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The girl from the bus clearly has plans to invite him back to her place... it’s written all over the lithe form beneath the yellow dress... but she demurs coquettishly when John suggests a drink first. They sit in an alcove of an open-air café, John’s back to the crowd and his companion surrounded on three sides by the cozy space. For a moment, he wishes he’d let her take the outer chair, should the conversation turn and she feel boxed in and uncomfortable.
Their chatter initially covers his and her clothing, their jobs and the news on the latest non-progression of Brexit. In an attempt to stall, John orders cake with his tea and the girl looks moderately disappointed by the delay, but by no means thwarted. She tongues her lower lip. He knows what this really means, of course, but goes for the superficial; “Would you like a bite?”
“That looks lovely. I would, if I didn’t think it’d go straight to my thighs.”
“A little extra padding on the thighs never hurt anyone,” John flirts automatically, marveling at the way he can’t help it... he’s funny in an unpredictable way that makes women melt. It’s his super-power. “Never know when you might have to ride a horse—“ She giggles, and he realizes that he’s over-shot funny and unintentionally struck sexual innuendo—oh, Watson, if only these powers could be used for good instead of evil—and grasps for any haunch-related activities that do not call for riding by continuing “—or strangle an assassin... erm... stop a bullet...”
She raises an eyebrow, as if questioning his ability to find a normal, everyday activity. “Bounce a baby?”
It’s said coyly, calling to mind her gender’s gift in a way that is both an alluring reminder of where-babies-come-from and a nearly-guileless probe into a more personal side of John. Which would be perfectly natural, John thinks, if they were two people on a date, getting to know each other.
Do I like children? Why, yes, in fact. So much so, I already have one. As his thoughts turn naturally to Rosie, he feels a slight curl of anger at the woman in front of him... and himself. A child is NOT a prop in a silly little plot. Anyone who doesn’t understand this is a foolish cunt.
She seems to notice that his demeanor has changed and sits up straighter, reining in the eyelash-flutter with a serious look that suggests the presence of brains under the bangs. He clears his throat and begins to say her name, his cheeks pausing in a widening on the first syllable, as if it’s a grimace. He purses his lips and then tries again; “I need to tell you something.”
She waits, smile frozen, eyes darting briefly over his face. Trying to predict what’s coming.
“I was about to text you. To say it’s been really nice getting to know you, but...” He swallows and allows himself a diversion for a moment, surprised to find that the placation in his head is completely true. Then the words tumble out in a way that they rarely do; it must be her eyes, or perhaps, her cheekbones. She has trustworthy cheekbones.
Sort of.
“I have really enjoyed chatting with you. The truth is... I’m quite lonely, at the moment, well... perhaps for a long while. And it’s nice just to talk about normal things to another normal person. Someone who doesn’t threaten to up-end my life every moment or demand that I be... things that I’m not.”
She listens, head cocked slightly to the left, a puzzled look crossing her face. It occurs to John that this woman must have seen his ring at some point and must have deduced her role as seductress and yet, here he is: claiming that she represents something uncomplicated. You have no idea, he thinks.
When she says nothing after a span of breaths, he continues; “My wife. She and I have been at odds for some time. I wish I could trust her. I wish I could love her. But it seems...” John looks down at his plate and the fork stalled in his hand, “...there is too much water under that bridge.”
His companion nods, her expression trying for a somber pathos that is just a cover for satisfaction, in a way that stokes the irritation in John. It is mostly at himself... he never should have taken her number in the first place. He doesn’t believe the I-don’t-usually-do-this-sort-of-thing-game for a second. She’s probably heard this story countless times before. The emotionally-estranged couple. The poor man, a victim of circumstance, just looking for a shoulder and a nice pair of tits.
Perhaps it is, more than any new-found verbosity, simply his disgust at the lie of this that forges him on. “But I’m not really interested in you,” he says, plainly... almost meanly... almost enjoying the subtle way her eyes dim. “The fact of the matter is that there isn’t actually anything terribly wrong with my wife. Well... maybe for most, there might be some deal-breakers there,” he admits, “but for me it isn’t any of that. It isn’t her. It’s just that I’m in love with someone else. I have been for ages and I sometimes I wish that I weren’t, but I am. And that’s all there is to it.”
