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“No, absolutely not,” Martin shook his head incredulously. I frowned, “Er. All right. Won’t talk about it first or anything, cos that’s reasonable.” “Jackie, come on!” Martin gestured to the waiter for another drink. “We’re not postponing the wedding for one person. Sherlock was right; we don’t need her to get married.” “It’s John,” I snapped. “Don’t call me Jackie. My name’s John. And Sherlock isn’t some random person; she’s my best friend. I don’t want-” Martin held up a finger to silence me as the waiter poured us each more wine, “Leave the bottle if you don’t mind. Thank you so much.” “Martin,” through gritted teeth. “This is literally all I care about. I don’t want a poofy dress or a big party or any of it. I just want Sherlock to be there. Honestly, I’m not really even asking.” Martin sipped his wine, “So what you’re telling me, your fiance, is that if your friend Sherlock isn’t there, you don’t want to get married?” I raised my chin, “Yeah, I suppose I am.” Martin pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, “Darling, I didn’t even want to tell you this, but don’t you think it’s rather obvious that Sherlock doesn’t want to be there?” Scowl at him, “Why would you say that?” “Why would she set off on this music trip right before the wedding, if she had any intention whatever of being there? Depend on it, sweetheart, you could give her ten years advance notice and hold the wedding in her flat, and she wouldn’t come anywhere near it. She doesn’t want to come.” “Do you find my name difficult to pronounce? Or are you afraid that if you use it, people will assume you’re married to a man? Martin sighed, “John, perhaps we should continue this discussion when you’re feeling a bit calmer.” “I don’t know that I’ll get calmer before we’ve finished the discussion, Martin. It seems to me that anger is a perfectly reasonable response to making a very simple request and having it flatly denied!” I gulped a little wine, and it most definitely did not make me feel any better. “Whether I want to postpone the wedding or not--which I don’t!--is beside the point, because Sherlock’s not going to come to the wedding! In fact, I wouldn’t bet money on you ever seeing her again, since she openly despises me, and she can’t bear to see you do something she doesn’t want you to do!” I gulped a little more wine and set my glass down with a sharp clink, “Jesus Christ, Martin! Have you always been this fucking condescending?” Martin leaned over the table to whisper furiously, “I’m only trying to keep hold of my temper because unlike some, I’m uncomfortable making a scene in a public place. And frankly you aren’t making it easier on me, stamping your feet like a spoilt child.” I gaped at him silently for a moment, then drew back from the table. “You know, I don’t think we have a problem to solve, actually. I think. I think it’s solved.” I pulled off my engagement ring and dropped it on the table. “Have a nice night.” … Martin caught up to me on the pavement, half a block from the restaurant and tried to give me the ring back, “John, please. Just think about it, all right? You’re not really going to call the whole thing off over one silly fight?” I waved the ring away, “It isn’t actually one silly fight, is it? Because I’m not the sort of person you can be proud to be married to, and I don’t think I want to turn into her.” Martin pocketed the ring, “So you’re finished with me? Just like that?” I didn’t stop walking, “I was happy, and I thought I was happy with you, but I think I was wrong about that. I think I was happy near you, and you were sort of incidental to it.” Martin shook his head, “That was a really unkind thing to say, John.” “I know. I’m sorry.” I had an idea that I was so desperate to act on, I could scarcely spare the attention to finish the conversation. “We’re not right for each other, Martin. Forget about me, all right. It never would have worked.” “This is about Sherlock, isn’t it?” I bit back a laugh, already giddy with the notion, “I really. I’m sorry. I have to go.” I waved for the cab coming up the road, jumped in, and gave my address. In the back seat of the cab, I rang Sherlock’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail, “Goddamn it! Er sorry, that wasn’t how I meant to start. Ha ha, hi sorry, it’s John! Christ, I really need to talk to you. Erm, I’m not sure when you’ll get this? I’ll try again soon, I guess. Call me back, please please please! I need to talk to you. Right, okay. Talk soon. Love you. This is John, by the way. Did I say? That’s stupid, caller ID. Right okay. Please call!” … From: [email protected]To: [email protected] Subject: I need to talk to you!!! Sherlock!!! I really need to talk to you. I’ll probably sound insane, because I think I’m in the middle of an epiphany. I miss you like mad, already. I’ve just called off my wedding about twenty minutes ago. I’m maybe losing my mind a little bit? Anyway, please call me. Or write back. But actually call, because I really need to hear your voice. Miss you loads. Can’t wait to talk to you. Can’t wait to see you!! Love you! Xxxxxxx,John From: [email protected]To: [email protected] Re: I need to talk to you!!! -Automated response- Thank you for your message! I will be out of the country until November 5, with limited access to email. I will do my best to respond when I return. Best regards, Sherlock Holmes … “Er. Hi John,” Dani squinted rather suspiciously at me on her doorstep. “What’s up?” “I really need your help,” I blurted. “I mean er. Hi. It’s been a while.” Dani stepped back to let me by, “Er yeah, so it has. Well. Come in.” “Thanks.” “Is this about money?” she asked when I was over the threshold. “Because I would help, only I haven’t got any.” “No,” I flopped onto her sofa, feeling suddenly shy. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” “All right,” Dani sat down on a chair. “What’s up?” she repeated. “God. Erm. I’m not really sure how to start.” Dani laughed, “I think you started by tearing across town in your pyjamas and pounding on my door at nine o’clock at night, so if anything you’re in the middle.” “Yeah. Okay. Er. Dan, er. How’d you know er. When you first worked it out, how did you work out that you’re er. Gay.” Dani’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline, “How’d I know? Are we talking about me or about you?” I hugged one of her sofa cushions, “About me, I suppose.” “Things not going so well with Martin?” I squeezed the cushion, “I chucked him over the weekend.” “Oh.” Dani stood, “I’ll put the kettle on. Maybe you’d better come into the kitchen and tell me what happened.” “Nothing happened,” I followed her into the kitchen. “Wait, no. Not nothing. A lot of things happened, in fact. Sherlock and I went on holiday to Switzerland together, and then she left me to go play music in Zurich, and then I came home and told Martin I didn’t want to get married without her, and he said that was stupid, and I got furious and gave him his ring back.” “Oh,” Dani filled the kettle. “It’s something to do with Sherlock. I was wondering if she’d come up.” “How’d you even-” Dani smiled, “Your videos. The way you talk about her is really. Affectionate.” I groaned, “Am I that obvious? I didn’t even know you watched those.” “I don’t actually. Well not regularly. I’m not a fan or anything. But people would mention them to me, like oooh your older sister is internet famous. So I had a look at a couple of them. You’re very er. It took you a really long time to notice you fancy her, John. I noticed in about one second.” I slumped over the worktop and rested my chin on my arm, “Thanks, Dan. Very