Chapter 10: The Past and All Its Problems
Sherlock slammed the door shut and shed his coat, throwing it carelessly over the couch. He rubbed his eyes and fell into bed, exhausted. His dark room and warm bed invited him in like an old friend. He wrapped the covers around himself and burrowed deep into the pillows.
Even at one in the afternoon, Sherlock could fall asleep. He had stayed up all last night on morphine and had been about to go to bed when Lestrade had phoned him, demanding his help on a case. So Sherlock had obliged and had instead gone with the Detective Inspector, not bothering to congratulate him on his recent promotion.
It had been a couple weeks since the crime scene he had looked at with Emmaline, and she was back in school now. He had seen her less frequently because of it. However Lestrade had kept him busy with case work. The first break he had gotten in days he had injected himself with morphine to try and get some sleep but all it had done was keep him awake.
As soon as the effects had worn off he had tried to get some sleep only to have Lestrade knocking down his door again. So he had finally gotten home at one in the afternoon and was trying to get some rest. Sherlock sighed as his face sank into the feathery down and his eye closed to find only sweet darkness.
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Sherlock moaned and rolled over, his hand reaching out for his ringing phone. He flipped it open and mumbled into it.
"Sherlock?" Emmaline's bright voice rang from the other end of the line.
"Hello?" He mumbled again, sitting up in bed.
"I was wondering if you could help me with my Psychology homework."
"Yeah, sure."
Sherlock stifled a yawn and looked over at his bedside clock. It was five in the afternoon, meaning he had gotten four hours of sleep.
"Come over and I'll order takeout." He continued, trying to rub his tired eyes into alertness.
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." She hung up the phone.
Sherlock called the Chinese takeout place to order dinner for them both, before tossing his phone onto the bed and stretching out his legs. The warm bed still sounded so inviting, but Emmaline was coming over and he needed to straighten up the flat.
He moved his heavy legs over the side and stood, stretching his back as he got up. He dragged his feet out into the living room and started picking up books and newspapers from the floor. Sherlock plumped the pillows on the couch – a recent gift from Mycroft – and threw a blanket over the back of it.
He yawned audibly as he shuffled over to the desk, clearing it of the old case files he had pulled out to stave off boredom. Underneath was a DVD copy of the second season of Star Trek. Sherlock picked it up and put it on the shelf with the others. He remembered well going to Mycroft's house to get them.
Sherlock sloshed through the puddle of rain on the sidewalk and drew his coat tighter around him. Emmaline thinks it summer, ha! Fickle London weather…he ran up the street to the large house, sitting in the middle of London. The cab driver had dropped him off a few blocks away, at Sherlock's insistence.
His hand pounded heavily on the door with no reprieve – he wanted the DVD's, and then he wanted gone. He had no patience with his brother Mycroft.
The door opened, spilling a warm and inviting orange glow over the front steps.
"Sherlock, I'm surprised to see you here."
Mycroft stepped aside as Sherlock stepped in the house, shivering.
"No you're not; you had a car following me all the way."
"As attentive as ever I see." Sherlock took his coat off and threw it over the fire grate. If he were going to be here, he would at least let his coat dry.
"To what do I owe this visit?" Mycroft asked. He watched as his brother warmed his hands in the fire. "I hope it is not to ask about the trust fund again."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No I need to borrow some DVD's of yours."
Mycroft cocked his brow. "Borrow DVD's? You do not own a television, let alone a device with which to watch them."
"Just, can I have them?" Sherlock asked rather impatiently.
He had not seen his brother in person in two years and he was loathing changing that but, he wanted Emmaline to watch the series with him and so he needed Mycroft's copies of the show.
"Which DVD's?" Mycroft inquired, turning to his cabinet.
Sherlock stood in front of the cabinet and leaned over, searching. It was full of VHS tapes and DVD's, all alphabetized.
Sherlock grabbed the first three seasons of Star Trek and stood up.
"This will do, thank you."
"I will be expecting these back." Mycroft warned.
"Yes, I know." Sherlock sighed impatiently before grabbing his still soaked coat.
