The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

The (7%) Solution

The small case is so familiar, though I haven’t touched it in years. Sense-memory is tenacious; the weave of the fabric pulled tightly across it is achingly comforting under the pads of my fingers. Unhook the clasp. It falls opens easily; (relatively) new hinges. The syringe gleams slightly in the light, as if going out of its way to tempt me. Routing through boxes and drawers to find it, sitting here with it on my knees, a bottle sitting on a stack of books on the table, makes a perfectly clear demonstration that further temptation is no longer required.

The ornate silver work, antique glass, the slightly stiff piston are more appropriate tools for the task at hand (fundamental alteration, escape, flight of inexplicably delicious fancy, shifting from the uncomfortable now to the tolerable future) than a plastic disposable. Two needles nestled above the syringe in a bed of the softest velvet; (relatively) new. Nineteenth century needles are thick enough to be satisfyingly painful to use, but leave telltale marks. Took weeks to find someone willing to retrofit a hypodermic set to twenty-first century standards, gauged specifically to my drugs of choice. Two kinds; one for euphoria, one for oblivion. It’s been seven years since I last put the needles away.

Bit surprised Mycroft hasn’t managed to confiscate this case yet. Perhaps he understands its power as a talisman and has let me keep it deliberately, a reminder. It is dusted over with memories; days and nights that blended together, the warm glow of comfort that comes from an injection, the rapid speed of my brain, joy. Peace. Completeness. Calm. There are no faces in those memories, though there must have been faces. The memories are all visceral. The longing is nearly intolerable. But only nearly.

The front door opens, then shuts. The sound of familiar feet on the stairs, laden. Snap the case shut, slip it under the sofa. Bottle palmed and into a pocket. Hiding in plain sight (from me), but invisible to everyone else (John). Don’t need the row. Feel an unusual pang of guilt, embarrassment. The tiniest bit of shame. (I should be stronger than this, better than this. I shouldn’t have to resort to this again, but the mess of emotional complications is not my bailiwick. Everyone should know that already.)

I will turn back to the cocaine, that decision is already made. It’s been made for days. I have no internal debate on that point. If not today, then very soon. Mycroft will be livid; Lestrade will be disappointed. John will be sad, uncomfortable, and be either a) driven toward me, to care for me, the good doctor that he is, fighting for my life and my health with vigour and righteousness, or, b) he will be driven away from me, putting distance between the (heartbroken) hopeless junkie and his guilt-ridden self. I hope for the former (the dregs of my romantic heart, rearing its head for one last nudge at John’s oddly-rational stance on the matter) but I expect the latter. Either will be a kind of relief, and will establish how the months ahead will play out. Will set the new ground rules of this relationship. There is logic to it. Logic, and relief. Chemical and actual. It is my (7%) solution. Open the paper across my knees.

“Don’t mind me,” John says, plastic bags in his hands. I don’t. I flip over a page.

John is relentlessly normal, a study in average. It is obviously deliberate. Not a hair different. A demonstration that no line has yet been crossed, when we both know that one has been, crossed and scattered in a confusing pattern in every direction. We will pretend otherwise until it feels true. Then we will go on pretending.

“Tea?” He’s already put the kettle on. I glance up at him, his eyes on me. His eyes don’t lie well. They are filled with something unnameable, a jumble of fear and concern and uncertainty. I smile, pretend (that’s what we do now) I don’t see it there.

“Please,” I say. “Thank you.” The polite words. The words I should say and mostly don’t. They feel appropriate now. John stiffens slightly; he doesn’t want me to be polite. I think it may even hurt him a bit that I am. I feel no guilt at all about that. “That’s very kind of you,” I add, hoping to underscore the point.

He turns back to the groceries. “Case?” For a fraction of a second I think he means the one under the sofa, and I feel a jolt of panic. He can’t find out my plan so soon; it needs to be a surprise. The surprise of me, dangerously delirious with the high, changed and vulnerable and at his mercy. I need that shock to push John a) toward me (preferably), or b) away from me. One of the other. Him discovering my plan too soon would alter the variables. But then I realize; he hasn’t seen it. He doesn’t know. He is merely changing the subject, wants to know if I’ve got a new case to work on, if Lestrade has called, if I’m taking up any of the various potential clients who have left frantic messages on my website. Of course. Neither of us really want to vocalize the conversation our bodies are constantly having with each other. He’s merely changing the subject. Relief.

“Possibly. I’m expecting a visitor shortly. Something about a missing parent.” Boring, really. Not something I would normally take on, but I want the distraction. The awkwardness with John the last few days has been agony.

I blame him for it, but I don’t at the same time. That’s worst of it, really; I want to blame him. But it’s me who’s to blame, which is harder. Engaging emotions is a dangerous thing; messy. Targets are all wrong, no sense of direction, these fraught metaphorical bullets flying everywhere, hitting both of us. The absence of John’s familiar touch; the little pats of his hands against mine that used to be commonplace are suddenly gone. Rather than brush an eyelash from my cheek he just points it out, brushes his own face instead in demonstration. He smiles at me more. He’s gentler with me. He didn’t get angry about the rack of blood in vials next to the leftover takeaway, or the rotting liver (still in the fridge). He is more patient. It is disturbing. I feel a temptation to get up and help him with the groceries, but that would be too polite, and would hurt him even more.

Deep breath. John’s admission is, after all, flattering; I am an exception. I have not been rejected, but instead have been gifted an extended commitment. We forgo the limited and temporary desires of the flesh (which, let’s remember, are not only mine, but also his) in order to extend our friendship, our working relationship, our symbiotic partnership, into the distant future. Perhaps as long as we live. That’s like a vow. A promise. There should be comfort in that, no? I look for it. Rationally what he’s offered me is a richer, more complete promise than the other, the carnal things (I long for) that happen in my imagination, the things I am (unsuccessfully) willing myself not to (ever) imagine (again). Rationally I should be pleased. But there is an emptiness that is leaving me hovering on a precipice. John is trying to pull me back. I am resisting, and I don’t know why.

I have developed an uncomfortable tension between my rational self and my (newly-confronted) irrational self. Perhaps I too need a useless therapist.

“Private client?” John asks.

“Yes,” I say. “It won’t be very interesting.” He stiffens again. I was about to suggest he not feel that he needs to involve himself, that he go visit his mates or watch telly while I go solve some pathetic little domestic mystery, and he knows it. The idea of leaving him behind is tempting, even though having him with me is both socially and practically useful. Why don’t I want him with me now? Am I running away again, from all this awkwardness, the emotional work that has to be done to set right what was overturned? He’s right. We need to work through this. This is the fight for the future, the salvage. I can pretend the precipice isn’t between us until it feels as if it isn’t. “I would appreciate your help, you can keep me from being too rude when I get bored of her.” Flip another page in the newspaper. See him relax out of the corner of my eye.

“I can do that,” he says. He opens the fridge. “I can definitely do that.”

The client arrives an hour later. By then I have managed to put both the Victorian case and the bottle of cocaine in my bedroom, in the space that neither John nor Lestrade will ever manage to find, but I can still feel the texture of the case, the coolness of the bottle, I can hear the ticking of the mental countdown with my addiction at the bottom. Waiting. Once this case is complete, I will return to it, vicious side effects and all. At least it will be different.

She stands by the door. John has just finished washing the dishes, he’s drying his hands and turns to look at her. She introduces herself.

“I’m Mary,” she says. “Mary Morstan.”