direct. Helpful. Don’t suppose you might’ve said something before.” Dani snorted and mimed making a phone call, “Yeah, John? It’s Dani. Listen I know it’s been a few months, but I was just wondering if you know you’re gay? I haven’t seen you round the lesbian meetings, but your YouTube series is getting really dykey. Yeah, you did know? Right, carry on, then. See you Christmas.” I buried my face in my arm, “I suppose I’m still being stupid.” “Oh John,” Dani said gently. “Lots of people are stupid.” I burst out laughing, “There’s that Dani-brand consolation. Thank you so much.” Dani shrugged, “Well you are stupid. But you can probably fix it, yeah? Just. Say something?” “You really think it’ll be that simple?” “I dnno, do I? Never met her. But weeping in my kitchen isn’t going to get you anywhere is pretty certain. I reckon if you want something to happen, the only way to be sure it will is to do it.” “Yeah.” I sat up, “Right. Okay. I suppose I ought to come up with a plan.” “Aww,” said Dani affectionately. “You sound all detective-y. How gay of you.” … “Sherlock, it’s me again. I’ll fill up your voicemail at this rate. Erm. Bit calmer now, as you can hear, ha. God, I really miss you. I can’t wait to see you. Come home soon? I suppose you’ll be home in six weeks, like you said. I’ll be here. Please, please call me when you get this! No one’s hurt or anything. I’m just dying to talk to you. I miss you so much. Okay, erm. Love you. Speak soon? Goodbye.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I don’t know why I thought this would be a relief. I’m miserable without John. Feel horrible about the way I left things. Feel horrible that I left at all. Could there really be a satisfactory way to say goodbye to John? Not goodbye, surely. Not really. It won’t be what it was, but it’ll be something. Won’t it? Sort of trying not to imagine what it might be like. John moved on. John with Martin. I’m not meant to be imagining John at all, actually. That was sort of the point of the trip. It’s mostly chemicals, isn’t it? Infatuation is. With a little time, I ought to be able to reset my brain, and then I’ll be what she needs again. Or at least I won’t be driving myself out of my mind. No one needs that. More the doing, less the feeling. Can you reset your brain and get over infatuation when you’re obsessively counting the days til you can see your person again? Seems unlikely. Here I am anyway. I’ve got to try.
I didn’t think of how much waiting around and travelling there’d be on tour. I imagined rehearsing all day and performing all night. Drifting away into the music. But still we do have to get from place to place, which means queuing and waiting and sitting for hours. Too much time for thinking. I’ve decided not to keep up with my email, as it’ll only frustrate and upset me to read messages from people looking for my help, while I’m away. What did I used to do before I whiled away my hours trying not to obsess about John? It’s been less than a year; seems I ought to remember.
Pearl recommended me some books before I left, and I loaded them up on my tablet and have been doing a fair bit of reading. It’s nearly a passable distraction, but really very not. Pearl likes love too much. Rupi Kaur made me too sad. Actually got a little cross with Pearl over Sarah Waters. Went into embarrassingly prolonged gales of tears over
Tipping the Velvet
. There was no call for all that! Getting on a bit better with Jane Austen, though the Ah we’ve been in love the whole time! bits always make me want to throw the book--would be nice to actually have a book I could throw--as the men are always stuffy, boring, bossy, Martin Morstanish types. Would like to have a very stern word with Mr Knightley in particular. Try very hard not to let Elizabeth Bennet’s pert opinions and fine eyes remind me of John.
I have two voicemails from her. From John. Scolding me for leaving or begging me to come to her wedding, I’m sure. Think of listening to them. Think of deleting them. Think of hurling my phone into the North Sea and mailing John the postcard I got her in Zurich. Can’t even imagine what I’d say. Things are changed, irrevocably. I shut my eyes and stuck my fingers in my ears so that I wouldn’t have to see it happen, and now I’m stumbling about in the dark and silence, wondering what to do next. I’m going to come back into my own world soon. Silly of me to think of it as a rebirth? A re-something.
I’ll see John again soon, and I want to more than anything, but I’ve no idea how to see and how to be seen.
…
I couldn’t stop thinking of what Dani told me. Do something. I’d been all set to sit on my hands and wait for Sherlock to come back, as she didn’t seem to be getting my messages or my emails. But there was another option apart from pester or mope. I turned it over in my head on the journey back home, and when I got in, I stopped at Hudson’s on my way upstairs.
They were a little surprised to see me when they answered their door, “Oh, hello John. What can I do for you?”
I hadn’t really thought through what to ask them and how, “I’m trying to get hold of Sherlock, and I’m having trouble with it. Her phone seems to be off, and she’s got one of those auto-responder messages on her email. Do you know how to reach her?”
Hudson grimaced sympathetically, “Sorry, not really. I’ve only got her mobile number and email, same as you.”
“Hmm.” I thought for a moment, “Do you know any of the venues she might be playing at? I might try and leave a message for her.”
“Oh, that I think I can help with, actually!” Hudson disappeared back into their flat and came back a moment later with a leaflet. “She sent me this in the post.”
I took the leaflet. On it was the name of the group Sherlock was touring with and a list of cities and venues where they’d be playing. Partway down the list, I saw that starting in a couple of days, they’d be performing three shows over two days in Paris. My insides did a little leap of joy and surprise, “Thank you! This is just what I was looking for. Perfect!” I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the leaflet, then handed it back to Hudson. “Thank you so so much!”
“It’s no trouble,” Hudson smiled at me. “Have a nice night. Hope you get hold of her.”
“Oh my god, me too!” I pocketed my phone and bounded up the stairs to my flat.
A quarter of an hour later, I had train tickets.
…
“Sherlock, it’s me again. It’s John again. This is probably a bit. Mad? I’ve been thinking about something you said ages ago, about how feeling isn’t enough, and you need doing. I can’t decide if I should wait. Well, actually I suppose buying a train ticket is deciding not to wait! I think probably this sort of thing is definitely a little bit very insane, but erm. God I want to see you. I want to see you. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not pleased to see me. I’ve got so much to tell you. Suppose this message is long enough. Speak soon. See you soon! I. I love you. Bye.”
…
Feels strange to be so near John. Of course am not even in England, but still feel as if I’m in her back pocket. Only across the Channel. Everything makes me think of her, so should not be surprised that being closer to her than I have been in nearly a month makes me think of her also. Even the absence of John suggests John. John is the person I say things to. My partner. Even when she isn’t with me.
Our first show in Paris goes well. Afterward spill out onto the pavement from the hot theatre and immediately prickle into gooseflesh, despite my bulky layers and the cap I’ve stretched over my locs. Somehow it takes the sound of her voice for me to quite be sure of what I’m seeing.
