Stage V: Learn from your experiences

By 9pm, we are both drinking, despite Sherlock's usual Spartan `I'm on a case so can`t eat/drink/sleep' regime. Seems that rules are made to be broken, and no mistake. I still haven't anywhere near forgiven him, but I suppose I shall eventually, since I have actually forgiven him for worse. Much worse. We sit opposite each other in poses slightly reminiscent of my Stag night, but we are older, more sober and one hell of a tsunami of water has gone under the bridge since then.

There are many things I want to say, to ask, but how? How do I broach some of the most delicate aspects of human interaction - the subtle nuances that sexuality and friendship bring to any two people, especially when one of them is quite…new, to his inner workings?

"Sherlock, Molly had a crush on you, for oh-so-long."

"John," he tips up the bottle and swallows - "I did not take advantage of Molly Hooper."

"No?"

"Certainly not. The only way we ever managed to become physical with each other was when she no longer had that `crush'. When she slapped me, she saw me as I really am - weak, vulnerable, flawed - and then we were on an equal footing. Then, it could begin."

"You make it sound like it was destined to be - written in the stars?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes slightly, but his edges are worn away by alcohol, so he tolerates my lapse into hyperbole a little better.

"I am not sure John, that you would be entirely comfortable hearing of my descent into the pleasures of the flesh with Molly Hooper - "

My face flames. "Jesus, Sherlock!" But he has the good grace to smile.

"Suffice to say, to continue your star analogy, our planets were very much aligned."

I take refuge in my bottle and the picture on the wall just above his head.

"Ah, I see."

"Do you? I'm not sure you do, John." Sherlock sits back, placing the bottle onto a side table and steeples his fingers beneath his mouth, in contemplative pose.

"Molly has become one of my dearest friends. As you know, it is not easy to be my friend, and I do so try to appreciate those people who make the effort."

I considered voicing my opinion regarding how much more effort Molly had been investing in their friendship than I had realised, or perhaps sketch out for him what was meant by appreciation, but I didn't want to interrupt Sherlock Holmes explains his feelings. Along with unicorn bar mitzvahs and leprechaun christenings, such a rarity was to be encouraged at all costs.

"I like her," he continues, eyes fixed somewhere far off in the middle distance. "I like her shocking honesty, her vastly underrated intelligence, her inveterate kindness and her appalling attempts at humour. I like how she can smoke with me in a filthy alleyway, but still see the stars; how she allows me to inhabit her fridge with stinging invertebrates as the need arises, but scolds me for forgetting the milk . I like how she can alter my mood in a moment with a cogently worded comment, or even a look - " He suddenly gazes at me, as if he`s stumbled upon a crucial piece of evidence and it's essential I understand - "John, Molly Hooper - she really does see me."

And it's only when he smiles at me, a truly genuine and open smile, with neither agenda, snark or artifice, that I realise he's in love with her.

The question then is, does he?

~x~

Doctor Joseph Wilson is one very patient Senior House Officer - fact.

Oh, let me count the ways...

When I insist on meeting him for our nights out on his ward, since I don't want near in the Morgue (just in case).

When I affect a migraine (after exhibiting rude good health only seconds before) as I realise it`s Angelo`s we were heading for to eat pasta.

When we have to walk the long way round because I can't cut through The Marylebone Gardens anymore.

When I can`t eat the aubergine in a carefully prepared moussaka (since they are, actually, pointless).

When I actually cried (sobbed, blubbed), scaring a perfectly innocent violinist busking on the Embankment because she was playing Paganini.

When I dragged him into a shop selling crystal unicorns and dragons because I saw someone tall and dark and coat wearing, coming the other way.

But where Dr Joseph Wilson is at the zenith of his patience is when, after four and a half weeks of going out, I have never allowed him (in the manner of a coy, Victorian maiden) more than a hand to hold or a cheek to kiss.

Not once has this lovely, patient man called me on my (frankly, insane) behaviour or questioned my anachronistic and utterly inexplicable moral code. He likes me (he tells me so) and seems to enjoy my company (in spite of the melodramatic and bizarrely truncated traverses around London). He does pick up rubber bands dropped by postmen and he does appear to cheer both colleagues and patients alike when he breezes through the wards, just by being- lovely. Christ, even his blog is funny.

