The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

Equilibrium

Unfamiliar little bistro. Tiny chairs that belong outdoors. Tiny tables; forced intimacy. Elbows at awkward angles. Fork and knife don't match. Feel as though shoved back to the children's table, punished for some dire misdeed. Quiche (asparagus and swiss cheese: appalling) and salad (soggy). Twee, monstrously large cups of over-sweetened coffee (with foam).

Had to accept the invitation. Too curious not to. (Does John know about this little rendezvous? Unlikely.)

Mary's legs crossed at the ankles; prim tweed skirt, silk blouse (second-hand). String of pearls (tasteful: gift from John). Dressing the part of the librarian stereotype; neckline slightly (deliberately) too low. Granted a view of the band of her bra (indigo blue, near-perfect match for her blue high-heeled shoes), as well as the rounded flesh of her cinched breasts each time she dips her head down to sip at her coffee. (Deliberate? No doubt.) Attempt to appeal to my baser instincts. (My baser instincts do not tend in that direction.)

Attempt to seduce me? Could that possibly be true? Uncertain. Wait. Collect further evidence.

She is anxious (or is she miming anxiety for my benefit?). Tapping her finger against her cup; shake of her (right) knee. Face: unreadable. Open, friendly. Tiniest tells filtering through her tight control. Why? (She knows.) Of course she knows.

She kissed the air beside both my cheeks when I arrived, fingers hard against my arm. (Strange social conventions). Asked after my "consulting business" and, terrifyingly, my "brother, the one in government?"

Never been good at small talk. Boring. Tedious. Pointless. Answered as honestly (briskly) as possible. A wry, "it keeps me busy," and, in reference to Mycroft (has he poked his nose into John's business even further than I'd expected? Apparently so), "I have no idea, I couldn't care any less if I tried."

I do not ask her about her job, about James Carstairs, about her book club, her volunteering, her night shifts. I do not ask about the new name that appeared on a stub of paper shoved into my hand by one of my homeless network. Mark Johnson. Solicitor, divorced, history of alcoholism. (She removes her wedding ring when she sees him.)

She uncrosses her ankles and presses her knees together tightly. Controlled expression on her face. Can smell her (cheap) hairspray from here.

"You hurt him, you know that." She smiles, like that isn't a terrible thing to say. Do I hurt him? How do I hurt him? Leaving him waiting for me in restaurants, at crime scenes? Yes. I have done those things. He has forgiven me dozens of times, though I suppose that doesn't blot out the truth. Yes. I have hurt him. I do hurt him. (People hurt each other. It's what people do.)

It isn't as if he hasn't also hurt me. (He left me for her. For Mary. Before I had a chance. Before I knew anything. Before I could learn. Before there was sufficient evidence.) You hurt him, you know that. I suppose I do. However.

"So do you." Retort. Bit childish of me, but not untrue. She hurts him more than I do, surely. I've seen it on his face. She indulges her desire to flirt with, seduce, control, and manipulate men other than John (also, presumably, John). Always will. She lies (obscures the truth).

She purses her lips. Wrong answer, clearly. Unimpressed. (Possibly embarrassed?) Argument; counter-argument. Can't entirely tell what people are thinking at the best of times, but can usually make a decent guess. Can't guess with Mary. Never certain. Don't know what's a deliberate cover and what's a tell. Her constant and insidious congeniality.

"Not like this." She pierces a piece of lettuce with her fork and brings it to her lips. "I know you're not one for…" She pauses. Considers her lettuce. "Well, for sensitivity, but you should be more careful. If you don't want him to die of a broken heart." Sticks her fork in her mouth. Lets me chew on that statement.