“Sherlock!” John calls, warm and joyful. She’s aglow in the halo of a streetlamp, but she darts out of it toward me. I hadn’t really known how hungry I was to look at her til I could glut myself again. Her bright eyes, her broad dimpled smile. I’ll never have my fill. John rushes up to me and stands before me, and we gaze at each other, both a little breathless and too happy to speak.
John breaks the silence first, holding out the bunch of plump red roses she’s had tucked under her arm, “These are for you.”
Take them and bury my face in them at once. They are hot house October roses, and they shouldn’t be sweet. But they are, “Thank you, John.”
“I missed you so much,” John’s voice is low and helpless and very quick, as if I might flicker out of existence before she’s said her piece.
“I missed you, too.” She hasn’t touched me yet.
“I have so much to tell you. Will you let me take you out to dinner?”
Brain is sort of slipping about on a scree of deductions so that it’s hard to think in a straight line, even harder to bring words to the surface. Her ring is gone. The engagement ring is gone. Try not to stare, try not to even glance. It’s weird to look. Is it? Isn’t it? How long have I been silent? Too long. No help for it.
Nod and offer John my arm. She beams and takes it, and I smile back at her. We set off down the pavement, searching for a likely looking restaurant. There’s a little shift in the breeze, and a hint of John’s cocoa butter smell drifts toward me. Lean toward her nonchalantly, then spoil it with a squeak, “It’s you!”
John laughs, “Yeah, here I am.” Think of explaining it, but only laugh instead. John looks shy and thoughtful.
“Yes?”
John raises her eyes to my face, “Can I hold your hand?”
She’s never asked before, “Yes.”
Hold out my hand, and John takes it and laces our fingers together. We’re walking a little more slowly than before, I think. “I have something to tell you,” John says haltingly.
Try not to squirm but wiggle my fingers a little, “All right.”
John takes a deep breath, “I’m not sure where to start.”
Consider that, “Is there a beginning? You might start there.”
“I’ve split up with Martin! Sorry, that was loud,” John adds.
“Oh,” Feel a little lightheaded.
“There’s more,” John says. “I’m sort of. Stuck again. I don’t know how to say it.”
“In your own time.”
“I don’t know how I ever thought I could leave you,” John says, soft and hurried. “You’re Sherlock.” Find I can’t answer that aloud. Squeeze John’s hand and look at her, and she understands well enough to continue, “I hated the idea of. Well I don’t much feel like talking about Martin. When you went away, it was erm. Suddenly clear to me that Martin wasn’t the person in my life who was making me happy.”
“Oh!” really want to say more, I really really do. Squeeze John’s hand, and she seems content with that for the time being.
“Sherlock?” John says presently.
“Mmm?”
“What do you do when you want to do something you don’t know how to do?”
Think about that, “Research, I suppose.”
“Hmm,” John looks thoughtful.
“Or sometimes just give it a go and check how much I’ve got to learn.”
“That’s an idea,” John mutters almost to herself.
“Can I help?”
John gives me one of her starry eyed looks, as if I’ve said something marvellous, “You
are.
” John halts with a little tug at my hand, and I bend reflexively to hug her. She catches her breath when my arms go about her, and I would draw back, except John leans her soft cheek against my chest, and I think perhaps I should stay this way for a bit. “Sherlock?” John asks my muffler after a moment’s silence.
“Yes, John?”
“I’ve been trying to work something out for a bit now. Mind if I talk at you about it?”
Rub her back, “Be delighted.”
John’s got a smile in her voice when she continues, “Right okay. So say erm. There’s. You’ve got something that’s really common. Like erm. Pigeons. But you’ve got like. A special pigeon, and now you need someone to like. Think of pigeons differently? So how do you make your special pigeon er. Look special again because it just sort of. Looks like a pigeon? Know what I mean?”
“No, not really. I like pigeons.” John laughs nervously, and I think for a moment, “I think. Just because it’s common doesn’t. Sometimes a thing isn’t special because it’s rare. It’s just special because that’s its nature; that’s what it is. Like.” Look up at the sky, “Stars. There’re billions of stars, but each one is still.” John shifts a little in my arms to look up. “Really beautiful. And important. Yeah?”
Can feel John’s breath on my chin when she answers, her eyes on the sky, “Yeah. I see what you mean.”
…
We decided we were too impatient for a restaurant, so bought food from a cart near the theatre, and I followed Sherlock back to her hotel, where we devoured it ravenously. When we’d finished and were sprawled on her floor, our knees pressed together, I started to get nervous again. I had this feeling, like I had to tell Sherlock everything straight away. Or I’d turn into a pumpkin or something.
I fidgeted with the paper my supper had been wrapped in, rolling it into a tight ball.
“You have something on your mind,” Sherlock offered quietly.
“Yes,” I rolled the paper ball on the floor. “I’m not being coy; I’m this stupid.”
“I’d take stupid over glib,” Sherlock said stoutly. “Anyway you aren’t stupid.”
“I really am.”
Sherlock smiled and looked down, “I don’t dare argue with you.”
I laughed, “You make things really easy for me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked up at me, still smiling but rather baffled, “Do I? I’ve never been accused of that before.”
“You make me want to kiss you so much that it’s easier to ask than not to.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, “What?”
“When you tease me, I want to kiss you. And when you’re sweet. When you play your violin or when you tip your library bag out on the floor. And when you come home in the evening, I want to kiss you. And before I go to bed. And when I wake up in the morning.”
“Oh,” said Sherlock, very small, but leaning in already.
I smiled at her, “I’m starting to think it means something.”
Sherlock burst out laughing so that we almost bumped heads. I raised my hand to her cheek to steady her, and Sherlock leaned forward and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Somehow after kissing, it got easier to talk. Sherlock lent me a t shirt and pyjama bottoms to sleep in, then sat on the edge of the bathtub while I brushed my teeth. I watched her reflection watch me in the mirror above the sink.
“What are you smiling so much about?” I asked round a mouthful of foam.
Sherlock touched her mouth as if she didn’t believe she was smiling, “I suppose I’m smiling because you’re smiling. It’s catching. What are you smiling so much about?”
I spat and rinsed, “Oh just laughing at myself. It’s too ridiculous. I’m so obviously smitten with you.”
Sherlock got up from the bathtub, beaming, “What about me? Am I obvious as well?”
I thought about that, “Am I telling tales on myself if I say yes?”
Sherlock bit her smile and shook her head, “Never mind about that. I want to hear more about obviously smitten.”
“In the nine months I’ve known you, you’ve put about a thousand blankets over me, whenever I go to sleep on the sofa.”
“I don’t want you to go cold!”
“It’s not a criticism, petal.”
Sherlock nodded and took her toothbrush away from me and rinsed it, “Tell me more.”
“You’ve just seen your toothbrush come out of my mouth, and now you’re about to put it into your own. That’s love, that is. I expect people will be putting that in their wedding vows within the decade. With all that I am and all my oral hygiene, I honour thee.”