He cast one last regretful look at the warm fire before heading towards the door, and the cold rain.
"Sherlock, if I might ask, why do you want them so badly?" Mycroft's curiosity was genuine. He had not seen his little brother in two years and now here he was asking for something so inconsequential as to borrow a DVD.
His brother did not answer. He paused on the doorstep a moment before throwing open the door and heading back out into the night, the discs tucked securely under his coat.
Sherlock was broken from the reverie by a knock at his door. He opened it to see Emmaline standing there with her book bag.
"Hey." She smiled widely at him before entering his flat and moving straight for the desk.
She pulled out her Psych homework and handed it over to him for him to read. After a few minutes, he looked up.
"I don't understand any of this." He tossed the book down on the table and flopped into the chair opposite her.
Emmaline sighed but pulled the book towards her.
"What good is your mind palace if you don't store useful information there?" She mumbled to herself, but Sherlock heard.
"I store plenty of useful information!" He protested.
Emmaline looked up from her text and smiled. "I meant useful to me." She clarified.
Sherlock chuckled darkly when there was another knock on the door.
"Is that the takeout?" Emmaline asked, while copying notes.
"Yes; I think that's the fastest they have ever come."
Sherlock grabbed his wallet from his bedroom and went to get the food. Emmaline sat at the table, trying to understand what she was reading.
"Pavlov, unconditioned response," she kept muttering to herself, searching the text.
Sherlock put her food down in front of her and she looked up.
"Thanks." She smiled. "Oh!" She looked down at her notebook and started scribbling furiously about the dogs and their saliva. "You are a genius Sherlock." His handing her the food had reminded her of Pavlov's experiments with salivating dogs.
She paused in her note taking to take a bite of the chicken and noodles. She noticed Sherlock sitting back in his seat, also eating.
"You ordered some for yourself too?"
"I figured you would throw a fit if I didn't." He answered before taking his own bite.
Usually when he ordered takeout, he would only get Emma food, something that infuriated her. She would often remind him that he needed to eat too, especially when he was not on a case. Sometimes he would just forget to eat and Emma would have to force some of her Chinese down his throat.
"Well I'm glad you remembered that your body needs fuel. Honestly Sherlock, what would you do without me?"
Sherlock thought about it. Before Emmaline, he usually ate just a few times a week. Breakfast was a meal he frequented, but he often just forgot about lunch and dinner. Now she would bring him doughnuts and orange juice every Saturday and Sunday morning, they often went out to dinner during the week – or she would come over and cook for him.
When she did cook, she made plenty so that he would have leftovers for lunch. Sherlock often found little notes hidden in the house from her reminding him to eat at a certain time. When he was on a case however she mostly let him be. Last week he had gone almost three days without a meal and she had come over and forced him to eat a plate of chicken and vegetables and a glass of milk.
"I do not know." He answered honestly. "Probably starve until I remembered to go out."
Emma smiled and slurped more noodles into her mouth. Sherlock took a bite of chicken and stared at her homework. He did not understand any of it, nor did he know who Pavlov was. Maybe he could help with other homework. Sherlock grabbed her book bag and started rifling around in it. There was not much inside – a notebook, a few loose pencils, and a book.
Emmaline said nothing while he searched. He usually looked through her book bag when he was bored and on one occasion she had found him looking through her purse. He had told her she was looking for a pen but all he had found where 'photographs and tampons'. She had made a point of telling him not to look through her purse, but her book bag was fair game.
Sherlock pulled the book out and glanced at the front cover. Jane Eyre.
"What is this?" He asked, holding it up.
Emmaline looked up to see what he was talking about.
"Jane Eyre, it's a novel. Have you not read it?"
"No."
Sherlock quickly flipped through the book, glancing every now and again at random pages.
"It looks boring."
"No it is really good. I am done with it actually, if you want to borrow it."
Sherlock opened the book to the first page and began reading to himself. Emma smiled and finished her dinner. She knew that was his way of saying 'yes, thank you', and that he would take it and read it.
