Session #3. Four Weeks Ago

"So, where would you like to begin today?"

"There's a wonderful essay in the Journal of Forensic Psychology this month I'd love to discuss."

"That would probably be a very interesting discussion, Sherlock, but not one suitable for therapy. We talk about you in here."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Sherlock said, causing Dr. Doyle to smile. "What are my choices?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, we could continue exploring your attitudes and experiences with sexual intimacy."

"Next."

"Or we could talk about what happened to your friendship with Molly Hooper."

"None of the above."

"Sorry. Those are the choices."

"Fine. Let's talk about sex. Oh lovely."

"Clearly you don't like to talk about sex."

"How very observant."

"Well, as a detective, you must confront sex a lot."

"How so?"

Doyle, a bit incredulous, said, "I mean, as a detective, you must have many investigations that intersect with sexual questions."

"I don't take those kind of cases. I'm not the kind of detective that takes dirty pictures of cheating spouses," Sherlock said, wondering if infidelity has played any part in the apparent unraveling of the doctor's own marriage. He noted again the subtle evidence of red-green mismatches in the doctor's attire.

"Not just those cases, surely, though. Don't many crimes have at their root love or lust?"

"I simply avoid them."

"Why is that?"

"They're messy. Revenge, greed, power, just plain madness, those are motives I understand."

"You don't understand love?"

"No, well, not romantic love, in any case."

"What kind of love do you think you understand?"

"Love of family, love of friends, love of country, love of the mind, love of chips. All of those I think I have a generally solid understanding of."

"I see. Have you ever thought you were in love with someone?"

"I'm married to my work, you see. I simply do not have the time, inclination, or temperament for that."

"Married to your work?"

"Absolutely."

"Hmmmmmm." Doyle assumed a thoughtful look that greatly annoyed Sherlock, who took it to mean, rightly, that the doctor was trying to provoke him.

"What?"

"Last week, you were very eloquent in discussing your perception of the entropic nature of romantic relationships."

"Yes, and . . . ?"

"Well, you don't find your relationship with your vocation, your marriage to it, as you say, entropic as well?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you can keep putting more and more energy into the goal of defeating criminal activity, but criminals keep committing crimes, like your hypothetical bathtub—you have to keep adding hot water, or in your case, mental and physical energy, but, ultimately, crime continues, and becomes more sophisticated."

"I don't like you."

Dr. Doyle laughed. "That's ok, you don't have to."

"What are you trying to prove?"

"I'm not trying to prove anything, just trying to get you think about things in new ways." Sherlock exhaled sharply. "I'd like to return to discussing your history with sexuality."

"Of course, you do. Psychiatry is nothing but paid voyeurism."

"Yes, every time we get a patient to discuss sex, an angel psychiatrist gets his wings." At this, Sherlock laughed. "Seriously, though, it is a large component of human life—or most human lives, that is. You said last time we spoke that you've never had sex with either a woman or a man, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"But that you do masturbate."

"Yes, sometimes."

"Ok, have you ever had any kind of sexual contact with a woman?"

"I've kissed a woman."

"Ok. One or more?"

"More."

"Who was the first woman you kissed?"

"Well, she wasn't a woman. She was a teenage girl."

"Tell me about it."

"It was nothing. We were 14." Instead of asking questions, Doyle resorted to silence. This time, Sherlock did respond to the awkwardness and continue. "She passed me a note in Science class saying that she wanted to kiss me after school. She told me where and when to meet her. So I made sure to be there at the appointed time. She showed up. She kissed me. And that was that."

"Was it just a peck on the cheek or something more involved?"

"Tongues were involved, I seem to recall."

"Did you enjoy the kiss?"

"When it was going on, yes, it was pleasant."

"Did it turn unpleasant?"

Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "I got an erection."

"That's understandable. I can't imagine a 14-year-old boy in that circumstance who wouldn't have one."

Sherlock looked agonized recalling the memory. He cleared his throat before continuing, "Umm, when she stopped kissing me, a bunch of students came out from around the corner. They'd been waiting, you see. They pointed to my erection and, um, started laughing. She had set me up to be humiliated."

"Oh. Kids can be such assholes. I'm sorry that happened."

"Yes, well, you know."

"That must have been quite hurtful."

"Yes."

"When was the next time you kissed a girl?"

"College."

"That's quite a large time gap."

"Yes, well, I was very keen on getting on in my studies. I didn't have time for such nonsense."

"I see," Doyle said sadly. "And in college?"

"This girl in Advanced Organic Chemistry fancied me. I tried to let her down as easily as possible, but she kept after me. One day we were alone in the ChemLab and she reached over and kissed me."

"How did you respond?"

"Not with an erection, I can tell you that." Doyle smiled. "I didn't react well."