Sherlock snorted around the toothbrush and misted the mirror and her own face with foam, “Ow. That really hurt, actually.”
“Oooh, did it go in your eyes, petal? Give it a rinse, or it’ll really burn.”
“It didn’t go in my eyes, only up my nose,” Sherlock rinsed obediently anyway. “By the way, you’ve got a really hardy immune system. Ingesting your mouth flora will only be beneficial to me.”
I laughed, “A scientific justification for snogging. I love it!”
“We were
talking
of toothbrushing, John,” Sherlock resumed her teeth cleaning.
“I extrapolated. I’m clever that way.”
Sherlock swished the lingering toothpaste out of her mouth and wiped her face on a towel, “Mmm, genius. Tell me more.”
“You actually learnt what I mean by over medium and you give it to me every time.”
“You mean over hard,” Sherlock said fondly, taking my hand and towing me out of the bathroom.
“Your scale’s too long!”
“Which side of the bed do you want?” Sherlock threw back the blankets, “We’ve googled this so many times, John.”
“Okay, the whole world is insane about eggs. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Have your plate all over yolk, if you like; makes no difference to me. Which side do you want?”
“The left.”
“Good, I wanted the right.”
We got into bed and Sherlock found my hand under the blankets at once. I set my glasses on the night table and switched off the lamp, and we were quiet. I started to feel giddy again, and I tried to synchronise my breaths with Sherlock’s to calm myself. Sherlock was so still, I’d have thought she was asleep, but for her hand holding mine tightly.
“I suppose,” she said presently, “You’d like to hear how obviously you’re smitten.”
I squeezed her hand, “Oooh, yes please.”
Sherlock squeezed back and edged closer to me, “Once you clapped when I played the scales.”
I laughed, “You did the twiddly bit at the end! It was pretty!”
“Goes straight to my head, John Watson. Really expands my ego.”
“You can come closer if you like.” I waited for Sherlock to shuffle nearer to me, “Lovely. Tell me more.”
“You kissed my hand once. I about thought I’d die.”
I brought Sherlock’s hand to my mouth and kissed it, “I can take a hint.” Sherlock giggled into her pillow, and my stomach wobbled rather deliciously. I kissed her hand again.
Sherlock shut her eyes and swallowed her giggles, “Can I kiss you, John?”
I edged in closer, “Yeah.”
Sherlock rubbed circles on my hip, nuzzled against my neck and kissed me below my ear, across my jaw leaving a tingly ticklishness where she touched me. She rubbed her nose against my nose, and the languid satisfaction in me was quickening into a bounding excitement.
When Sherlock applied gentle teeth to my chin, I burst into giggles, “Tease.”
Sherlock nibbled a little harder, “I’m getting there, John. Difficult to kiss you when you laugh so much, though.”
“Your fault.” I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her, and she sighed and hugged me around the waist.
I laid my head on Sherlock’s pillow, so that we were still nearly nose to nose, “If we keep on like this, I don’t think I’ll sleep.”
“Mmm, nor will I,” Sherlock stroked one hand down my arm and squeezed my elbow, “Are you sleeping now?”
“Well,” I hesitated.
“Just ask,” Sherlock raised her chin and kissed my nose.
“If you turn onto your other side. I could spoon you.”
“Genius,” Sherlock said, already rolling over. I drew up behind Sherlock and fit my hips against hers, and she reached back and pulled my arm about her waist. I hooked my chin over Sherlock’s shoulder to kiss her cheek, then leaned back onto her pillow. “I might get nearly my fill of you now,” Sherlock said when we were comfortably situated.
I hugged her a little tighter, “I hope so.”
…
Wake to the ringing of my alarm and shoot an arm out to silence it as usual. Behind me, John shifts and hums, and I freeze. I hadn’t forgotten her, of course I hadn’t forgotten her. Only. This does seem like the sort of thing I might dream. But here she is. Warm and real and pressed against my back.
Under the blankets, John rests her hand on my hip, “Have you got to get up now?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Got rehearsal in an hour, and I’ll want to get some breakfast in me.”
John curls her fingers up in my pyjamas, “I’ve got to go home today. Did I say?”
Shake my head, “No.”
“I’ve got work tomorrow. Sorry, I should’ve said.”
“It’s all right. We’re going on to Belgium tonight anyway.” Think of turning over. Think of my morning breath. “I’m really glad you came.”
John pushes her head against my back, “So’m I. And I’ll see you when you get back, yeah? See you at home.”
Can’t help turning over for a kiss at that, “Yes, John. See you at home.”
“But we have a few minutes now, don’t we? Just a few minutes?” Her hand finds my hip again as if to coax me.
I lean in and rest my forehead against hers, “We have a few minutes.”
John kisses me, “I’m not going to tell you how much I’ll miss you.”
Smile at that, “No?”
“Then I’ll cry, and I don’t want you thinking back on me for the next month and remembering how puffed up and snotty I was the last time you saw me.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t tell you how much I’ll miss you, then?”
John shakes her head and the whisk of her headscarf on my pillow sends a little tingle through me, “I’ll use my imagination. Later. I’m not imagining that right now.”
Laugh, “What should we talk about instead?”
“Hmm,” John drums her fingers on my hip as she considers. “Do you get to play any original music on the tour?”
“Mmmno, unfortunately not. We play R&B and hip hop arranged for an orchestra. It’s really good fun, but no. No original music.”
“That’s sort of a perfect job for you, actually. Damn, I wish I’d been in time to see your show last night!”
Grin, “I’ll play for you when I come home. I’ll even wear my tuxedo.”
“Oooh, do you wear a tuxedo? I think I’d really really like to see you in one. We’ll have to invent more reasons for you to wear one.”
Grin foolishly and bury my face in my pillow and fail completely to think of anything to say. John only cuddles near me and leans in to kiss my cheek, like she doesn’t mind at all.
…
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subj: Hello!
John,
I suspect you may have been trying to message me to my professional address. I sort of can’t bear to see people begging for my help when I’m away and can’t help them, so I haven’t been looking at it. Gets a bit overwhelming. But then I miss messages from you.
So! Presenting my brand new personal email address. Not sure why I never created one before. But now I have one, and I can message you during interminable waits for boarding or while hurdling along a track. Like now!
I miss you horribly, but I promised myself I wouldn’t dwell on that and make myself sadder. It’s so good to be in good understanding again. That is what I’m thinking of. That you know how I feel about you. Am also thinking of kissing you again, which I can’t wait to do.
Write back?
Sherlock
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Re: Hello!
Sherlock!!!
Your email address is adorable; I can hardly stand it. I’m not going to tell you how much I miss you <3 The flat is very quiet without you, so I’ve been putting your videos on when I get home in the evening, and recorded!Sherlock is fair company. I like Sherlock in the flesh better, though. I’m very unsnuggled in my current state, and it’s trying to the nerves. At least I’m lullabyed.
