The eighth text reads as follows:
`Good day Sherlock. Pattern down from a 3 to a ZERO. B.M.`
John is thinking Sherlock should call Lestrade; or Mycroft. Sherlock is just thinking. He is still in his Mind Palace when John is startled by a polite tapping at the patio door.
A small, well-proportioned man stands there, smiling benignly at him. He has smooth, dark hair and round, brown eyes, hidden behind remarkably thick lenses. As John opens the door, he notices the man is casually dressed in odd checked trousers and is carrying a basket.
He holds out a small hand. "Dr John Watson, I presume. Of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"
John shakes. "You have the advantage, I`m afraid."
The man shuffles in embarrassment. "A thousand apologies, Doctor. I am Frisbee Sommersby." No way. "I am a friend of Mr Dodd. We play poker in The Crossed Serpent every Friday when he`s in town. He has told me all about you – and the bond you share."
"Ah, the perennial bond of the flying apple core."
It seems the Mind Palace was closed for the time being. John turns. Micro-frown at Sherlock.
"Mr Sommersby, this is my friend, Sh - ."
The visitor stepped eagerly across the threshold with his hand outstretched. His brown eyes were widened in excitement. A fan.
"Mr Sherlock Holmes, I am thrilled and privileged to meet you!" They shake and John can almost see his friend – processing – the new arrival. Luckily for Frisbee, the detective is feeling convivial.
"Why don't you have a cup of tea with us, Mr Sommersby? You must be thirsty after the long walk from the town. And, unless you are on your way to your Grandmother`s cottage with some cakes in that basket, please let us accompany you to the orchard where you can pick your apples. I do believe it is rare for the Mutsu variety to grow so well in England. They do make the best pies though."
But, rather than being startled, there is something akin to hero-worship in Frisbee`s conker coloured eyes.
"There is one bakery in the town and you seem to be its baker. Flour particles around your finger nails, and a very distinctive burns pattern across your wrists, from taking baking trays out of a large oven. Your checked trousers are the particular kind worn by chefs and kitchen workers. You didn't have time to change them, since you knew how long it would take to walk here before dark. You do not drive since you are poorly sighted (almost totally blind in one eye) and would almost definitely fail a driving test."
Worried about Frisbee Sommersby`s levels of excitement at meeting a real life reasoning and observing machine, John decides to interject.
"If, of course, you are a deep sea fisherman with four children and a penchant for monster truck racing, then please feel free to mention it."
Sherlock shoots him a withering look, but says nothing, particularly since the maze incident.
By the time Frisbee Sommersby has left, with his basket full of Mutsu apples from the Tregennis orchard, he is one happy man and is outlining the promise of a variety of baked good if they happen upon "The Life of Pie" during the week.
"At least try one of my unique Pascal pasties, Mr Holmes. I insist. They are famed in these parts."
John is more than slightly surprised when Sherlock issues an open invitation for Frisbee to `pop over` at `any time`. Very uncharacteristic of the man who doesn't do socialising.
Frisbee was all of a flutter.
"I would be honoured! I`ve only ever been in the conservatory and gardens in the past."
Later: "Seems like you have a fan-boy in the village, then. What a great name. He sounds like a surfer."
Again, Sherlock Holmes is thoughtful. Although John has no idea, a tumble dryer of thoughts are currently whirring around his superb brain, looking for a resting place. Sherlock is quite confident that it is now only a matter of time.
xo xo xo xo xo xo
Things are not going well.
Two babies are crying, loudly. Mary and John Watson are gesticulating at each other with uncharacteristic vehemence from the relative privacy of the huge conservatory. Molly Hooper is in tears and Sherlock Holmes is furious.
All storms must pass, however, and within an hour, some balance is restored. The babies are, mercifully, sleeping, after the longest journey of their lives, so far. Mary has managed to make John Watson laugh out loud, after which, any argument was pointless, so they have a cup of tea instead.
"I`m sorry, I should have told you, but we couldn't resist the surprise factor."
"Ah, shit… should`ve asked you anyway." John stands up and walks slowly towards the magnificent marble fireplace in the drawing room. "A video was probably rubbing your nose in it."
