Chapter 5: Push/Pull
So, they were shopping together now. In Tesco. For food. Mary shook her head as she fondled a glossy pomelo without even looking at it.
Was it all a bit too domestic?
As momentous as it had been, their first date hadn't been anywhere near long enough. Sitting in Lab 3 the next day whilst completely neglecting her slides and beaker cleaning, she had hovered hopelessly over WhatsApp, fingers sparking with potential words, but too paralysed to type them. There seemed too much at stake for there to be a wrong move now. Neediness was new to her and not attractive, especially after the great stream of Sherlockian revelations that had seemed impossible to cut short the night before. Truthfully, John Watson had been a real gentleman (and a soldier) about it, but it definitely wasn't first date material, which Mary suspected might result in her not being second date material.
Then, like a miracle borne from heartfelt wishes, the familiar blue Belstaff swept into her lab, followed closely by a very comely army doctor, smiling as if he dropped by every day.
"This man says he knows you, Mary," announced Sherlock, immediately scanning the lab in that way he did. "He appears to have lost his way, in addition to his Oyster card, which he habitually forgets to return to his wallet after use."
"Well, a good afternoon - to you both!"
She smiled back, as John Watson inclined his head in greeting.
"Sherlock kindly showed me the way. We have Mike Stamford in common, apparently. We both trained here, at Bart's."
"Goodness, that's quite a coincidence."
Sherlock, who had found a more comfortable stool and better Wi-Fi connection than in his previous lab, spoke quickly, without looking up from the laptop.
"You have worked through your lunch again Mary, and Dr. Watson left the house without any hint of breakfast this morning, therefore the new Sardinian cafe on Bartholemew's Close might be an excellent choice of venue to develop this fascinating dialogue."
Mary had suppressed a snort, but quickly grabbed her coat and keys before any minds could be changed. She turned as she reached the door, which John Watson was holding open, his expression lively but clearly keeping his opinions to himself.
"You want to come with us?" She offered, as Sherlock Holmes leant over a microscope she had been adjusting moments earlier.
"Absolutely not, as someone has to select a more useful sample for the Frogstan case, as well as washing up those beakers you are currently neglecting in the sink."
She leant in to hug his stiff, tweed shoulder, whispering, "I love you, you idiot. Thank you."
And he'd waved her away without a second glance.
From that moment, and for the next three weeks, there had scarcely been a moment that John Watson hadn't been either in her thoughts or in her arms.
But, Tescos?
She looked at the rows of reduced baguettes, poking sadly out of their long tubular shrouds.
Was it too late in life for her to be seeing someone with such feelings of teenage ferocity and enthusiasm? Should people in their thirties be a little more… casual about things.
Like day-old bread, wasn't she a little bit past it?
~x~
Sherlock stared at the acres of crinkly, cylindrical packets, stretching across shelves in row after brightly coloured row, seemingly into infinity.
His basket was empty, as were his energy reserves and shopping list. He had walked past this aisle three times, his mind unable to latch onto any particular product that might inhabit his empty fridge or vacant pantry, distracted as it was by the thought of the dead people in his sitting room, currently watching Strictly and arguing about Brexit.
"Way too much choice for the human brain."
The voice came from behind his left shoulder, and he recognised it immediately.
"I mean, how many variations on the humble gingernut can there possibly be? You don't want to go on ruining things by adding creamy fillings or making them giant (or fun-sized) and confusing a man who just wants to dunk something into his tea."
John Watson stood there, that slightly crooked smile lifting his eyes whilst he held a basket full of produce that couldn't possibly be his own, and Sherlock felt his heart rate calm a little.
"You've bought a larger wallet," he said. "To accommodate the Oyster card."
John's grin widened.
"Yeah," he shifted, patting his pocket a little ruefully. "Now, I've just got to remember to pick up the wallet."
Sherlock laughed out loud, surprising himself, as Mary rounded the corner with a basket of her own, containing ingredients to make a meal for two … no, wait…
"I know you're not busy tonight, Sherlock, as Greg told me you'd sorted that Victor Hatherley case… the press, or something?"
"Metal residue was found in the press. It was clearly not being used for the reasons suggested by Ms Stark."
"Exactly." Mary adjusted her basket, glancing briefly at John. "So, you're coming to dinner at mine. Although I'm a dreadful cook, John is not, despite the fact that he lives in a tiny cupboard in the army barracks where hosting is limited."
"I'm perfectly fine, Mary."
"I know you are, my darling, but this branch is closing in ten minutes and man cannot live by biscuits alone."
