A/N: 2nd instalment of the Christmas piece.
Delayed and probably past its shelf life now, but here it goes. I'm probably cramming the plotline in a few "days" to avoid addressing lockdown and other tier restriction measures that occurred early in the month. I couldn't fit them in the narrative. Ha! Life is getting in the way of fiction again. -csf
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Sherlock Holmes loves a good crime scene.
Unlike the general public's perception, Sherlock is not necessarily attracted by the gory scenarios, the inventive murder weapons, the violent demise of ordinary folks playing out uncomplicated human emotions in blunt ways that bypass the morals and principles we believe define us as humans. The detective enjoys all the aforementioned with the thrumming thrill of the chase. Like a hunter on the prawl, hunting the beast inside ordinary folks that breach that fragile illusion of civility and decency that we regard as necessary to keep us honourable, decent, worthy humans. That makes Sherlock Holmes an avenger of what is universally right in this world of ours; even if an unwilling participant at times.
You see, my friend will disassociate his efforts from the heroism they are enrobed in, and declare himself a mere tool of his Work. Sherlock loves praise, but works not to acquire praise. He enjoys a good chase, but does not set out to hunt criminals - they just tend to try to get away with their evil deeds and my friend can't let them get away with that. Sherlock is worthy of awards and acolytes, but always goes MIA and declares undue entrapment if the Yard, the MI6, or the Palace try to bequest him with a token of gratitude, be it a small fortune, a medal, or a knighthood. To Sherlock, such grandiose gestures are not fair dues to the simple efficient use of the Brainwork. And Brainwork is what Sherlock solemnly believes he was born to do, and to give to the world.
Even at the cost of his normal existence. Something I'm not willing to sit idly by, and watch him sacrifice.
Sometimes I genuinely believe that my friend has managed to perfect his great powers mental machinery to the point of ridiculous obliviousness. It seems that a work enraptured Sherlock will no longer truly notice what to others causes motive to pause (and, not infrequently, gag). No, like in a trait shared with a poet or an artist, what truly attracts Sherlock to a crime scene that is seemingly unsolvable is the challenging puzzle, placed before him by an ordinary mortal soul, whose prime goal was to commit a heinous act and to get away with it. Sherlock is flattered, in a very personal logic of his, by the fact that someone decided to put in his path another intricate puzzle to absorb his mind, a quest to find a mathematical truth of actions passed in secrecy and anonymity, an invite to ascertain the correct answer that fits equation of life; or even in a most profound sense that not even Sherlock recognises to himself, to put together the reasons and triggers of human emotions. What Sherlock Holmes so sorely lacks in understanding of his own self – the unpredictability of his own emotions that he so tirelessly fights to keep under constant, restrained, control – is why he essentially dedicates his studies in observing the rest of mankind, as a man determined to figure himself out by using humanity is a mirror of his own soul.
Paradoxically, the locked room mysteries and the impossible crimes are top fields of study to a metaphysical detective looking, searching, for the human answers to lifelong questions, eliciting in the lanky detective the kneejerk reactions of the automaton, the reasoning machine that deflects sentiment as a distortion of logic and reason. Sherlock reacts to the perfect murder mystery with a quick summoning of his cold machine act, a second nature that takes over as a beast reared in the darkness of his personal shadows. Sherlock willingly transforms himself into the allegory of a prime optimal car engine, roaring down the neural network path of logic synapses towards the solution of the challenge presented to him. His mind soars in absolute joy, the heavens part and angels sing, as his analytical mind owns him, taking up the brunt of the work, as his movements become short, contained, sporadic, energy-saving; efficient. In his sharp angles face, his liquid colour shifting orbs acquire the glint of steel as he peruses the scene, the elfin eyes losing their earthly hues and becoming besieging warlike machines ready to pick apart the slightest evidence. His naturally plump lips stretch thin, cold, arrogant, in a way he'd be denied biometric correspondence with his papers at passport control. His features, in short, morph to accommodate a shift in mental gears. It nearly always causes me a deep set thrill, of half awed horror and half magical enthralling. Like a moth attracted to electric light, knowing that if I attempt to come too close it will inevitably destroy me. Sherlock's physiology changes minutely, but openly. The man makes no secret of his elation and fulfilment as the second, darker, primal nature of Sherlock Holmes emerges from his dual core, to come play the game, solve the crime.
It's my sole, self-appointed job to hold Sherlock together as one functional entity. Make sure he eats, sleeps, and caters for more than just his incredible shape-shifting ideas filled mind. For when Sherlock gets in these stroppy moods of his, he can easily forget how to be truly human. No, I exaggerate. His brain is too big and well trained to forget. He wilfully ignores his humanity as if it could hold him back from the success he craves as a means to define his personal value.
My friend's greatest folly is to believe his value is defined by his Brainwork.
It's a lonesome proposition of heroism and a quest for redemption, that in order to achieve greatness in mankind Sherlock still believes in the fallacy of turning his back onto what makes him human. It's my job to steer him to a place of safety, to soften the blows and round his social imperfections, as he let's his feral brain roam free in the landscapes of crime.
I get front row seats to watch his brilliant, bright light brain inextricate the complex puzzles that baffle the rest of the world. To watch Sherlock nearly self-destruct in a blinding light of brilliance, and to rescue him from the brink should he ever come too close in his explosive supernovas of whirling deductions and conclusions.
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I'm perched on a cold steel gurney, parked in the quietly efficient morgue room run by doctor Molly Hooper. The ponytailed, awkward little pathologist is blushing as she watches, enraptured, the whimsies of the madman we both admire; leaning, poking, probing and nearly brushing against the dead refrigerated body currently on display. Needless to say, Sherlock has straddled the cold, livid body on the gurney he has been wheeled out in, as the most natural thing to do. His bespoke tailored trousers getting rubbing stains at the knees by the friction with the stainless steel surface. The heels of his hands, I find, are equally affected, purple and blue from the prolonged contact with the rapidly "defrosting" tray where the body lays, impervious to the fate a mad consulting detective may force upon it.