She blinks once, and waits. It’s a bit disconcerting, John thinks; the fact that this woman is just sitting there silently, waiting, while the café seems to him to suddenly be a cacophony of noise. People talking. Talking all around.
“It’s ridiculous,” he continues, no longer to her... her presence just an excuse to say this out-loud. “Sometimes I wish she would find our texts and just call me out on it. Use this as an excuse to leave.” He swallows again. “Sometimes I wish she’d get arrested or decide she’s bored with the “normal life” and just go back to contract killing.” This statement should faze John’s singular audience, but, oddly, it doesn’t, so he blazes forward, foolishly, “Sometimes I wish her past would catch up with her...” and then he bites it off, realizing that he’s about to say and she would die.
And she would just die.
The woman regards him coolly for a moment, then sits even straighter, tossing her hair in a proud way that John finds striking... he thought she would blush or stammer, yet she takes this news fairly unabashed. She reaches forward and takes the loaded fork from his limp hand, eating the bite of cake and then immediately making a face. As if, unexpectedly, the cake has repulsed her.
She almost looks as if she’s going to spit it out and then, with effort, swallows it anyway, after mulling the offensive matter around in her mouth. She measures her next words out carefully at him, “Well. Isn’t that. Convenient.”
He feels like crying.
“So you’re just going to have an affair, then?”
“No... I’ve been trying to tell you...”
“I don’t mean with me.”
The good doctor expels a bitter laugh. “Hardly. The object of my affections is rather oblivious to such things.”
“Are you sure?”
It’s been too long.
“Ninety-three percent.” For a moment, he adopts Sherlock’s haughty lilt of precision, then qualifies; “Mostly. I mean... sometimes, I think there’s a recognition of our feelings...” His mind drifts to the witching-hour texts, then he shakes it away like so much ether. “But I don’t know if I’m right. And I don’t know how it can ever be possible.”
“So, she doesn’t know how much you care about her?”
John meets her blue gaze.
Miss you.
Ah, what the hell.
“Him,” he clarifies.
“Oh,” she says. Surprised.
And not.
Now, we’re talking, her eyes say.
But they say nothing aloud for a while, letting the silence hang. Her expression is almost completely opaque. John wonders for a moment whether she feels trapped in the alcove; if he should stand from his side of the table and invite her to leave it.
Then she says, “My uncle was gay.”
John finds, ashamedly, despite years of watching Harriet struggle, that his hackles rise with the word. He’s never defined things so precisely. It doesn’t come easily.
Mercifully, Erin continues, “He never said so, of course. Things weren’t done that way in his time. In his family.” She says this as if it is something separate from her own. “But it’s made me think a great deal. About how love is murder. But golly.” She looks at him pointedly. “There are so many ways to die, aren’t there?”
John swallows.
“You think your hands are tied,” she prompts, “unless your wife is eliminated.”
Vampire.
He stares at her.
She cocks her head to the right. “You don’t really want that.”
His voice sounds like an echo from down a well. Rosie. Rose. “No.”
“What happens, then,” she raises an eyebrow, “when you eliminate the impossible?”
John Watson... Doctor John Watson, the man, the legend, the half-wit... feels the answer well up from within. From someplace that is forged in blood and Kandahar sands and centuries. “I feel like... I’d like to just man up and tell both of them the truth. Tell them, and then just let the cards fall where they may. Even if I wound up alone. I know that people will talk. And I know what most of them will say. But, the older I get, the less I care what people think of me. It seems impossible to pick the right words, but if I did... if, somehow, I managed to give it just the right blend of tragedy and comedy and honesty... she would understand.” He doesn’t know if he’s talking about Mary or Rosemund or his mother, or the damn earth itself, for Christsakes, but upon brief reflection, it doesn’t seem to matter. “It would be okay. In the end, it would be fine. No, it would be good.”
It would, at least, be real.