"I am -"
"Coming to dinner with myself and John. There, now you don't have to make a list of reasons why you'd prefer to sit alone at Baker Street. John's bringing wine!"
"It'd be really great if you did," added John, quietly, so Sherlock, who'd had his fill of Alistair's opinions regarding the internet, feminism and the Green party, put down his empty basket and followed them out of the shop.
~x~
"You're joking, a jellyfish?"
John Watson sat back in his chair, swallowing his last mouthful of coffee and staring at his companion. It had been three weeks since the steaks at Mary's and Sherlock Holmes never seemed to stop pulling something wild and mind-boggling out of the bag. John would never have known, nor willingly used the term 'fanboying' without a gun to his head, but he felt dangerously near to it every time he heard about what consulting detectives did for a living.
Sherlock scowled, crinkling between his eyebrows with the memory.
"I rarely joke, John, but the case still irritates me, as I should have realised that the towel being dry didn't necessarily mean McPherson hadn't yet been swimming. I made an assumption."
"My assumption would not have involved a deadly, poisonous jellyfish in a Sussex rock pool."
Sherlock shrugged, staring out of the window from Angelo's 'best seats in the house.
"Rare, but not unheard of after heavy storms at sea. Cyanea Capillata can sometimes be washed ashore. The rule is to never assume and always use observation and deduction whenever possible."
The candlelight flickered and background noises of clinking glasses and occasional laughter gave a certain comfort and warmth to the evening. John Watson was easy; easy to speak to, even easy to listen to. He was a decent conductor of ideas, a real sounding board and a calming presence. Sherlock sighed. The ache was there again, but it had been good to have a little respite from time to time.
"And when it isn't possible?" John was looking at him, beady eyed and questioning; interested, even.
"A good guess can come in handy."
John's snort of laughter was unexpected, and Sherlock found he liked it, but he made to stand anyway; time was rushing by and he had to be home.
"Fancy a real drink?" John stood also, nodding towards the street opposite, lined with the kind of pubs frequented by Lestrade and co. after their shifts were over.
Sherlock shook his head.
"I need to be back at Baker Street." He gathered his gloves, heart starting to race at the thought of his crowded house; of Molly in her new world and he in his.
They stood in the portico of Angelo's, awaiting the taxis and Sherlock lit a cigarette, taking advantage of the shelter from the wind. Autumn was in full swing it seemed.
"You disapprove." He sensed eyes on him and knew Mary well enough.
"I'm a doctor, but not that kind of doctor. You don't need to prove anything."
Sherlock inhaled deeply, coughing only slightly since he'd resumed the habit only two weeks ago.
"What could I possibly need to prove to you? To anyone?"
Headlights appeared and the pause told Sherlock truths were incoming.
"Nothing… you don't."
Wait.
He inhaled, then let the wind steal in and carry the smoke away, like a thief.
The first taxi pulled up and Sherlock gestured for John to take it.
John stepped in, holding open the door, locking eyes with him.
"Actually, Sherlock, it's not me, nor Mary, nor anyone who cares about you that you're trying to prove anything to."
Indicator ticking, low diesel hum of the cab, driver on his last shift of the night judging by his body language and petrol gauge.
"It's yourself," ended John Watson as he closed the cab door, such a weight of understanding in a single glance that almost made him catch his breath as it pulled away.
~x~
Pushing the heavy front door over piles of brown windowed envelopes and junk mail, Sherlock's dim hallway drew him inside in a rush of cold, damp air and floating dust until he, key in hand, almost collided with the inhabitant of the bottom step.
"Ah, Jackie. Apologies."
You would have imagined a pink, leopard skin coat and bright, peroxide curls to be more visible, but he had been distracted more than he would have cared to admit by his most recent exchange with John.
He pocketed his key, awkwardly hanging up the Belstaff around her hunched, sniffling form.
"Carl has upset you."
It wasn't a question, but also, hardly a genius deduction. Carl upset most people most days, living or dead.
She nodded wetly into her handkerchief, which had also seen better days.
"He's hidden the remote? To stop you watching Homes Under the Hammer, again?"
Jackie shook her head, curls bobbing sadly in the half-light.
"Midsomer Murders?" It really could have been a longer list, but Jackie had definitely become more interested in his line of work over the past few, endless weeks.
"There's no need for it, Sherlock," she sniffed, gesturing up the seventeen stairs, bracelets clinking, eye makeup smudged. "'Cos 'es got this bee in 'is bonnet about that music he's composin' -" Sherlock stifled a snort; Carl's pretentions were borne of nothing, but grandiose all the same.
"- so the rest of us can't have the sound up and 'ave to creep around, so's not to disturb. Wrong, it is!"