She threw away her takeout container and sat back down to her homework. Sherlock, now twenty pages in, looked over at Emmaline. She was putting her Psych book back in her bag, having finished her work.
"Do you have another date?" Sherlock asked casually.
Emmaline had not made much mention of her time out with Chesterton and he was curious as to who else she might be spending her time with. She did after all spend almost all of her time at school, or home, or at Nonni's, or at his flat.
"No I don't. I'm not sure if I like any of the boys at school."
"Why?" Sherlock asked.
"They're too dull." She shrugged her shoulders.
Sherlock put the book down on a pile of magazines. He would give it a chance. He started tapping a rhythm on his thighs, slow and melodic. Emmaline watched him; he did this often.
"Do you play any musical instruments?"
"The violin."
"Where did you learn?"
"My brother and I had a music teacher. Mycroft quickly disowned her so I was her only student. I just had a natural gift for the violin; any other instrument I was awkward on."
"Why don't you have one?"
"I never saw the need for one." Sherlock shrugged.
"What were your tutors like?" Emmaline leaned forward and put her chin in her hand.
Sherlock saw her interested gaze and sighed. He had refrained from telling her too much of his childhood because he did not like to dwell on it. He had given her safe answers – tonight he would have to search for some more.
"I had a music teacher, a French teacher, a History and Geography teacher…" Sherlock trailed off, trying to remember. "I suppose there was one for math and English as well."
"Mycroft got top marks in everything – he actually cared about learning. I brushed it all aside as unimportant." Sherlock shrugged. "My mother berated me constantly for it until I straightened up my last two years of learning. I forgot most of what I deemed unimportant after I left University."
"Did your father not care about your marks?"
Sherlock paused. A single image of scarlet staining the crème living room walls flashed through his mind.
"No, he wasn't particularly concerned about it." He looked up from the wood grain of the desk and into Emmaline's brown eyes. "Do I get some of your history in return for mine?"
Emma smiled softly. Sherlock's sad and lonely past felt so much like her own – she had been alone too, except for her mother.
"I grew up in Chicago; I mean downtown Chicago. My mother was an artist, so my dad supported the family. He had a factory job. I spent most of my time at school and with my mom. I loved her photographs. Actually, she first put a brush in my hand. She would pay for all of my art classes." Emma smiled fondly.
"I was not close to my dad. He nursed the bottle whenever he came home and he and my mom fought a lot. I mean, every day. She would never admit to it, but I used to see bruises on her. One day he and my mom got into this huge fight and he just left. They got divorced and my mother took me down to this small Texas town. She had a couple of boyfriends after that but no one serious." Emma shrugged.
"My dad drank too." Sherlock whispered.
Emma looked at the sorrowful expression in Sherlock's eyes. She reached out a hand to cover his hand that rested on the table. Their eyes met and between them passed a mutual understanding of the other's history. Both had been lonely, and both had suffered. But now they had each other and it was clear in their gazes that they cared for one another, even if they never talked about their friendship. It was just natural.
Emma perked up and smiled. "I forgot to tell you – I found a job! I am a shop girl now, every Saturday from noon to eight."
"Congratulations!" Sherlock smiled faintly and retracted his hand.
He was uncomfortable with how much of himself he had shared; he had never intended for her to know his dad had been an alcoholic. But her confession had made it easier for him to say.
"I have to go, it's getting late, and I have school tomorrow."
"Alright."
Emma stood from the desk and grabbed her bag. She leaned over and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "You like tired, get some sleep."
She walked out of the flat and left. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and stepped into his bedroom. His eyes immediately flicked to the sock drawer where he kept the bottle of morphine. He closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose. No.
Shaking his head, Sherlock collapsed into bed. He drew the covers up around himself and fell asleep instantly. And his dreams were not plagued by the gruesome memory of his father's death and his family's inability to save Sherlock from himself.
Instead, he dreamt of a mirror. However, he did not see himself reflected in it… When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he could not remember whose reflection it was. Nonetheless, he woke up happy and refreshed, and better than he had felt in ages.