Ghost Story
Some memories will never leave, no matter how deep you bury them, or the drugs you inject to erase the shadows. Their sinewy tendrils wind their way through your body, fusing themselves to your bones and joints, forever guiding each step, and become the billowed hand that decides when and how you breathe.
He would replay that memory throughout his very long life as punishment for his arrogance and pride; for his dazzling brilliance and believing he could offer the freedom of Justice to the mere mortals of the world. How could he have known that each choice, each turn in the road, would leave him chained to the cliffs reserved for the fallen demigods, and that the very thing he sought, the peace of death, would be forever cast from his reach.
Sometimes, most of the time, he changed the memory in search for one that would stick. One that would become the new reality, at least for a short while, when he'd visit her in his mind - a place where she was safe, and happy and nothing bad would ever touch her. She would pick up and it would take a lot of convincing, including his acquiescence, to get her to say the words that would save her life, but she would do it. He would smash the coffin, never to be reminded of the moment that nearly consumed them both, and when he made it out alive he would spend the rest of his life being her champion, and convincing her of his love.
Throughout his long years, he would see her walk through the door of his flat at 221B Baker Street, smiling brightly, almost running toward him to offer a warm embrace, where he would place a gentle kiss upon her cheek, and whisper in her ear - I love you. He would fill her up with babies and laughter, have conversations about nothing and everything, and create a language with their bodies that only they understood. He would do all of this until the moment faded and the darkness took over.
There might have been a map reference for hell at Sherrinford, but he didn't need one - hell lived within himself.
Eurus frowned at the failed test. "That was unexpected. I truly thought she would say it. And, why wouldn't I? She jumped at every request you've ever given her, no matter the endless disappointments." Eurus took in a deep breath, and offered an insincere grimace. "I'm sorry, but I lied and fresh out explosives. It would have been kinder and Jim didn't want her to suffer. I think he might have liked her, but there are consequences for stealing what belonged to him, and failing this test, I'm afraid. Just ask the Governor. Oh, wait. You can't," she said, almost lyrically. "Never mind. I did promise you I would end her life. Live by the sword, die by the sword, for the little girl who likes to play with knives. It's rather poetic, don't you think? Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time."
"Nononononono, Eurus! STOP! Stopstopstopstopstop please...please, don't do this. I will do anything you ask. Anything. Please," he begged, his eyes shut tight and suffocating for breath. "Please, take me...I'll play any game you want. Take me...just take me."
Eurus considered her brother. "Oh, Sherlock. I already have you, but let me think," she paused for a momentary interlude of Jim Moriarty's 'tick, tock, tick, tock'. "Alright, we'll try it your way. If you can answer this one question correctly, I'll spare her life. Agreed?"
Sherlock nodded his agreement.
"Tell me about Redbeard. No help, Mycroft."
"I've already told you...he was my dog...our dog!" Sherlock looked between his brother and the screen.
"Wrong. Consider this a mercy. She's already suffered long enough."
The screen flickered back on, where he watched her in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, her face buried in her arms. But, it was the door that was kicked open that sent his heart racing, his shouting drown out by the screams from the video feed.
She tried to fight, but taken off-guard and over-powered too quickly. Her mouth taped over, arms tied behind her back, the intruder tore her sweater open, and pulled her head back to expose her neck. She fought the best she could, the effort to escape pointless, as he yanked her body in position for the camera, and slit her throat - holding her there, eyes widened in terror, until the last kick of life left her body - then dropped her to the floor, where she lay in a pool of her own blood.
Sherlock's body arched from the bed, the cotton fabric stuck to his sweaty skin, and each gasping breath felt like a fiery whip squeezing at his lungs, burning him from the inside out. Violent waves of nauseousness left him stumbling to the bathroom where he clung to the side of the toilet, heaving the unthinkable from his stomach. He repeated to himself it was only a dream, a nightmare, but it did nothing to calm the uncontrollable shaking that brought him to the floor, his face buried in a towel to silence his cries. He failed them...first Mary and now her.
Looking back toward the bedroom, he saw the place where she had slept...now an empty space occupied only by tangled sheets and the pillows where she rested her head. He needed to pull himself up, command each foot to go before the other, as though he were holding tightly to a life rope that would bring him closer to knowing she was real, and that she had been in that very spot.
Having lived through dispossession more times than he cared to remember - whether it was from cocaine or torture, and sometimes they felt the same - he knew all too well the effects of hallucinatory deprivation. That's all this was...his brain rewiring the synapse from lack of sleep, reorganizing information, deciding what to keep and what to discard.