The truth is, I am a big, fat liar and I do not deserve a man as lovely and funny and patient as Dr. Joseph Wilson. In The Curious Case of The Friendship of Sherlock Holmes, I had, in all honesty (really need to start somewhere) stopped being Emotionally Unavailable some considerable time ago but I was just too blind and ridiculous to notice, and am now just so angry (with myself, naturally) because I thought I had it all sorted out. Sherlock Holmes was a human being, not a deity, not a schoolgirl crush. I'd had my fill of the tingling awkwardness created by the vacuum of unreciprocated feelings for another. I`d seen Sherlock - `The Man', and I thought we could be great friends (we were) and perhaps even great lovers (we really were) without any emotional fallout.

Liar, Molly Hooper.

Getting to know the `real' Sherlock didn't protect me at all, it just allowed me to fall in love with a real person - real, heart-stopping, gut-wrenching, brain-churning love, and I want it to stop, now.

Because I'm not patient at all.

~x~

James Damery is late and I find myself both perplexed and irritated.

Perplexed, since his message on my blog hinted strongly at a raging paranoia and a fervent desire for my assistance in the matter of a missing dissertation; irritated since his disproportionate fear of being overheard by other, `interested parties' appeared to require a meeting place of his choosing. Both the weather and inconvenience of leaving Baker Street at this moment is increasingly trying, and had the case not exhibited some extremely promising features, I should be at home, testing out my newly distilled water-based solvent and assessing the true motives of Miss Helen Stoner`s new interior designer. To make matters worse (if that were possible), Mrs Hudson was quite clearly lurking in the stairwell as I left, with an aroma of bleach and furniture wax about her person, in addition to a look of steely determination. Too many times have I returned home to find my dust index in complete ruination thanks to the interference she insists on dubbing `a good bottoming, Sherlock.`

And James Damery is getting later by the second.

Taxis were in short supply (thanks to atrocious traffic), forcing me onto the dreaded District and Circle line to reach Lincoln's Inn and The Hunterian Museum for our rendezvous. In addition to the unique elements surrounding this case (deadly nightshade infused paper!), John Watson did point out that this venue did host some illuminating specimens (over 4,000 in the Pathology and Anatomy section alone), and the Royal College of Surgeons holds regular talks here, (currently An Anatomy of a Hanging by Mr Richard Pusey FRCS - fascinating) should I wish to make it worth my while. As appealing as some of these features are, I reflect as I wait impatiently for Mr Damery, I strongly suspect a conspiracy by John Watson and Mrs Hudson to clear me out for some utterly extraneous tidying up.

I am also beginning to consider the contagious potential of paranoia.

Huge, white vaulted ceilings above my head with a gallery running in dark wood and eerily-lit display cases along every wall. The glass-like sheen across the pale wooden floor contradicts the tread of a thousand footfalls, and hushed tones lend a strange reverence to the 4,000 specimens, suspended forever in gallons of formaldehyde. As I said, fascinating.

I sit alone on a vast, white, rectangular bench, itself lending a slightly incongruous space-age feel to this spare-parts repository. Closing my eyes, I attempt to recollect the elements of the new solvent, finding myself wondering about the aromaticity of this latest batch and whether the bonding agents would allow the molecules to be held long enough for efficacy...

Feeling a draft pass closely by, I open an eye just in time to catch a glimpse of pink as a young, Chinese woman`s coat billows through my eye line-

("Chantal, look at me!" " Give me your hand…" "Go awaaaaay!")

-and then I check my phone for the fifth time (currently fourteen minutes late) noticing a flashing message from John:

"Give the poor bugger a chance to make it through the traffic at least! JW"

He knows me far too well.

~x~

I have a rendezvous with death…

An innocent girl decides that she would rather let go of my hand and plummet to the concrete eighty feet below than be pulled to safety.

Her eyes were the deepest brown, pupils blown with horror and wide with that tinge of insanity all adrenalin charged situations inflict.

("Go awaaay!)