Sherlock found he couldn't agree more.
Carl was the mercifully the only inhabitant of the sitting room, where he lay dramatically over the sofa, battered guitar across his grubby chest and foolscap spread out around him. Tiny, dark eyes flickered momentarily towards Sherlock, who stood looming above, still and silent, as they both acknowledged a gauntlet had been cast down.
Several of Carl's stained fingers curled, claw-like, across the fret whilst others strummed across in a harsh, jarring clash of notes.
"Can I help you, Sherlock?" The strum again, setting teeth on edge. "It's just, I'm busy, see."
Sniffing, he glanced down at the instrument, toeing one of the sheets of manuscript with a damp-looking trainer to a more pleasing position. "Composin'."
Sherlock was stone, but his heart was galloping with the effort.
"This is my manuscript, Carl. These are my notes, my composition."
His voice was low, soft and, to those who knew him, absolutely deadly.
"So why", he continued quietly, "are they then spread across the floor and annotated in your … biro."
Carl looked at him then, sitting up slightly and carefully laying down the instrument that had clearly been a stranger to such treatment.
"How could I know it was any use? I never seen you lift a biro to it since I've been here." He actually shrugged and Sherlock felt dizzy with the desire to cause harm to someone who could no longer be harmed.
His beautiful, lyrical, haunting, infuriating nocturne for Molly.
Hours and hours spent weaving and shaping the notes that would truly express his feelings towards her; the true, mad, heart wrenching feelings that ran so deep and went so far beyond words, they may as well have been a galaxy away.
The music, so full of roadblocks and frustrations that pulled him under, then occasionally giving him bursts of astonishing inspiration and thrusting his head above the water for more.
The manuscript sheets, now lying spread across his carpet, crumpled, scuffed and scribbled over; shuffled into disarray.
His fury clenched his hands, his jaw, causing swathes of heat to break out across his neck and shoulders. And then, just a sudden as a slap across the face, it all dissipated into nothingness (like Carl himself), leaving him weak and shaking as he knelt to gather them.
And the worst of it, thought Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, violinist, chemist, loyal friend, lover; the worst of it was not his uninvited guests rifling through his home, his head and his possessions and ruining his precious composition.
No.
The worst of it was that he hadn't even thought about the nocturne for almost six weeks, let alone considered the idea of adding anything to it, and that notion almost made him weep.
~x~
Hours later, he lay in a rapidly cooling bath, eyes closed against the flickering screen of the TV reflected onto his ceiling from the sitting room, with a damp flannel across them for good measure. He sensed her before she even inhaled to speak.
"Carl is really sorry, Sherlock. He's offered to re-write all of your music on new manuscript and keep out of your way for the next week. He's also taking out the rubbish now." She paused the list, and he felt her small, warm hand lie across his as it rested on the roll top of the bath.
"You're cold."
"I'm tired, Molly. It's fine. Cases are being solved. All is good."
Light flooded in as she tentatively lifted the flannel, and the familiar churn of guilt squirmed through his empty stomach. Emptiness was fine; he was used to emptiness.
"You're not fine, are you? I haven't seen you all day. Have you been out with John again? He seems nice… from things you've said, I mean."
"Molly." He looked at her through wet, spiky lashes and her eyes were as warm and dark and welcoming as they had always been and he wanted to grab her hand tight and cling to it like a drowning man, but instead he said:
"Molly, was it like this before?"
And Molly Hooper leant in and held him, half in and out of the water, half in and out of a life imagined together, and her soft hair caressed his face as she slowly shook her head.
~x~
Mycroft called by three days later, sparking a scintilla of regret from his younger brother, who normally observed the portents of an imminent visit.
"You're slipping."
That ersatz, knowing twist to the lips, leaning back in the armchair, letting the tea Mrs Hudson insisted on bringing get colder. Like his heart.
Sherlock gave himself a shake. It would not pay for Mycroft to catch so much as a glimpse of his internal monologue. He could always tell.
"Please elaborate." Playing for time.
The ghosts had been quiet for days and Sherlock suspected living visitors would not help matters. His brother enjoyed a little showing off and it was beneficial to the potential length of this visit to allow him a little fun.
Mycroft smirked a little more, the autumn light from the window dancing across his signet ring and making a glowing golden circle appear on the coffee table.
He really had to focus.
"The fact that you were at home, brother mine. Aren't there wrong doers cavorting boldly about the streets of London needing your … intervention? Are there no more good deeds to be done?"
Sherlock affected casual, leaning back into his own chair with the air of a man without a care in the world.
"There may be a small lull at present," he commented, blithely. "It would benefit me to let them have a little time to catch up."
