Two Days Ago. Sherrinford Prison
Within only a minute of starting to play the violin portions of Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade," Euros joined him, as she always did. Together they recreated the dream-world-like fantasy of the piece, evoking notes of both sadness and exotic adventure. It was their only means of communication. Other than during their violin duets, Euros lived trapped within her own mind, not one word escaping her lips since being returned to Sherrinford almost nine months ago.
When the last lilting notes of their shared musical conversation came to an end, Sherlock needed to tell his sister why he'd possibly never be able to see her again, why even this limited emotional connection might be permanently severed. Not for the first time when it came to Euros, Sherlock thought: there but for the grace of something like God go I. What had kept him from becoming the psychopath Euros had become? What damage had she suffered that he had been spared? Was it merely broken synapses in her brain that were tethered more tightly in his own that had put Sherlock and Euros on such different paths?
Of course, these questions could never have answers, only hypotheses and conjecture. Sherlock's own self-preservational lie that he was a "high-functioning sociopath" was born out of his years of failure to make real, lasting friendships or develop romantic relationships. If he was a high-functioning sociopath, he told himself, it simply wasn't his fault. It wasn't lack of effort on his part at making human connections or something that could be addressed with psychotherapy since there was no treatment for sociopathy. It had been a convenient lie that protected him from the truth: that he was an awkward person who could be easily hurt by rejection.
Ironically, though, he thought to himself, it was precisely human connection that had likely kept him from the stark and lonely existence of someone like Euros. First Victor, then John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and, of course, Molly, all revealed him to be what he really was: a man with needs—for friendship, for love, and, as he finally conceded after years of self-denial, for sexual intimacy.
Placing his violin down for that last time, he took a deep breath and began his final goodbye to Euros. "Euros," he said, as that woman was now seated again and staring off into space, impassive, "I'm afraid this might be the last time I am able to come see you." Sherlock had thought he'd seen a slight flicker of recognition on her face, but it could well have been only his own imagination. He explained the whole sorted story, from Molly's initial receipt of the package to last night's revelation that he must go with Molly, that he simply did not wish to live without her, that she had indeed mattered most to him.
After completing his speech, he said to her, "I don't know what you saw, what you observed, that enabled you and no one else, including me, to see how much I was in love with Molly Hooper, but, for whatever else you are guilty of in this life, you are also responsible for that realization and, for that, I thank you, Euros. I don't know how much of what I'm saying is getting inside that extraordinary mind of yours, but I wanted you to know that, for that, I thank you." Then he added, sadly, "I must take your leave now."
Sherlock enclosed his violin in the case and turned to leave his sister, probably for the final time. Almost to the door, her heard her voice for the first time since her sadistic games had ended so many months ago.
"Irene Adler, aka 'The Woman,' born September 1st, 1981 in Warsaw, Poland to a German father and a Polish mother. Emigrated to the United Kingdom in 1987. Parents killed in an automobile accident two years later." Euros kept listing off the facts of Irene Adler's life like a computer would, with machine-like cold detachment as well. Sherlock looked at his sister with a mix of awe and curiosity. What was she doing, he wondered.
She continued with a list of recited facts, all of which Sherlock too knew by heart from the months of examining Adler's life with a microscope. But, once her recitation of Adler's basic biographical facts ended, her words became less comprehensible and Sherlock wondered if the effort to recall all those details from the catacombs of her mind had brought meaningless debris along with them.
"So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all the work that he had done in creation. Sundays in the Park with George. But, remember, mutually assured destruction only works if both sides believe the other capable of destroying the world."
Euros's apparent word salad had ended, leaving Sherlock confused and unable to tell if she had said something meaningful or something nonsensical. So, as he waited for his helicopter to take off from Sherrinford, he thought about her strange words.
Two references to Sunday, that can't be nothing, he thought. Sundays, Sundays. Is there anything special about Sundays in Irene Adler's life? She couldn't possibly be religious, Sherlock thought. As the helicopter soared, he searched his mind palace for all he could remember about her Sunday surveillance reports. Nothing. In fact, they proved the most useless of all days. On the second and third readings of the reports, he remembered resorting to skimming the notes on her Sunday activities—because she never saw clients on that day. "So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all the work that he had done in creation."
So she had rested on Sunday. From what Sherlock knew of her activities from Monday through Saturday, doubtless she had needed a rest. Where did she go on Sundays and what did she do? Did she go to art museums, perhaps? Is that the reference to Sundays in the Park with George—literally a reference to the painting "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" by Georges Seurat? No London museum exhibits it to his knowledge. No, it can't be that. He searched his mind palace once again. The Sunday surveillance reports only called up the vaguest memories. Damn you, Sherlock, why didn't you read the Sunday reports more carefully, he thought.
But then he remembered. The park. Not a park, but multiple parks. Most often Green Park, which would make sense since it would have been the closest to her Belgravia home. But there had also been trips to Hyde Park, Regent's Park, St. James's Park, and other parks throughout the entirety of the city. Always on Sunday. So Euros was being literal when she said "Sundays in the Park," but then who was George, if she meant that literally as well? And what did the Cold War nuclear strategy of Mutually Assured Destruction have to do with any of this?
Sherlock's mind called up all of its reserve during the flight back to London to figure out the riddle Euros had laid out for him. By the time he'd landed, he thought he'd finally pieced together much of the puzzle. Once out of the helicopter, he phoned Mycroft immediately.
Instead of a greeting, Mycroft launched right into his brother's previous night's decision-making. "Sherlock, we have to talk about this reckless plan of yours to secret yourself away with Molly Hooper, I really . . . "
"Not now, Mycroft! I need a private plane immediately to go to New York. Within the hour, Mycroft. And I have some information I need your people to follow up on."
"What's this about?"
"The game, Mycroft, the game is back on again," Sherlock said, with obvious manic delight in his voice.
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.
**Scheherazade (from Wikipedia): The story goes that the King found out one day that his first wife was unfaithful to him. Therefore, he resolved to marry a new virgin each day as well as behead the previous day's wife, so that she would have no chance to be unfaithful to him. He had killed 1,000 such women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter. Against her father's wishes, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the king. Once in the king's chambers, Scheherazade asked if she might bid one last farewell to her beloved sister, who had secretly been prepared to ask Scheherazade to tell a story during the long night. The king lay awake and listened with awe as Scheherazade told her first story. The night passed by, and Scheherazade stopped in the middle of the story. The king asked her to finish, but Scheherazade said there was no time, as dawn was breaking. So, the king spared her life for one day to finish the story the next night. The next night, Scheherazade finished the story and then began a second, even more exciting tale, which she again stopped halfway through at dawn. Again, the king spared her life for one more day so she could finish the second story. And so the king kept Scheherazade alive day by day, as he eagerly anticipated the finishing of the previous night's story. At the end of 1,001 nights, and 1,000 stories, Scheherazade told the king that she had no more tales to tell him. During these 1,001 nights, the king had fallen in love with Scheherazade. He spared her life, and made her his queen.
**I am by no means an expert on classical music, but Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade," which I discovered while playing a game of Civilization, believe it or not, is, to my mind, perhaps the most beautiful piece of music ever created.