Wanting to kiss you too,
John
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subj: October
Sherlock,
It has rained most of today, and it’s threatening more, and it makes me think of the day after we met. Our first day at home together. It was pissy misery outside and you burst in on my soaking my shoulder and startled me right out of my little brain fug. You’ve got a knack for that. Recorded!Sherlock certainly doesn’t do so well with that as you do. And no starlight tonight, I’m afraid. None to see, at least.
If you don’t hurry back, I may weaken and tell you how much I miss you.
John
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Re: October
John,
If you were coming in the Fall
I'd brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn
As Housewives do, a Fly
That’s Emily Dickinson. I sound slightly less pompous quoting when I’m writing you instead of speaking aloud, so here we are. I DON’T tell you that I {miss} you but I am hurrying on the days til I see you. Some of it is a bright, hot, noisy blur. And then there are moments of interminable grey wherein I am forced to amuse myself by wondering what you would be saying and doing if you were with me.
Trying to hurry,
Sherlock
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Oi,” Dani prodded me in the back with a comb. “I’m meant to be helping, yeah? Not doing it all myself while you sit on your bottom, pining.”
“I was thinking!” I took the comb away from her.
“That happens in your brain, not your fingers, Miss Doctor, so get to work or we’ll be here all night.”
“Yes, Mum,” I rolled my eyes and picked up the braid I’d dropped and began unbraiding it again.
“Your hair’s getting quite long,” Dani remarked presently. “Are you going to put it back in the braids? I could text Sharisse. She can get you a deal on the hair.”
“The braids?” I patted the puffs of my hair that we’d already taken out of the braids. “Nah, not now, I don’t think.”
Dani patted also, “Well you’ve got enough here for like an Angela Davis look, if you like. And you’ve got all the fucking cheekbones in the family, so you wouldn’t look like a mushroom cap like some people.”
“I think I’ll cut it, actually.” I patted again. “Maybe something quite short. And henna it? Or bleach it gold, like the braids. I dnno, I fancy something really-”
“Gay?” Dani suggested. I couldn’t see her face, but I could picture just the sort of younger sister smirk she was wearing.
“I was
going
to say something fresh.”
“Yeah, all right. Something fresh. Did you ever catch up with Sherlock, by the way?”
I lowered my chin to hide my big stupid grin and pushed up my glasses, “I did, actually. I met up with her in Paris after one of her shows.”
“Yeah?” Dani sounded rather surprised. “And?”
“I kissed her.”
“Nice one, Johnny!”
I hid my smile in my shoulder for a moment, “Yeah. I would have to agree. She’s still on tour, but she’s been writing me these letters.”
Dani made a little whistle, “Like love letters?”
“Like emails. Well. Yeah, like love letters.”
“Hmm,” Dani tossed down a bit of hair. “Is that why you’re suddenly so keen to hang round with me? Am I meant to be teaching you how to be a lesbian before your girlfriend comes home?”
“Jesus, Dan, am I that bad a sister that spending a whole evening with you is suspicious?”
“Well you did fuck off abroad for like three years, and you didn’t bother phoning much. But I wasn’t criticising,” Dani raised her voice to forestall anticipated objections. “I was only going to tell you I’m useless, so I can’t teach you anything, sorry.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I said loftily. “Lesbians are people, Danielle, and I already know how to be a person.”
Dani snorted, “Mmhm.” We got through about four more unbraidings before she spoke again, “When’s she coming back?”
“Three weeks.”
“You can say if you’re nervous, you know.”
“Yeah, obviously I’m nervous! I didn’t know I had to say I’m nervous; I thought it would be painfully obvious that I’m nervous!”
“Okay,” Dani said gently. “Am I being too?”
“Yeah! A bit too!”
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
Dani let go of my hair and brushed her hands on her jeans, “Be right back.”
I thought she was headed for the loo, but she came back with a little tin that I recognised, “Oh god.”
Dani rattled the tin at me as if she were trying to coax me to play a board game with her, “Don’t be that way, John. You know it helps.”
“It doesn’t
do
anything, Dan.”
Dani popped open the tin and drew out a rather battered deck of tarot cards, “It isn’t meant to be like a remote control where you press a button and get the thing you want.” She shuffled the deck then fanned it and held it out to me, “Now stop moaning and pick a card.”
I sighed and plucked one at random from the fan, “There now. A bunch of flying sticks.”
Dani took the card from me, “Oooh, the Eight of Wands.”
“So what’s that supposed to mean?”
Dani consulted the little interpretation book, then looked up at me, grinning, “Swift activity. Hope, haste, speeding toward an end that promises felicity.”
I huffed impatiently, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You tell me.”
I unbraided another braid and thought for a moment, “Swift activity sounds like my going to Paris,” I admitted.
“Mmhm and?”
“I guess I’m. On the right track?”
Dani looked positively smug, “There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“You look exactly like Mum every time you get those out. You do know that.”
Dani smiled magnanimously and put the cards back into the tin, “I only meant to show you that you do know what you want and you do know what to do. You only have to know you know it.”
…
Haven’t been able to sit still all day. When I stand, I pace, and when I sit down, my hands skitter about like ants til too many people look hard at me for publicly emoting and I switch to hugging myself. I’m too giddy to make my mind stop dancing long enough even to read one of my books on my tablet or scroll through my emails. I shall be home soon! Home home home home home!
The whole journey back to London has been both an overstimulating blur, and and interminable trudge. Pop into the bathroom at Heathrow airport to arrange my hair and brush my teeth. Change into a clean shirt since I’m there anyway. Spill a drop of cologne in my muffler and run it under the hand dryers before putting it back on. Leave the bathroom feeling much less like death warmed over than when I went into it, and not even the wait for a cab dampens my excitement to go home.
Cab pulls up in Baker Street, and I jump out and look up at our windows, half expecting to see John out on the widow’s walk. Upper windows are dark, but can just make out a sliver of orange light through the sitting room curtains. Make myself enter slowly, quietly, though my insides are dancing in me. Slip in my front door and close it very gently behind me, then set my bag and cases down and hang up my coat on the hook.
John is sprawled on the sofa, asleep with her glasses askew and her mouth ajar, hugging one of her blankets. Her shirt’s rucked up nearly to her ribcage so that there are glimpses of her soft belly exposed in the folds of the blanket, and I would very much like to kiss every bit I can see.
She’s changed her hair. She hadn’t mentioned it, though she had it done about two weeks ago, going from the slight blurring round the tapered edges. The sides are close, hardly more than coily fuzz, but the top is luxurious golden curls, the color of firelight. I have the feeling again of having surprised some nature spirit in a private moment. Sit down on the coffee table and watch John breathe deeply and nuzzle into her blanket.