"Little bit." Mary smiles at her husband; so glad he is her husband.
"How`d you find the addr – oh, look who I`m talking to…of course you can hack into my Facebook."
Sheepish Mary. "We were a bit – drunk." John laughs.
"Want to come down to the pool? I`m staying out of Sherlock`s way. He is really mad. Poor Molly."
Mary has her serious face. "Has he been entirely open with you about his reasons for coming on this – break?"
"Well…he seemed fine yesterday…high spirits. Getting lost and meeting the locals. I was pleased he`d actually taken my advice, for once."
Mary walks over to the huge sashed window, and looks out over the impressive, sweeping drive, lined with lime trees.
"Ah, something is wrong here, John – and Sherlock knows it. He`s not telling you everything."
xo xo xo xo xo xo
John starts. Where the hell is he? Reflections on the curved ceiling and a gentle hum. He`s fallen asleep on one of the loungers arranged around the edge of the pool. God! He is getting old. Still, it is so peaceful down here. Calm and contained by ancient brick walls. Sub-terranean. Submerged beneath the earth. Womb-like. Safe. Fanciful? Well, he is a world-renowned blogger. Nearing twenty five thousand hits, and counting.
John twists himself over onto his side to face the lit pool. No other lights are on and the effect is somewhat like an underground cavern and mystical, magical pool. A touch of the Hobbit, perhaps.
He is about to get up to find the others when – a noise. Someone is entering from the stairs. It`s Molly. In a swimsuit, carrying Benedict. John almost calls to her, but the light from the pool highlights the planes of her face, and he decides against it. She may need some time to herself. He wonders if he can slide out of the door at the back without her seeing him and feeling embarrassed. He has never heard Sherlock raise his voice to her before that day.
She carefully descends the stone steps into the shallow end; gradually submerging her pale calves, thighs, body and, eventually, shoulders into the calm, clear aquamarine water.
"Ooh, Ben…look, it's a cave!" She whispers. "We can swim in the cave. Shall we swim and find some dragons?"
Benedict squeaks his baby squeaks, splashing his tiny hands and feet to feel them swooshing up the water. Molly pulls him around, back and forth, until he squeals in excitement. John is paralysed; torn between sneaking out and giving Molly some privacy, and watching them. It is too dark for Molly to see him.
In the next moment, John no longer has a choice. The upper door creaks and Sherlock descends the stairs. He is barefoot; wearing a black dressing gown and carrying – a violin?
As Sherlock nears the pool`s edge, John sees his face is set, like Molly`s had been; then, as he takes in the scene, his countenance completely changes. And he smiles.
Molly stops swooshing her son, gathers him to her body and stands to face Sherlock. He sits down, on the edge of the pool, sinking his feet and legs into the rippling water.
"You brought my violin." He is looking directly into her face. "And my son."
"Yes, Sherlock, I did." A beat.
"I have been – a – "
"Git?"
"I was going to say `a prick`, but you, as ever, are the kinder version. I am sorry, Molly. I was surprised when you arrived and … there are – things – I don`t want you and Ben to be a part of here."
"This isn't just a holiday, is it?"
"I don`t think so."
Another moment passes.
"I love that you brought my violin." He raises it to his neck and starts to play. In the echoing chamber of the pool room, it is incandescently, hauntingly beautiful. It takes John a few moments to recognise it.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night
The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago,
Turned around backwards so the windshield shows
Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse
R.E.M. A new departure for Sherlock`s repertoire. Who knew?
I'm not sure all these people understand
It's not like years ago,
The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water
They cannot see me naked
These things, they go away,
Replaced by everyday
Benedict has stopped his splashing and is transfixed by the music. And his father. John`s hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Still, he can`t move.
Nightswimming, remembering that night
September's coming soon
I'm pining for the moon
And what if there were two
Side by side in orbit
Around the fairest sun?
That bright, tight forever drum Could not describe nightswimming.
watch?v=yjQmv1NNii8
As Sherlock puts down the violin, Molly wades towards him and he lowers into the water, his dressing gown floating around him like an oil spill. The last thing John sees as he eases himself out of the side door, is the three of them, standing close, in the glowing phosphorescence.