Holding the pillow to his face, he took in her scent...another reassurance she was alive, and his nightmare only a ghost story. "For God's sake," he muttered to himself, grateful that his heart was no longer pounding its way out of his chest. "Pull yourself together." He hadn't had a cigarette in ages, not even during his last binge, but he wanted - needed - one now, and tossed the pillow back on the bed.
Releasing a heavy sigh, he picked the flannel pajama bottoms off the floor, pulled them over his chilled, goosebump covered skin, then searched for his t-shirt, and dressing gown. He was being irrational, he thought, tugging his shirt over his head, flirting dangerously with romantic entanglement, where the cost was high and the winner took all. Molly might know him better than anyone, but she didn't know the rules, or the price she'd have to pay.
Now, the Woman, she knew. He and Irene played a game of ascendancy and lust, one that challenged every bit of emotional and physical control he mastered. In the end, when he believed all had been lost, that she had gained the upper hand over him, would he emerge victorious. 'Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side,' was the vicious prompt he offered, exposing the vulnerability that brought her to her knees. Irene's heart had given her away, leaving her bereft and broken.
In his remembering, he stood at the window of his flat, with an easy and careless smile, tossing his trophy into the air: her phone, the great protector of her life. Until it wasn't, and he stepped in and stole her from clutches of death, then surrendered himself to her for one night. He would give her that triumph and the possibility for more.
Janine, even in her hurtful protest and wounded pride, knew the game...especially as she unwittingly set the rules of engagement. She wanted freedom from a tyrannical oligarch, who would flick her face, and humiliate her into worthlessness. Although it nearly cost him his life, he was wrong and came through for her, accidental as it was. He gave her the honor of the scandalous headlines she desired, entrance into circles she sought after, and a cottage in Sussex. She was free and, in the process, gained his friendship.
He had nothing to give Molly. Her game is that she didn't have one, and that made her vulnerable, and placed directly in the path of a danger she could never fully understand, and one he never wanted to comprehend. She didn't deserve this life, he didn't deserve her, and yet here he was, wrestling with the same argument that spun him right back to the beginning.
He sat on the edge of the bed, head buried in hands, his shoulders sagged heavy with the ineradicable weight of worry. Tousling his knotted mop of curls, he hitched in a deep breath and swallowed down another wave of nauseousness. There was no other way, if he was going to do this, romantic entanglement, she'd have to know the rules: That her life would never be safe, no matter the illusion, and that looking over her shoulder at all times, never taking anything for granted, would become her new normal. He would never keep important secrets from her, but any life they made together would come last to his work. There would be no weekends at pubs, dinner dates at restaurants, or anything that would draw attention to her relationship with him. She would be alone, in the background, as though an incidental blip that only came into casual contact with him. Lastly, there will never be children...this was non-negotiable. To prove his veracity, he would gladly...alright, maybe not gladly, obtain a vasectomy. He'd even let her do it, since she'd been twisting his balls almost from day one. Okay, bad idea since she wasn't a Urologist.
It's doubtful anyone would ever suspect, including Molly, but as far as human beings were concerned, he had no problem with children, and rather liked them far more than what they would eventually grow into. They were easy to talk with, well, the older ones, like Archie. Why the mother had a difficult time managing the boy, when it was quite simple, was puzzling. Stop smothering the lad and allow his curiosity the room to grow. It was no wonder children grew up to become neurotic adults, a mere twisted shade of their former selves. They were too busy being controlled by well-meaning 'people' who thought they knew better, forced into conforming to the wishes of their parents, instead of allowing them to simply become. Then there was the cruelty, or the monomaniacal derangement that would strip children of their innocence...
While the loss of Molly was too devastating to contemplate, the loss of a child would be unbearable. And, that, had been a constant undercurrent running through is mind when he first suspected Mary was pregnant, and especially later. Godparents to Rosie would have to be enough, and it would take all of them to keep her safe from the dangers of the world, let alone the life he and her father led. He closed his eyes and shuddered at the unthinkable idea that Rosie could have been at Baker Street when the grenade went off...at the very least downstairs with Mrs. Hudson.
In his nightmare, he promised to spend the rest of his life loving Molly, making her happy, filling her with babies...but he now wondered in what Universe that would ever be possible? Between drug addiction and the dangerous, but brilliant, genetic swamp from which he emerged, proliferation of his DNA was akin to playing Russian roulette...a game of chance where the odds were not stacked in his, or her, favor.