“John?” quietly. She doesn’t stir. “John?” a little louder. John hums in her sleep, hugs her blanket a little closer. Reach out and nudge the blanket aside a bit to catch John’s hand. At my touch, John’s eyes flutter open and focus on my face.
John lets out a scream of joy and surprise that makes my ears ring and my skin prickle and makes my heart dance with answering delight. She pulls me to her by the hand as she sits up and hugs me round the neck, “Sherlock! You said you were coming tomorrow!”
Hug John back very tightly and bury my face against her shoulder to hide the tears coming up in my eyes, “A cunning deception.”
John seems to know, though. She rocks me side to side, strokes my back, “I missed you so much, Sherlock. I missed you so much.”
Sniffle because I’m properly crying now, “I missed you, too.”
John’s hand gets firmer on my back, and she rests her cheek against mine, and I think I could burst from John’s softness and gentleness and her incandescent joy. For me. Somehow for me. Weep against John’s shoulder, and she holds me and rocks me, and she doesn’t ask me to stop.
…
On the day after Sherlock returned to London, she and I were coming up the road towards the flat together after a visit to the library when Sherlock halted.
“Uh oh,” I said. “What do you see?”
“We’ve got a client,” Sherlock bobbed her head toward our flat. “See the way she’s pacing like that? She’s waiting for us.”
“Waiting for you.”
“And you,” Sherlock linked arms with me. “Both or none, isn’t it. Let’s see what she wants.”
“I thought there was something familiar about your silhouette,” Sherlock declared when we reached our visitor. “John, this is Mary Sutherland; she was the pianist. Mary, this is-”
“The Doctrix,” Mary Sutherland interrupted, holding a hand out to me. “Your girlfriend, the Doctrix.”
“Er, people mainly call me John, actually. John Watson, pleased to meet you,” I shook her hand.
“Perhaps we should go inside,” Sherlock suggested, digging out her key and mounting the steps to our front door.
Mary Sutherland followed Sherlock up the stairs with me bringing up the rear, and when we all came into the flat, Mary sank into a chair without waiting to be asked. Sherlock bounced her eyebrows at me as she hung up her book bag and our coats.
“You look cold, Mary,” said Sherlock. “Perhaps a hot drink? John, should we have a f-”
“I saw you together in Paris. You’re the Doctrix,” Mary pointed at me. “And that means you’re the Sherlock from the videos! You’re a detective,” she pointed at Sherlock.
Sherlock glanced at me, “Well, yes I am one, yes. I see you must be in need of some help; you certainly came out to see me in a. State of agitation.”
Mary frowned, “Agitation? How’d you know that?”
Sherlock pointed at Mary’s feet, “Odd boots. One black, one brown. And slightly different heel heights, even. It’d take some considerable agitation to go about like that for any amount of time. Want to tell us what the problem is?” Sherlock waved me toward my chair.
“Are you sure I ought to stay? I can go up to my room; I don’t mind.”
Sherlock looked at me, “Don’t run off, John. I’ll probably need you.”
“Do stay, if you don’t mind!” Mary agreed. “I’d love the set.”
“The set. Okay.” I sat and so did Sherlock.
“Mary, you were saying,” Sherlock offered.
“Well,” Mary Sutherland hesitated. “It’ll sound. It’s. I mean Steve says it ain’t illegal to be ugly.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Sherlock suggested gently. “It can’t hurt to talk about it, even if you decide you don’t need my help after all.”
Mary perked up a bit at that, “Right. Okay, exactly! Can’t hurt to talk about it.”
“Exactly,” Sherlock smiled. “From the beginning.”
“Okay. So.” Mary gathered herself and began her story, “So. About eight months ago, I met this woman online.”
Sherlock had got out her pad and was making notes on it, “On what site?”
Mary frowned, a little annoyed at being interrupted, “Does it matter?”
“Might matter, might not matter. But it’s a little funny to begin your request for me to investigate something by being secretive about it, don’t you think?”
Mary looked a little sheepish, “Errr. We met on Tumblr.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“So I met this woman online--Fern--about eight months ago, and we became great friends like right away. At first we mainly talked about er, Star Trek, but it got beyond that really quickly, and we just talked about everything. We could stay up all night talking. I mean we did a bunch of times. We just really connected. I talked to her every single day, usually for hours every day. She’s probably the most important person in my life.”
Sherlock half glanced at me but wrote on without comment, only nodding in encouragement.
“Anyway, a few weeks ago--oh just before the tour--Fern asked me if I er. If I wanted to be her girlfriend, and I said yes-”
“So she’s local?” I interrupted.
“She lives in Sheffield.”
“How plausible,” Sherlock remarked.
“How do you mean?” Mary asked.
“Maybe nothing. Go on.”
Mary fidgeted with the edge of her jacket, “Well we were meant to meet up yesterday when I got back from the tour, but she didn’t turn up. This morning I had this email all about how. Oh her car'd broken down, and she’d lost her phone, and it all seemed a bit. Off? A bit put on? She didn’t mention arranging to meet again, even though she’d been really keen before. More than keen, even rather possessive, honestly. And there’d been other things that seemed a bit. Weird.”
Sherlock looked up from her pad, “What sort of things?”
Mary cocked her head and puffed sort of consideringly, “Oh, like. She knew it was my birthday, even though I hadn’t mentioned it was my birthday. She said I had, but I was deliberately not mentioning it, so I know I hadn’t.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows went up and she noted that in her pad, “That’s suggestive.”
“Don’t you think!”
“I do.” Sherlock looked up again, “I suppose you exchanged selfies at some point?”
“Oh yeah and videos as well.”
Sherlock nodded, “Did you ever Face Time with her?”
Mary shook her head, “No, she uses an Android.”
“I thought she might. What about Skype?”
“She said it made her computer crash.”
“I see. Well Mary, this could be serious. I’d be happy to look into it. I’ll just need to know your user names.”
Mary nodded, “Sure, I’ve already emailed you links to our blogs and Facebook and things.”
“Well done,” Sherlock put her pad away. “If you’d like to come back around three o’clock tomorrow, I can let you know what I think.”
“Sure, I can do that. See you three.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Shut my laptop with a snap and stretch.
“Is that the sound of bedtime?” John asks from the sofa, startling me.
“John! You’re still up. Sorry, I was all. Investigate-y. Get a bit lost out there sometimes.”
John yawns, “‘Sall right. Did you solve it?”
Scowl, “Yes, I did.”
“That bad, mm?”
“Don’t get me going or we’ll be here all night. What time is it?”
John pulls her phone out of her pocket and consults it, “Half past eleven.”
“Oof, I’ve been working for seven hours! Sorry about that, John. I meant to be good company tonight.”
