-Emily-
~~~~~~
I open my eyes, wince at the hangover, and look up at the ceiling. It's by no means a dull observation – on the contrary, this suite is unlike anything I have stayed in before, and I relish the differences between it and Jim's penthouse.
Where Jim's taste in interiors was brutally modernist, exposed and sharp and contained within buildings of plated glass, Ivan's is lavish, classical, dusted and re-dusted in gold. The floors are white marble, the walls printed pearl, the windows bearing the heavy, brocaded fabric seen in sixteenth century England. Everything, from the gilded stag-head on the wall to this bed, four-posted with a white muslin canopy, is opulent. Everything is a luxury. Even the plaster on the ceiling has been sculpted, swirled into thickly-layered roses.
Having said that, there are modern features interspersed throughout the suite: the glass-fronted kitchenette, for example, the polished bar stools, the curved sheet of touchscreen television mounted on the wall. I'm sure there are additional modernisms – I simply haven't had chance to observe them, yet.
We left the casino in the early hours of the morning, Ivan intoxicated, me drunker than I've been in a long time. I remember slurring something about more vodka and swatting his shoulder in mock-irritation when he said he'd had enough for the night. I'd clung to his waist, gripping the fabric, tugging the blazer from his shoulders as my heels caught the pavement flagstones; at that stage, dignity was a thing of the past, and something I no longer concerned myself with. Someone shouted at us as Ivan waved down a taxi. I made a very crude, very harsh gesture with one finger – and had to be pulled into the vehicle before a Russian mob descended upon me.
We'd taken a taxi back to this street with the unpronounceable name, me laughing weakly at the strange conversation and making loud interjections in English. He'd half-guided, half-hauled me into the lift, which was quite the accomplishment seeing as he was not altogether sober himself, and together we staggered into the corridor. I'd unnecessarily pointed out each piece of gold-work and asked if he was the lost great-great-grandson of "the Tsar with the beard". He laughed and said yes, as a matter of fact, he was, then held the door open in an exaggerated display of such princedom, bowing when I gave my sloppy curtsy and allowing himself to be led in a mock ballroom waltz around the coffee table.
Our heady humiliation was interrupted by a purposeful clearing of the throat.
I'd spun around a little too vigorously – very nearly toppling over in the process – to see a woman standing in the doorway to Ivan's bedroom, still in the previous night's negligée, grey silk with little white pearls running around the hem. She'd been waiting. Waiting for a very long time, by the looks of things. I don't think she appreciated my female presence.
She'd started off in a low voice, straining with suppressed indignation. I started exploring the suite as she spoke, stumbling over nothing in particular and handling priceless ornaments with inebriated clumsiness. When she got no response, the one-night stand became a one-night whirlwind of violent accusation, shouting accusation; Ivan could scarcely get a word in edgeways and, with his betrayed lover – one in a string of similarly besotted women – furiously gathering her belongings and snarling Russian curses at both of us, I'd stood and watched as he received a head-twisting slap to the side of his face: one that resonated, sharp like broken glass.
She spat at me, said something I dimly perceived to be an insult, then stormed out of the suite, slamming the door behind her.
Ivan watched her leave, his cheek bright with the stinging imprint of her hand. In a demonstration of classically drunken immaturity, he pulled a face, sparking another mortifying fit of adolescent laughter I was incapable of stifling. I'd left him clearing up the remnants of his overnight visitor in search of my new bedroom and, upon selecting the first at my disposal, fell back, arms outstretched, numb with vodka and rebellion and something that felt dangerously like hope.
I blacked out two minutes later.
Now I am suffering the consequences of frivolity. I don't particularly want to move from these white sheets, but I'm curious as to how exactly this city is so silent. Moscow has a population of twelve million. Unlike London, there's no background hum of traffic – no distant clatters, no screeching tyres. I find this lack of sound very, very strange.
Clapping both hands to my temples to contain the aching in my skull, I swing my legs out of the bed, iced marble on bare feet. It's shockingly cold; a searing jolt to the system. I must have woken up mid-stupor and made a half-hearted attempt at undressing, for my shoes are lying some distance away and my jacket is currently crumpled by the door. Padding on the balls of my feet to avoid contact, I make my way over to the curtains and, cursing softly at the pain this one movement generates, take hold of the fabric and pull–
White light scalds.
It floods, moves like thin liquid, through the window and into the room, onto my skin, bathing both in a purity that bleaches colour and sets glass shimmering like crystal. I squint through the agony in my head and realise that this isn't sunlight, not directly; this is the glittering reflection of snow, snow exposed to sunlight, fresh and packed like powdered diamond. It is a merciful miracle, for it takes the ugliness of a concrete city and softens it, shrouds it in a virgin's pre-wedding sheets, with the older buildings of glorious architecture rising proudly from the white; the everyday palaces of Eastern Europe.