"What did you do?"

"I deduced her."

"What? You 'seduced her'?"

"No, 'DEDUCED' her. It's something I do."

"Could you explain it to me."

"I can't really explain it; I'd have to show you by doing it to you and I can't do that."

"Why can't you do it to me?"

"Because it can be painful, for the person being deduced, to find out things that they might themselves either not know or don't wish to know. And they generally hate me for it."

Doyle said "I see," but he really didn't and his confusion showed on his face. "So are you concerned that I'll feel pain or that I'll be angry with you or both?"

"Both. Because, despite what I said earlier, I actually don't dislike you."

"That's good, Sherlock. That's a good thing. While I can't guarantee that I won't be hurt, not knowing ahead of time what you're going to say, I can nevertheless guarantee that I won't be angry with you. So, I'd like you to go ahead and 'deduce me,' as you put it."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable and shifted in his seat. He took a few seconds to steel himself and then began with a bang. "Your wife doesn't love you anymore; she hasn't for at least two to three years."

Dr. Doyle did indeed look stricken. His face went momentarily ashen. But Sherlock continued, launching into his deductions about the colorblindness, the doctor's clothing, the photographs. As Sherlock continued, the color gradually came back to Doyle's face. As Sherlock ended the extraordinary display of his gift by concluding with his deductions about the cartoons, Dr. Doyle looked sadly at the side of the file cabinet and tears seemed to well up a bit in his eyes. When he looked back at Sherlock, the detective looked more angry at himself than he was self-satisfied.

"See, I told you you'd hate me."

"I don't hate you, Sherlock, not even the least little bit," Doyle assured him with hints of an actual smile. "So this is what you did to this girl that liked you, that kissed you?"

"Yes."

"And I take it she did hate you for it?"

"It got the job done."

"The job of making her hate you?"

"Yes."

"And how did you feel when you did that to her?"

"Awful. I feel awful a lot of the time. Not usually while I'm doing it, but often afterwards."

"What if you're wrong? What if your deductions lead you to the wrong conclusions?"

Sherlock laughed, "I'm very, very rarely wrong."

"But sometimes you are."

"Please, Dr. Doyle. I can assure you, it's very rare."

"But sometimes you are."

"I'm right about you and your wife, though, aren't I?"

"You'll just have to live with the uncertainty." Sherlock laughed derisively at the doctor. "So did you have any further contact with that girl from Chemistry class?"

"No."

"The next woman that kissed you or you kissed?"

"Her name was Janine. We kissed quite a lot, actually."

Dr. Doyle seemed a bit surprised. "When was this?"

"A few years ago."

"So 14, early 20s, and, what, mid-30s?" Sherlock nodded. "Quite spread out. So this Janine must have been special. Would you characterize her as a girlfriend?"

"Yes and no. She was a fake girlfriend."

"Excuse me?"

"I was only using her to gain access to her boss's office."

"Oh, I see. So, to you, she was a fake girlfriend, but, to her, you were a very real boyfriend?"

"Yes, I am total prick, doctor."

"Well, it's not the most admirable thing I've ever heard, to be sure. But, you engaged in some acts of physical intimacy with her, correct?"

"Yes."

"Kissing?"

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"Cuddling, of course."

"Ok."

"The Americans have a strange euphemism having to do with their sport of baseball, I think, something about bases that equate to sexual acts."

"I've heard the phrasing, but I'm afraid I wouldn't know what is meant by each base. Why don't you just say what you did, without the euphemisms?"

"Fine. Naked touching. That's all. No penetration by anything. No mouths on genitals."

"Ok. What kept you from going further?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, did you have scruples about having sex with her under false pretenses or did you not wish to go further because you either weren't enjoying what you were doing or didn't think you'd enjoy going further?"

"I probably would have enjoyed it on a purely physical basis, but I don't know what kept me from going further. Scruples, maybe. I don't know."

"Did you enjoy the physical contact that you did have?"

"It could feel pleasant."

"Did you get erections during this sexual play?"

"Yes," Sherlock said reluctantly.

"Did you do anything about them?"

"Sometimes."

"Ok. You say 'it could feel pleasant.' Were there times it could feel unpleasant?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as if in pain. "Sometimes."

"When?"

"When I'd really think about what I was doing and I'd feel guilty about deceiving her or I'd feel guilty thinking about . . . "

"About what?" Sherlock shook his head violently, not wishing to answer the question. Doyle leaned in and asked again, softly, "Guilty about what, Sherlock?"

Sherlock barely croaked out the word, "Molly." Doyle sat back in his chair, surprised at the turn of session's conversation, not wanting to step on the moment, seeing how deeply the utterance of the name had effected Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at his watch and rose to leave. "Ah, if I believed in God, I'd thank him that this damn hour is up."

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