne Lake took the hand offered by the younger woman, shook it briefly, murmured a superficial "pleased to meet you" and tried not to look too shocked or surprised at the louche and yawning response. The pose and poise of disinterest.
"And you too, Oh, dear! So sorry about the yawn. It has been a very long night." She grinned, hesitated and encouraged innuendo, put a hand to her mouth and very politely stifled another yawn. "Do excuse me, won't you? Gatecrashing your early morning party. " An empty, full force smile before she turned back to him.
"What are you doing, up and about at this hour, when you are fresh back from Siberia? Aren't you supposed to be recovering from the cold, or the jet lag, or something?"
She peered at him, but got no reaction except a rather tired smile and a disinterested shrug. She smiled back, stepped forward, trailed a casual index finger along his jaw.
"But where are my manners? Please finish your breakfast, both of you. I'm going to bed."
Her eyes challenged his, but he did not reciprocate.
"Off you pop, then," he urged without urgency. "You know the way."
He grinned at her, calm, unperturbed. As if a strange woman came unexpected and unannounced to his bed every morning.
She winked at him, took the almost full cup of tea out of his hand and made off with it. Waggling the other hand vaguely, in something between thank you, good night and dismissal.
"See you later," she said.
The two people left facing each other across the table in a moment of social unity could not decide whether to laugh, frown or politely ignore the intrusion.
Sherlock Holmes plucked an apple from the bowl in the centre of the table and bit into it.
"An unexpected visitor, I assume?" the breakfast guest inquired, clearly unsure of setting and mood.
"Not exactly," he explained, without explaining at all. "She comes and she goes." And could not resist the tiny glimmer of a secret smile.
Awkwardly, Joanne Lake nodded as if with understanding, stood, brushed the crumbs from her sweater, and said:
"I think it is time for me to leave. Three's a crowd, and all that."
"Only if you must," he demurred politely. Neither confirming nor denying her assumption.
"Yes; I think I must. I think I may well have outstayed my welcome."
He nodded, removed the smile and ease from his face, was stern again, expression unreadable. Did not deeny her words this time.
"Well, if you have achieved what you came for, then please don't let me stop you."
She picked up on the slight edge to his voice, beyond his words. Paused and looked back, in the act of reaching for the duffle coat. He watched her stop. And think. And engage.
"What makes you think I came here for anything?"
"Because you are here at all. Not a nice morning for visiting anyone, least of all an alien stranger you don't even like, at a time far too early to be sociable. And from your house to mine is not a natural route to anywhere. Not even the park."
"I was just passing…."
"And pausing. Stopping. Looking. So - 'just passing'? Really?" He let the question hang in the air. But she did not rush to reply. "Well, I do hope you have seen whatever you wanted to see. Anything you want to ask? No?"
She hesitated rather than explained.
"Pity," he added. But he didn't press. Knew and understood her motivation. Homework. Observation. Scouting ahead for Moriarty. Seeing what there was to be seen. Not knowing she was seeing exactly what he had wanted her to see.
Nothing of John Watson. Even less of Rosamund Mary Watson. Very little of Sherlock Holmes that was not already known from her son's previous visit. Rather too much of Irene Adler. But then, there was always something….and Irene was a woman who could take care of herself.
"Lovely of you to drop by." The elegant, mannered social butterfly pose was deep in place again; after a little lift of the curtain. And he knew that would keep her off balance. "I shall see you again soon, I hope."
The etiquette and tone were perfection.
He helped her into her coat, handed her the cross body bag. Walked her silently down the stairs and opened the door.
"Thank you for breakfast," she heard herself say.
"My pleasure," he responded with the same innate and unbreachable politeness. "Please do come again. Bring…." He let the space between words gather power and awareness. "….someone…anyone with you. Next time. If you wish. Should they wish."
He as good as spoke the word 'Moriarty' into the air. But did not have to. The presence of the dead man filled all the spaces.
(Dead? Really dead? Possibly dead? Impossibly dead? Which?) hung heavy in the room, their shared thoughts about him – as son, as adversary - were strong but unspoken, but still invitation and menace enough.
She did not reply but turned away. Tried to hide the little smile he had expected, something more ominous than words.
And he stood there on the doorstep. Watched her walk away without turning back to wave, or speak, or smile. Watched and waited, until she disappeared into the distance.
Safely into the distance. Out of sight was still far from out of mind. And so he lingered on the doorstep, even after she had gone. Frozen into place, grasping the door handle as if it was a lifebelt. Feeling overcome by a sense of anticlimax, emptied of life force, weak, ineffective, and alone.
He had told John Watson, at the start of the Culverton Smith affair: he had told him. "Can't do it. Not now. Not alone." That was what he had said. That was what he felt. Yet he had gone on, and he had done it all alone. More or less.
And it was just the same now. Even though he had even less stomach, and stamina, and strength to do it, than he had had even then.
All he could think of in that minute was the anonymous text message he had received just before he left for Serbia. Words printed on his brain.
Hello Sexy. Stop trying to detect. Or you will live just long enough to regret it. I have your secrets, Dark Star.
He wasn't sexy; although the unexpected presence of Irene Adler had just given that impression. He had not heeded the warning he had been given. Had not stopped trying to detect, but had killed a man in the attempt. Killed a man – and gave away the fact he knew Irski Zamat, and the Baron Maupertuis, had had a role to play in the world of James Moriarty.
So he had ignored his warning. How long was he expected to live, after doing that? After ignoring the warning? But if had not been Moriarty – and if Moriarty was indeed dead – who had issued that warning?
Who knew about and considered Dark Star relative, and important? As both a vehicle for vengeance and a tool in it's own right?
Who? When? Why? Too many questions. Too few answers. Too much still to make clear.
Was that why his mother needed to see him so urgently she had to lie to her husband and pretend she had forgotten a dental appointment? To come up to town alone for a rare visit? To come alone – without his father?
Something too important to share with her husband? Too delicate to mention on the telephone? Too important to give advance warning?
Something urgent, then. Something to be kept secret. Something – or nothing. And nothing good would come of this, he thought.
But before he faced his mother he had to face Irene Adler. And he did not want to face either woman.
He went back into the house. Closed the heavy outside door slowly and with deliberate care.
Waited until no-one could see him before he slumped back against the door and covered his face with his hands in something like despair and exhaustion. It was still only 7.49am.
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Author's Notes:
Tiptree Little Scarlet Conserve is the best strawberry jam on the mrket, made from the tiny, sweet and very rare Little Scarlet strawberry. Tiptree is the only firm that grows this strawberry commercially. This was a favourite of James Bond, and gets a mention in From Russia With Love.
Clive Christian Number One is one of the UK's most expensive men's colognes. It's unusual mix of ingredients seem aa particular choice for Mycroft.
Ali Miller Home Sweet Home Teaset: An eye catching feature of Moriarty's tea with Sherlock, this bone china set, white, with a gold rim and a weather map design of the British Isles, was eye catching and, at time of writing, still available. Ali Miller is a designer of crockery and textiles, with a shop in Muswell Hill. And her website even has a Sherlock heading for interested shoppers!
Recollection is not something that I can summon up, it simply comes and I am the servant of it. Edna O'Brien.
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