"To consider a more imaginative approach?"
"To challenge me, perhaps." He had boredom perfected for many an occasion and it did not fail him now.
"So, how may I help you, Mycroft? Has your handyman spy not reported back anything more interesting? Did you need to investigate my comings and goings in person?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes, signet ring flashing as he reached for his briefcase. Perhaps a bit not good?
"Legwork." He clicked the locks, bringing out several buff envelopes with intimidating red rubber-stamped messages decorating them in triplicate. "Not my area, but needs must. You, my dear Sherlock, have been noticed by agencies significantly higher than my own."
Sherlock very much doubted such an agency actually existed, but any brotherly conflagration would only delay the ordeal. He had to be alone again, and soon.
Mycroft proffered the first document, but he shook his head.
"Precis it for me, if you please. I'm busy."
"It is, my dear Sherlock, an offer. As the criminals of London seem a little lacklustre, you may be interested in a more far-flung option."
"A return ticket this time, perhaps? Less of a six-month one-way mission?"
Mycroft at least had the decency to glance down at his shoes. They never spoke of Magnussen. A step too far.
"There have been several disappearances on the archipelago of islands, off the coast of southern Chile. It is a place of distinctive wooden churches and palafitos stilt houses, but also deeply rooted in folklore and tradition. Some locals share strong beliefs in male witchcraft, just to add a little colour."
His fingers steepled lightly, Mycroft inclined his head, awaiting a response.
"The General Director of the carabinaros has asked for you by name. You would be most looked after and goodwill would be forged between our two countries."
"Our Man in Chile?" Sherlock surveyed his brother, distracted for a moment by the kind of caseload that would unite two countries and require such a level of discretion that Mycroft himself would dabble in.
"It is a case with … rather ingenious details, such as frequent sightings of El Caleuche, a ghostly ship, sailed by warlocks. Not quite pirates, Sherlock, but close enough, don't you think?"
Sherlock suspected he had had enough of ghosts for several lifetimes but could see through Mycroft's bluster and diplomatic relations. His brother simply wanted something exotic and enticing to distract him. His brother cared for him. He took a breath, thinking only of his lovely girl and what she might say. His brother loved him, and this was how he chose to demonstrate such an undisciplined and unruly emotion.
He sat up and proffered long fingers towards the second envelope.
"Something, perhaps, a little more worldly for the moment?"
Mycroft sighed, clearly having put most of his eggs in the Chilean basket.
"Just another knighthood. I feel it becomes increasingly impolite with every refusal. Her Royal Highness is quite the fan it would seem."
And Sherlock smiled this time, but still shook his head.
"Such a pity, Sherlock, to see you sleepwalking through life," sighed his brother.
But, maybe preferable to the alternative.
~x~
"It sounded like a wonderful opportunity. I bet you've two or three ideas about the case already."
John stood at the edge of the pavement, peering down onto a stoop he'd never had the opportunity to peer at, let alone actually step across before.
Below him, two sets of fingers laced haphazardly through wild, dark curls and hunched shoulders, shrouded in blue, delineated a weary shell of a man, who apparently never responded to increasingly worried texters, and sat beneath him, leaning against a glossy, black front door.
"Four, actually," admitted Sherlock Holmes, yawning. "But I can put it in an email instead of embarking on a sixteen-hour flight to Chile."
Then he looked up, pale heterochromic eyes, both brightened and dulled at the same time, and something shifted in John Watson, something that would never shift back.
"Can I … er. come in?" he asked, gesturing towards the black, brass adorned barrier that Sherlock seemed to be putting between himself and his home. "A cup of tea would be great after battling the Bakerloo line from the barracks." He smiled, for the gamble was real.
Then something about the shoulders sagged and Captain Watson spied the breech in defences.
"Seven years in medical school and we still lean towards the mundanity that humanity clings to in times of stress." Sherlock's long fingers stilled momentarily, clasping his head and the skull that lay beneath.
And so, John did something he never did, particularly to high maintenance depressives who needed his professional disassociation more than they needed his heart; he held out his hand.
"I want to see where consulting detectives go when they need to consult."
Blue eyes glinted in the fading autumn evening and John considered he had nothing to lose.
"Don't be my friend John. My brother would tell you I don't have friends."
John shrugged, casually, despite the hammering in his heart.
"Enemies then? I can be your adversary, if you want to talk to someone who won't necessarily tell you something you want to hear."
Sherlock smiled, and his hand reached up, grasping at the man who offered and who pulled him to his feet.
"I'd actually love that," he whispered, pushing the door of 221B ajar as a welcome into the darkness within.