“That’s all right.” John smiles, “I’m a bit chilled from sleeping on the sofa. Do you think it’s too late for me to have a bath?”
“What, you mean the water may have shut up for the night?”
John laughs, “All this and wit, too. I’ll take that as a yes. Coming up?”
“Sure, and I’m still awake enough for a chat, if you feel chatty.”
“I do,” John tilts her head toward the staircase, then turns and walks up it. I follow.
John goes into her bedroom and I go into mine and after a moment, John’s door into the bathroom opens and I can hear the click of a lighter as John lights her candles. Undress and put on my dressing gown, then lie on my bed and listen to John preparing her bath. The diveder slides open. Squeak of the tap, followed by a crashing splash. Remember suddenly the gift that I got for John in Paris and rummage in my luggage for it. When I find it, I tuck it into my pocket, then go and tap on the bathroom door.
“Come in,” John calls.
Open the door into the candlelit bathroom and find John stood by the tub in her dressing gown. She turns and smiles at me, “I’ve always sort of hoped you’d make a habit of this. I get lonely in here without you.”
Little shiver of delight passes through me, and I bite my smile, “Obviously smitten.” John only smiles broader. Clear my throat, “I’ve brought you something.”
John grins, “Have you? I love presents.”
Pull the jar of bath melts out of my dressing gown pocket and present it to John.
“Thank you, petal!” John opens the jar and sniffs, “Oooh, smells lovely.”
“Lilac is your favourite, isn’t it? You always stop and smell the lilacs when the stall next to Eden has some.”
“My beautiful genius with your deductions. It is my favourite,” John tips one of the melts into her hand and tosses it into the bath. At once, it begins to froth into fluffy white foam. “Ooooh!” John tosses in another melt, and before long, the tub is full of steamy, sweet smelling drifts of bubbles. John shuts off the tap and turns to look at me, “Want to come in with me?”
Get a little overexcited at the notion and hug myself, “I think you might be underestimating how poorly I fit into bathtubs, John. Even alone. I’m about ninety eight percent leg and in bathtubs, they seem to have too many joints as well.”
John laughs, “Please yourself. Would you like to stay with me while I soak? We can have that chat you were after.”
Nod, still hugging myself, “Yes, of course, if you want me.”
“Obviously smitten.” Without the rush of the water, I can hear soft piano music coming from John’s phone propped on a towel beside the sink. The music marries well with the scent of the bath and the flickering of the candles. Lends the room a magical quality. Magical. I should say romantic. I’m being wooed.
“I’ll just. Get in, shall I.” John shrugs off her dressing gown and tosses it over the towel rack, then steps into the tub. “Ooh. It’s hot.” John stands nearly knee-deep in foam for a moment, gooseflesh rising on her skin, before lowering herself slowly into the water. John sinks til she’s up to her chin in bubbles, then leans back with a sigh.
John shuts her eyes, “I think there’s something sort of euphoric about a really hot bubble bath. Makes your brain go all gloopy.”
Sit down on the lid of the toilet, “You certainly look content. Is this how euphoric looks on you?”
John grins without opening her eyes, “It varies. I reserve the right to remain coy on that front.”
Am embarrassingly excited to be spoken to like this, “I’ll look out for any opportunities to test a hypothesis.”
John opens one eye, “Flirt.”
“You started it.”
John shuts her eyes again, smiling, “Are you sure about that?” With a gentle splash, John’s fingertips rise out of the foam, and she holds her hand out to me. It’s hot and slippery when I catch hold of it, and John presses my fingers. “I wanted this. Being with you like this. Back before I knew how to know. Months I spent fantasising about being closer to you. Having you near me all the time. And I still.” She opens her eyes to look into my face, “I’m sorry I was slow.”
“I loved being your friend before as well, John. You don’t need to apologise to me.”
John looks for a moment as if she’d like to argue, but she decides against it, “I think I’ll get out in a moment. Do something about those dangerously low snuggle levels I mentioned before. All right?”
“Oh, yes please. I’ll go and get into my jim jams while you finish up.”
John doesn’t immediately let go my hand when I stand up. She kisses it, “I’ll be right with you.”
…
“This is what I wanted,” Sherlock murmured when we were nose to nose under the duvet on her wide white bed.
I kissed her before I answered, “This? What specifically?”
Sherlock smiled. I could tell even though it was dark, “Going to bed together and waking up together. Kissing. This sort of thing,” she patted my bum.
I snorted, then turned my head to giggle into my pillow, “That’s a good list.”
“And you wanted me to chat to you while you’re in the tub?”
“Well, I miss you!”
Sherlock hummed, “That’s very sweet.”
“You’re always doing something interesting or saying something interesting. I don’t like to miss anything. Plus I like looking at you.”
Sherlock smiled and bit her pillow, “I think it’s my go being the big spoon. Unless you have a preference.”
“I’d love to be the little spoon. Only kiss me about a million more times before I turn my face away from yours.”
“A million!” Sherlock kissed all over my face. “How many was that?”
“I think it was a trillion.”
“Then you owe me lots of kisses, John.”
“Oh dear,” I turned over, “Could we work out a repayment scheme?”
Sherlock dotted her kisses on the back of my neck, “Not at this rate. I’d be a fool letting you have so many kisses without some sort of security.”
I kissed her hands, then each fingertip in turn, and behind me, I could feel Sherlock shivering, “Are you sure about that? No wiggle room?”
Sherlock’s sweet voice rasped a little when she answered, “I. I think I could find some room to wiggle.”
“How generous,” I turned back to Sherlock and kissed her very extravagantly. As it turned out, she did find room to wiggle.
...
“Thanks for coming back,” said Sherlock as Mary Sutherland settled herself into the client chair in the sitting room.
Mary nodded acknowledgement and fidgeted with the strap on her handbag.
“My research into your problem was. Very fruitful. Does the name Steven Williams mean anything to you? I believe you mentioned a Steve when you came around yesterday.”
Mary nodded, “Yeah, Steve’s my flatmate. Well I say flatmate. He was my boyfriend for a while, but we split up, and he couldn’t afford to move out, so I let him stay on as a lodger. What’s that got to do with Fern? Does he know her?”
Sherlock took a deep breath, “Mary, Steven
is
Fern.”
Mary gaped at Sherlock, “What?” She shook her head, “No, that doesn’t make any sense! That’s not right. She’s sent me pictures and videos. She can’t be Steve!”
“Those photos and videos are of Steven’s ex girlfriend. Some of them are from her social media posts, and some presumably that she sent him privately. They’re all over three years old. I found her on Facebook, and we actually had quite a profitable chat last night. Lovely woman. She’s pursuing an order of restraint. So should you be honestly.”
Mary shook her head again, wildly, as if she were trying to shake a bee out of her hair, “But this has gone on for months. Hours a day for
months.
