Into Dust

187 N Gower

"Winnifred..." My mother gave an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and the knuckle of her forefinger.

"No," I had told her. "You can't make me." I crossed my arms over my chest stubbornly. She had looked so tall to me, only because I was so young still-so small. It wouldn't be until later in my life that I would learn that had she still been around for my adult years, I would have far surpassed her in height.

"Darling. Winnie. If you would just-"

"I hate you," I had stomped off from her. I could never remember what it was I had been so opposed to. I couldn't remember what had made me say it.

"And I love you!" She called after me, straightening out her blazer with a sigh.

I didn't reply.

"And I'll see you after work!" She called again. I had sat at the top of the stairs, listening but petulantly refusing to respond. I pressed my cheek against the banister and listened as she sighed softly in frustration. I could hear the musical jingle of her car keys as she picked them up. And then the door closed.

---------------

It wasn't the stuff of the usual nightmares. There were no monsters. No extensive, eternal darkness or serial killers breaking down my door. No, my nightmares were always the same thing. That one memory of the last time I had seen my mother. Of the biggest regret I had-the last thing I had said to her.

Even as a child-so damn young when it happened-I understood the gravity of our last interaction the moment I realised it had been our last.

It's different for every kid-the age at which the finality of death truly sinks in. I was so young, and yet when my father told me what had happened, I understood completely.

I awoke from the nightmare, like I had a thousand times before-my heart hammering against my ribs and blood roaring behind my ears with enough ferocity to give me a headache. My sheets were soaked with sweat. I pulled my knees to my chest, bowing my head as I panted, trying to regain my bearings on my own body.

"Ten..." I began to count backwards. Trying to focus on anything-anything but the dream.

"Nine. Eight..." I could feel my heart slow, skipping beats as it palpitated-coming down from the adrenal high of the nightmare. Breathe, Rose.

"Seven. Six." The blood roaring behind my ears-rushing like white rapids through my head slowly calmed like the quelling of a storm.

"Five. Four," I breathed. Work, I thought, I have to work soon. Driving this morning. Practice at noon. Class at night.

"Three... Two..." The air of my small fan suddenly felt cold against my sweat-slicked skin as I became more aware of the world around me-emerging fully from my dream state.

"One..." I smoothed the hair back from my face and took in a few slow breaths, letting each one out through my nose.

Five AM. Best start driving.

Most people hated their first proper job as an adult. Usually it was something in retail, or a coffee shop. I didn't mind my work. I set my own hours, and more often than not I didn't exchange more than a few words with those I drove, and in a city like London, the money I made was fair enough.

I got myself dressed, scraping my auburn hair back into a messy, low bun. I pulled on a decent outfit-knitted wrap, tights, leg warmers, and boots. It was what I wore most days because it was practically all I had ever worn-in perfect ballet style.

As I got into my car, warming it up, I clipped my phone into its holder-where I could see it best seeing as I used it as a GPS. I cupped my hands over my mouth and blew warm air against my palms before rubbing them together. My attention snapped back to my phone as a message dinged through on my app. I furrowed my brow, clicking immediately on it to see what it was.

187 N Gower St, Kings Cross. As soon as convenient. -SH

SH? I thought. I wracked my groggy, half-asleep brain for a name that would fit the initials. I had a few repeat customers who I was on call for-but none with those initials. I grunted in frustration as my brain produced no answer for me. Finally I sighed in resignation, and rubbed my eyes, (avoiding my mascara, of course), and decided to head off to the address that had been messaged to me.

London was still dark, and all but silent as the usual partiers had even gone to sleep by that hour. All that was left to mark their antics the night prior were the trash bags and empty bottles at the bar fronts and alleyways. I rolled my eyes at the mere thought of what stupidity had taken place hours before my driving past.

SH. S. H. My brain hadn't given up trying to fit a name to them.

S.H.

Then suddenly. Something clicked. John Watson, I remembered. I had told him I was at his disposal whenever I was on call. (As no other cabby in their right mind was going to pick him up with his friend, SH's, profile as lowly rated as it was). Whoever his friend was, he must have pissed off quite a few cabbies.

Then, as I pulled up to 187 North Gower St, I realised the distinct possibility that the one awaiting me as the address may very well not be John Watson, but the actual owner of the profile...

What was his name, again? It had been something quite silly...

"Sherlock Holmes," was the first thing the tall, dark-haired man said as he climbed into the back seat of my car. "Ms. Rose, I presume?"