That was it, then. He would go downstairs and apprise her of the cameras in her house - for how long was anyone's guess - and, incidentally, that she was watched not only by him, but John and Mycroft as well. Oh, and by the way, her poisoned, dead cat was simply a manipulation to have her home at that exact time. He once told her, 'welcome to my world,' and wondered if it bear repeating? Probably so. Even John's comment found a way to sneak into his thoughts and while it pained him to admit he was right, meeting at a discreet Harvester, then nights of passion in High Wycombe, would have been far less complicated. Perhaps Molly would be open to that option?
Raising his arms above his head, he stretched out the aching muscles of his back, then noticed the light on his phone, and the vibration causing it to zigzag across the bedside table. He took in a deep breath to steady himself before answering. "Mycroft."
He never understood why Mycroft didn't like texting, other than having the sheer pleasure of hearing his own voice, while irritating Sherlock with his condescension. This wasn't one of those moments, though, and while he had mixed feelings toward his brother for all the secrets and lies, the burden that had been placed upon his shoulders by their uncle was one he never should have had to carry. Their parents had been located off the coast of Greece and a private jet arranged for their immediate return to London.
"Of course," Mycroft added, his voice echoing through the speaker of the phone, "their first thought was you'd fallen off the wagon again, or committed another murder -"
"The honor of that goes to their other child this time. Five, no six, if I counted correctly." Sherlock mumbled while brushing his teeth. "Then there's the cat."
"Oh, for God's sake, can you please take this seriously? And, what are you doing? I can barely understand a word you're saying."
"I am. Nothing. Continue."
"Yes, well, I'll meet with them here in my office tomorrow at Five. You'll be here, of course."
Sherlock finished applying a thick layer of shaving cream to his face, then carefully guided a less than sharp razor blade over his chin and neck. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Baker Street faired better than expected, and perhaps not a complete loss. I'm still waiting on the report from our structural engineers."
"I'll be there tomorrow to see for myself."
"How is Miss. Hooper adjusting to all of this?"
He lied. "Good."
"Cameras were limited to the main areas of her home although, curiously, there was another feed coming in from across the street. You'll have to ask her about the neighbors. The CCTV on the corner was disabled, so they're of no use. But, you'll be relieved to know there were no explosives found."
"What about the cat?" Sherlock asked, washing away the remaining streaks of shaving cream.
"Ethylene glycol, commonly found in -."
"I know what it is," he interrupted, drying his face.
"You also know what this means."
"Of course."
"A few, minor precautions wouldn't be amiss."
"I'm aware, Mycroft. Anything else?"
"She can return tomorrow but, in the mean time, I've called the local market and arranged a delivery. Just a few basics, but included the French yogurt she likes."
"How do you know?"
"Why wouldn't I? I'll see you tomorrow."
Sherlock heard the double beeps that ended the call and prepared himself to face Molly. He made a mental note to ask how she knew Mycroft's schedule, and how Mycroft knew her yogurt preference. And, why was he now just hearing about it? Better yet, why couldn't he see the answer...it should be obvious?
He stopped in the hallway and looked upon the damaged portraits and thought of another way to move forward. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but no one would question his motives, not even John. There is loss, and irrevocable loss - and if he had to choose he would select the former, rather than the latter. But, today wasn't that day, and for the next few hours he would allow this, allow her and commit these moments to his memory. They would have to last a very long time.
Molly sat rapt on the large, leather sofa, knees pulled to her chest and nose buried in a novel she undoubtedly found in the stacks of Mycroft's library. She carefully balanced the book and a glass jar in one hand, while the other slowly pulled a spoon from her mouth...her tongue licking away the remains on her lips. She looked peaceful, Sherlock thought, and while he wished her senses had alerted her to his presence, he was grateful for the moment to watch her unaware.
He knocked on the door frame as to not startle her and he swore when she looked up and gave him a chaste smile, his heart skipped a beat. She was relaxed, her manner easy, and sleep had certainly brought a muted, rosy glow back to her cheeks.
"Hi," she said breathlessly, or maybe it was just soft, but either way it sounded like the a perfect middle C, its vibrato pulling him forward, until he kneeled on the floor next to her. He took the jar and spoon from her hands, pushed away the book and laid his head in her lap, where her fingers were automatically guided to mingle with his dark, tangled curls.
She leaned in and kissed him on top of his head, the long strands of her hair sweeping over his face. "Are you okay?"
He wrapped his arms tight around her waist, pressed his face against her belly and closed his eyes. There were no options, or plans, and he couldn't remember the rules. Love wasn't logical or rational, and for now, it left him helpless against the truth.
"No...I'm not okay."