For days, weeks, I was haunted by those eyes, by that decision. I had surely removed her motive for suicide? Her conviction would have been rescinded immediately; she would have walked free with a chance to live out the remainder of her life, to make the tragedy of her boyfriend's murder become lesser with time. Surely, so many platitudes regarding grief and time cannot be entirely banal? I hear John utter such things to clients on an almost daily basis.

In recent days, however, I must admit that I have been guilty of the capital mistake of theorising without sufficient data. I sit amongst 4,000 attempts to catalogue humanity and begin to realise why Chantal Horgan let go of my hand. She cared nothing for her arrest, her trial, her conviction and sentencing; she had not clung to the edge of an East End tower block because her liberty was challenged. That moment before she let go, the wildness of her deep, brown eyes quietened, becoming almost tranquil, serene. In that split second, she made her peace. Chantal chose death because to her, life without her love was intolerable. I imagine John thinks love is a mystery to me, yet the chemistry is so very dangerous and so very destructive, and here we have the final proof. My arrogance was imagining I could apply logic to the human psyche- solve a problem, save a life.

No, since some things cannot be catalogued. I left Molly Hooper's flat that morning, meaning not to return since I felt a pull, a danger, a yearning.

Leaning back into the horribly uncomfortable space-age seating I close my eyes again, a sudden, narcotic torpidity settling upon me, and I know that James Damery will not be coming; not now, not ever. Minutes (hours? Aeons?) pass and multitudinous footfalls fade into one, lone set, coming closer across the cavernous atrium. Slight, small (short-stride), slightly fallen instep on the right-hand side. Trepidatious, slightly hesitant, yet strong, brave, determined, perfect. I open my eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock," says Molly Hooper, holding a sheaf of notes, including a map. "I'm guessing the conference on Pathological Hematopathology isn't actually happening here is it?"

John Watson, how you continue to surprise me.

(Clearly, paranoia should not always be ignored).

A shaft of late summer sun has broken through the stormy clouds of the morning and transcends huge windows, catching her hair with a sheen of bronze that arrests both my gaze and my every conscious thought. Looking into another pair of deep, brown eyes, I feel the fear and let go anyway.

"Hello, Molly," I smile, since now I know (and I hate not knowing).

Obvious, really.

~x~

Three months later

Sherlock lies across the couch, holding a heavy looking tome above his head with one hand, whilst texting rapidly with a single thumb on the other. His blue dressing gown is askance, his pyjama bottoms rumpled and his feet bare. His hair, in accordance, appears untameable.

"John, if I had meant flies, I would have said flies. Since I said beetles, I would imagine that would mean- "

John scrolls down his laptop screen whilst biting down a few choice comments of his own.

"Yeah, OK Sherlock, I'm looking now... if you could aim for the patience of a toddler instead of a newborn, that would be just great."

"Sarcasm does not recompense for inattention, John. What have I always said regarding details?"

"Mmm. If your arms does get tired of holding that book above your head, Sherlock, be sure to give into it."

"What have I just-"

"Beetles!"

Molly Hooper`s surety cuts through the squabble like a Swann-Morton scalpel, wrapped up in a sweet smile and a tray of tea.

"Beetles were found in the corpse of Mr David Meredith, Dermestid family."

Sherlock puts down the book and phone immediately.

"I knew it! Keratin eaters!"

"They do love their protein." She puts down the tray. John notices there are biscuits again. There are always biscuits on the tray these days.

Sherlock sits up in a flurry of dressing gown and crazy hair, smiling happily and looking directly at her.

"They don`t set about the cadaver buffet until at least five or six days after death, and they won't touch a body affected by cyanide."

"So Brophy couldn't have done it - he was in Belarus five days before."

"And they chose the wrong poison too - goodness, two mistakes! It's like Christmas!"

John Watson watches their delight and experiences a little warmth stealing around his heart on this cold December morning. He turns from his laptop and reaches over for his stripey cup... Christ, Molly's tea was so much better than Sherlock's.

"If you two could just tone down this romantic slush; too much talk of decaying corpses could be a little much to bear for a man who`s currently single."

And Sherlock glowers in return while Molly Hooper just laughs and tousles his hair, as a tease, as a lover, as a friend.

THE END