Why would Steve want me to think he’s a Trekkie called Fern from Sheffield?”
Sherlock shrugged, “We’re getting beyond facts there into conjecture. But you said yourself that Steve can’t afford to live on his own. If you’d found someone else and moved away or wanted to move in with them, good old Steve’d be out on his ear. So he made up a girlfriend for you, and made you fall so in love with her that you’d never think of even looking at someone else.” Sherlock held out a plump envelope, “Here’s the proof that Fern is actually Steven Williams. If you wanted to bring charges, I would absolutely give evidence. And I think Steven’s ex would also.”
Mary took the envelope and looked at it blankly, “Give evidence.”
“Yes, you need to get away from this person, Mary. He’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Mary frowned. “You can’t really think he’d hurt me. We were together for a long time. We’re still mates now. Maybe he. Just wanted to be close again?”
“Close?” I burst out. “You already live together!”
Mary started as if she’d forgotten I was there, “I don’t know! This is the sort of thing men do sometimes, isn’t it? Few too many romantic comedies? I’m sure if we have a chat, we could get it straightened out. He’s probably still in l-”
“Mary,” I interrupted, glancing at Sherlock. “This is not just the sort of thing men do. This is
wrong!
Lying to you for months? Tricking you like that? He invented an entire person! He stole someone else’s words and image to do it! Someone who loved him and trusted him just like you did! Even if he did do it because he’s still in love with you and can’t have you bear to move on, you’re right there! You’re in his flat every day! He could just talk to you! But he didn’t talk to you. He lied to you and he tricked you and he made a fool of you. Could you ever believe another word he said?”
Mary toyed with the flap on the envelope Sherlock had given her, looking back and forth between Sherlock and me, but she didn’t speak.
“Mary,” Sherlock said quietly. “Men who do this sort of thing don’t stop until they’re stopped. Men who treat people like things are dangerous. Can you really go on living under the same roof with someone who will do whatever it takes to get what he wants out of you?”
Mary stared blankly at Sherlock, then nodded slowly, “Dangerous. Yeah. I think I. See what you mean. It’s erm. A bit of a. A shock,” her voice cracked over the last word, and she pressed one hand to her forehead.
“Do you have somewhere safe you can stay?” Sherlock asked.
Mary looked up, “Yeah, my brother lives in town. I could stay with him for a bit.”
“Good, that’s sorted, then.” Sherlock reached into her pocket, then handed Mary a business card. “A solicitor, if you need one. Tell her I sent you. And please, please do call me, if you need someone to give evidence. I’m more than willing.”
“Okay,” Mary nodded and clutched the envelope full of evidence Sherlock had handed her. “All right. Yeah. I need to. I need to think about that, but I will if erm. Yes. Thanks. I’ve got. Lots to think about.” She rose from her chair and looked about her as if not quite sure how she’d come to be in our flat in the first place.
Sherlock glanced at me, alarmed, “Mary, why don’t you sit a moment. I can call you a cab. What’s your brother’s address?”
“A cab?” Mary squinted down at Sherlock, then sank back into her chair. “Right. Yes. Good idea.”
I popped into the kitchen and got a glass of cold water for Mary.
“Oh, thanks,” she said, taking the glass. She drank it off straight, then gave me a wobbly smile, “Thank you.” She looked at Sherlock, “Thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked up from dialing her phone, “Of course. It’s what I’m for.”
…
Lounging on the sofa with a book after supper. John’s head is on my hip, which is lovely. Mostly pretending to read. Am actually watching John daydream. Her eyes are on the flame of the candle she’s set out on the coffee table. She pets my knee absently, and there’s a little half smile wandering onto her face. Keep catching her sneaking quick glances at me as well, and the notion that John is pondering me is almost unbearably intriguing. Rubbing my socked foot against the upholstery of the sofa in order to cope.
Presently John drops a little kiss on my knee, turns over onto her front and looks up at me, “I think I’m ready to go upstairs, petal. What about you?”
“Oooh yes!” whatever plans John has been smiling over, I’m definitely enthusiastic about being part of them.
John smiles a little broader, “Come on, then.” She stands and picks up the candle, then holds a hand out to me. Take John’s hand, and let her tow me up the stairs and into her bedroom. She sets the candle down on the night table, and whips the duvet off the bed.
John drapes one end of the duvet over her shoulders and holds the other out to me, “Care to join me on the widow’s walk, Batman?”
“Yes please,” take the end of the duvet that John offers and wrap it round my head and shoulders like a cowl, then follow John to the window. She opens it and climbs out first. I follow after her carefully.
“Oof, chilly,” John rubs her arms and huddles up close to me, rests her head on my shoulder. Warmth pools between us, and there’s a thrilling sort of sparkling in my stomach.
“I’m really glad you’re here.” Slip an arm about John’s waist under the blankets and lean my head against her head, “I wasn’t looking forward to coming back to the flat without you.”
John nods under me and clings to my side, and for a few minutes we stargaze in silence.
“There’s something sort of intimate about the constancy of the moon. Don’t you think?” John remarks presently.
“Mmm?” I follow John’s gaze to the yellow wedge of moon hanging low in the sky, shining through scraps of grey and violet clouds.
“She grows and shrinks and even disappears sometimes. But she always comes back, doesn’t she. She’s always. Your moon. Wherever you go, there she is. Every night.”
Smile and kiss the top of John’s curly head because it’s near and smells sweet and because I may, “Is that poetry, John? Been snooping in my library bag again?”
John looks up at me rather solemnly, “It’s been ages since I said it, because. I thought probably I hadn’t ought to say it like I did say it, or it wouldn’t. It would seem the same, and maybe it is the same, but also it’s different because I know it better now.”
“You know what better now?”
“I shouldn’t not say it, just because it’s different now,” John gabbles, looking up at the moon again. “You didn’t know for so long, because
I
didn’t know. Or. I knew some of it, but I didn’t know all of it. It’s like it wasn’t in focus. Or maybe I’m just thick. I’m sorry. It’s.” She laughs nervously, “I’ve never really. I didn’t know how to be your best friend properly, and I don’t think I know how to be your lover either, but ah haha, I’m very excited about both! And I don’t want you to wonder anymore! I want you to know! You know?” There’s a little wheedling in the last question.
Lean down and hug John very tightly and kiss all over her face, as much as I can reach, and she giggles under my lips and squeezes me back, “I love you, John.”
“Ah!” John tugs on my arm. “You deduced me!”
“You were nearly there,” kiss the tip of John’s nose.
“Sherlock!” John’s voice rings out so that it echoes a bit in the street below us, “I am head over heels fucking in love with you.”
I did know. I knew that. She loves me. She loves me! Still something delicious in hearing it aloud right from John’s lips. Something nourishing. However much water I might drink, it’ll never stop quenching my thirst.