And then, he frowns. “But I wouldn't just be tossed from the one back to the other, would I? By default? Because her death would mean that it is simply decided for me... because I have no mindfulness or choice in the matter? Is she not worth the truth? Is he not worth the risk?" John pauses, realizing that, as important as both of these things are, they are not the final problem. There's a voice in his mind that wasn't there before. You? Or Me? He opens his hands, which have been clenched in fists, and lays them flat on the cool table. "Am I not worth it? Am I not able to make the choice for myself?”
Erin bristles on the word choice. “We do not choose what we are. We do not choose who we love.”
“But maybe we choose how.”
She smiles. “Exactly.”
John slumps a bit in his own chair. “Have They ruined this?”
She runs a nervous tongue over her lips. “I don’t know yet. I know what needs to happen. I know what the world needs to see. I know what the Good Story is.” She lays the fork back onto John’s plate, poking at the cake. “I’m older than I look, you know.”
He smiles, almost wanting to tweak her ridiculous bangs. “Of course you are.”
“And you don’t certainly don’t want to end up being known for awkward death-grief noises. Jesus. Look what that did for Darth Vader’s reputation.”
“Alright, that’s enough—“
She rolls her eyes heaven-ward. “NOOOO—“
“Shut it.”
She grins. Then casts her gaze at the open street-view of the café. “Shit, it’s breezy in here.”
“Like it needs a fourth wall or something.”
“My thoughts precisely.” His would-be affair in a jean-jacket takes another bite of his cake and chews thoughtfully. “Hmm.”
“Well, how was that?”
“You know how when you’re expecting something... like vanilla, or chocolate, or whatever... and you bite into it and it isn’t what you thought it would be so it just tastes off?!” She smiles, licking the crumbs off the fork. "Not as bad as I initially thought."
“You can eat the rest, then. I’m not actually hungry.”
She flutters her lashes—apparently, they are back to that—and smiles at him. There’s crust stuck in her teeth. Fuck, she’s strange, John thinks.
“Not yet. But you will be, John Watson. Mark my words.”
“Listen.” He leans in closer. “You’re moderately cute and have at least half of a big juicy brain in your head. How about... after my wife is dead; because we all know that will happen eventually... you come by the flat, hmm? We’ll bend you over and let Sherlock deduce on your face whilst I carbuncle your goose ‘til it’s blue?”
She looks at him in abject shock. “You can’t be serious.”
“No, of course not. But something has to warrant a “Mature” rating, or else those slash-fiction-reading nerds will completely pass this by.”
“You’re not giving them enough credit.”
“Aren’t I?”
She smiles. It’s like honey, poured from a spoon.
...
The two Holmes siblings sit, side by side.
“Do you know,” says the one on the right, “the myth of Castor and Pollux?”
“Brothers,” says the other, “and among those that set the events in motion that began the Trojan Wars.”
“That’s not what they’re known for, though.”
“Does that matter? What they’re known for?”
“I suppose it depends how you look at it. Look, you're the one that chose the code-names.”
The consoles in front of them blink with blinky vaguely-military stuff. The sort of thing that you’d expect to be laid out in front of geniuses charged with national-security, of course.
Mycroft purses his lips and changes the subject. “If I wanted to achieve a quiet, normal, unmolested life,” he muses, “and I wanted to keep my family safe, and I knew I were beset upon by a high-skilled contract-killer...” He twirls his umbrella thoughtfully on its point, “I would probably fake my own death.”
His companion scoffs. “Oh, been there. Done that.”
“I’d probably enlist those closest to me to assist as well.”
“Running over the same old ground; what have we found... the same old fears?”
“Don’t sing. It’s not your strong point.”
In the periphery of his vision, the pale cheekbones under a spray of dark ringlets rise in a smile. “In Greek and Roman mythology, Castor was set as watchman for his younger brother. Gave his life for him.”
Mycroft looks down. “I’ll miss this. Did so enjoy being in front of the camera.”
“Fourth wall, brother.”
“Sorry.”
They watch the blinky lights for a while.
The smooth but higher-pitched voice is thoughtful. “But they weren’t just brothers, though. Weren’t they also—“
Mycroft sighs. “Oh, sister-mine. As Sherlock says. It’s never twins.”
...