'The murderer ensured the ingestion of enough cyanide to kill him', Sherlock comments as he seems suddenly aware of our presence in the cold sterile room. I clear my throat and stand up straighter.
Molly comments, almost with a relieved smile: 'Enough to kill him four times over, Sherlock.'
Sherlock grins wildly in response to Molly. They both like a tidy murder when they see one. A flash of common ground is established between them. Molly steps forward, more confidently, taking the long scenic route around the mountaineering detective. Perks of the trade, I gather, as we all know Molly still keeps the slightest infatuation with the detective.
'In the Amoretto?' Sherlock gathers, sniffing the air. 'Logical hideout, given the prolific scent of almonds.'
Molly tilts her head and says coyly. 'Never even saw it coming.'
'And now he's a dead Partridge in your cold storage, Molly. John, I'm not entirely sure your proposition is not entirely abhorrent. It's too loosely connected to the "partridge in an apple tree" song.'
I roll my eyes. 'Pear tree, Sherlock.' I know he's messing with me, as his highly efficient brain won't forget a promising Christmas song as soon as it becomes the flagship of a recipe for murders galore.
'All in the same cyanide laden plant family, John.'
'You think Lestrade and I jumped the gun.'
Sherlock does some minor jumping of his own, sliding from his perched position to the aseptic floor below in an acrobatic effort that won't even rattle the gurney, altogether avoiding the overweight dead body. Bloody flexible git, he's showing-off to Molly now. Considering he's emotionally unavailable (and stunted), I find this slightly manipulative in nature. I clear my throat and look away, as Molly fawns over her computer to disguise her newly bright pink cheeks.
'I can print off the toxicology report for you, Sherlock.' She's already on it.
'John, get those papers, will you?'
The princely detective doesn't even glance my way. I grab the printed A4s and shove them in my breast pocket, making sure to crinkle them unceremoniously.
Sherlock is already randomly peeking at the drawers in the far wall, a gory collection of autopsied bodies in them, waiting for collection.
'If Lestrade and my imaginative assistant are right, watch out for twins next, Molly.' He glances with sharp interest her way, releasing a drawer from the tip of his hooked finger. 'You've changed your shampoo, Molly.'
She nervously fingers her ponytail. I notice the frail, split ends that cannot that eluded Sherlock's keen observations. 'I decided to try something new.'
'It doesn't suit you, Molly, you should go back to Tesco's own brand.'
She lets her crestfallen hand fall limp.
The damned detective is nearly autistic in his need of comfort from unchanged anchor points in his life. I believe Molly is one of those.
'You always say it's never twins', I intervene, sharp.
'Ah, the universe mocks me', Sherlock retorts philosophically. 'I really don't deserve it.'
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'John, must you overwhelm my sensory inputs by means of cheap trinkets overload?' the frantic detective loudly derides as the night bears down outside the windows, over London's familiar urban outline. Inside the comfortable surroundings of Baker Street, Sherlock is in full strop mode. It must be serious. He's even sounding a bit like his older brother – something I suspect I'm best keeping to myself, lest I aggravate his already sour mood further.
I glance up from the toaster's odd puffs of white smoke (what has Sherlock gone and done with it now?) directly at my flatmate.
'Just some Christmas cheer, Sherlock.'
'Do I look cheerful, John?' he mocks, too wiry. He's impatient about those twins' murders, I'd say at a guess.
'Only unabashedly cheerful in the presence of triple murderers, lately. What's wrong with a string of lights and a few baubles?'
The fierce detective nearly growls at frustrated violence against said baubles. 'Christmas, John? Didn't we just do it last year?'
I nearly – nearly – giggle at that. 'Yeah, I think we did', I answer with my most straight face. Does he seriously not know it comes around every year?
'Am I condemned to mediocre mainstream behaviour and oblivious repetition? No, don't answer that! I've told you already, I'm not doing Christmas this year.'
'When did you say that? Was I in the room?'
'You just assuredly were, John. We agreed last year that you would have the run of the jolly season's decor, whereas I would take over this year. Well, my dear captain, I'm taking over this ship.'
Says the pirate, something in the back of my mind supplies, but it migrates too slowly outwards, and it reaches the space between us as an unsure, strained grimace.
'You're serious? No baubles?'
He ruthlessly shakes his head.
'No string of lights?' I insist.
He rolls his eyes.
I get away from the stupid toaster (now unfurling solid wafts of blue smoke), knowing full well Sherlock has got me snookered. It is indeed his turn. I just never assumed that in his turn he would evade Christmas altogether. But I'm a soldier and I stand my ground fighting for what is right. I nod firmly, squared shoulders in place, and admit:
'Have it your way. I'll throw the baubles back in the box again. Just... you're sure you won't change your mind?'
He smirks, a victorious, imperious, halfway to mean, cold smirk. 'I'm not known to be feeble minded.'
'Right', I repeat. Maybe I'm in shock. Didn't expect this. Of all years, I reckon 2020 is the year we needed whimsical, purposeless decorations galore. An expression of hope in difficult times.
I'll decorate my room upstairs, regardless of my flatmate's grumpy abhorrence of all things Christmas related.
Maybe he's just upset by the Christmas themed serial murder out on the streets, currently preying on two turtle doves. And taking too long for his liking, I suppose.
I march on to the living room, grabbing the cardboard box. Under Sherlock's strictest surveillance, I start stripping bare the living room's early merry details.
He's right, it's Spock's turn to dictate Christmas proceedings this year.
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TBC