There are few cars brave or foolish enough to attempt driving, and the footsteps of people are muted, muffled by the snowfall – hence the silence. I watch with childlike awe, because I haven't seen snow like this, not of this depth and cleanliness. On the rare occasion it snows in London, city smog and ensuing rain and disgruntled trudging leave it slush: brown and saturated with grime.
In the background I hear a door creak on its hinges, then the soft sound of another pair of bare feet on marble. There's quiet, then a hiss – a cafetière in action – and the stifled speech of a news reporter, speaking in the same, factually clipped tone all news reporters appear to use, regardless of the language. A vehicle crawls past. Someone shakes a towel out of the opposite window.
I feel ludicrously happy.
~~~~~~
-Millie-
~~~~~~
What was once casual routine has become a necessity.
Every morning, I follow a pattern; established through repetition and fundamental for everyday function. I wake up in the familiar comfort of Baker Street – John didn't want to stay in the house – and I look up at the ceiling with its gritty, yellowing plaster and cracked light fitting. I count to sixty. We've got twenty-four seven protection in the form of undercover police officers now, waiting outside in their inconspicuous cars, alternating shifts on a rota. They don't trust the apartment to remain flowerless. They don't trust me.
After my sixty seconds, I sit up, stand up, and find a pair of clothes that allow me to blend into the wallpapered background. I then knock on Sherlock's door to signify the start of our day – although I know he must be awake, anticipating the sound, because the door always opens immediately. Next I check on Addy, who sleeps in a second-hand cot donated by Mrs Hudson's neighbour.
I can't help but envy her, in her natural naivety. I envy the way she's blissfully, childishly unaware of the toxic grief pooling in this apartment.
If she's sleeping, I progress to the second stage of my morning. If not, I have to hold her – gingerly, like weighted glass – and slot her into the similarly donated, similarly second-hand high chair, where I am then able to continue with my routine: I reach for the plastic slip containing the paper I've printed off, sift through the endless pages until I find the one I'm after, then take it with me to the kitchen.
I had to cite endless online articles for the information I so desperately needed; articles on milk composition, on infant sleep patterns, the Heimlich manoeuvre for children, which vile, pulped food concoction contains the most protein, the most vitamins, the best nutrients for growth. I've had to pour over instructions on baby handling, on the stages of bone development, on economising to accommodate the cost of bottles, clothes, miniature cotton wool buds, how to bathe a writhing mass of furious child in a way that doesn't result in bodily harm.
A crash course in motherhood.
That's what I'm doing now, as I remove the glass jar of pulped carrot labelled 'Tuesday Morning'. Motherhood. I don't have the benefit of maternal instinct; this baby is entirely foreign to me, a stranger's child, Mary's child, John's child. Not my child. I close the fridge door. I've ordered a week's worth of food into rows, columns of coloured jars, each of them labelled and set at the correct angle. I had to put the labels on them after Sherlock – who is responsible for Addy's welfare after twelve o'clock – tried to feed her strawberry jam by mistake. We were forced to deal with sweetly-scented pink vomit for a full twenty-four hours after that.
I have notes on how to feed a baby, too. There's an awful lot of persuasion involved – Addy can be hideously stubborn at times, pressing her tiny lips together and shaking her head in furious contempt of my efforts. Sometimes she cries.
Yes, I think, when she balls up her fat fists and howls, her mouth a damp, square letterbox. I know. I could cry too.
I know John must hear it from his room, but he never reacts. He blocks it out. Sherlock and I take it in turns, jogging this screaming, two stone weight. He has his own routine, his own instructions. We don't speak to each other much – we don't have time – but when we do, it's to cross reference our notes, explaining which article on artificial motherhood is applicable to our situation and which didn't work at all. We pick it apart like a case. I use annotations.
John himself is in a state of violent apathy; uncaring, unfeeling, sitting alone in his old rented room with a drink in his hand or his back against the wall, just looking, not speaking. We don't bother him. Mrs Hudson makes our meals – she insisted on returning to her apartment once she heard the news – and leaves John's outside his door on a tray. He doesn't eat much, but he drinks enough to compensate for it.
Today, however, he disrupts my routine.
The door creaks and I look up, spattered in orange from Addy's messy refusal. John steps out into the hallway, dark-eyed and unkempt, his shirt unwashed and face creased with lines I have never noticed before. It's his expression that concerns me the most; it's one of hatred, of hatred boiled down to its condensed syrup, shaken with grief and bitterness and crushed determination.
In his hand, he has the memory stick.
I think back to the events of the day Mary Watson died; the gunshot fired, Emily left, John was sobbing over the remnants of his wife like a man lacerated internally. Sherlock called the police, his voice toneless, hands shaking, and I'd watched as armed officers and paramedics filed into the building like flies to a corpse. It seemed a little ironic, sending paramedics: those who save lives were there to confirm the ending of one. John had turned away when they lifted her onto a stretcher. I couldn't; I had to see it, had to see her, had to confirm in my head that John Watson was a widower and Addy Watson an orphan.
It didn't make the ache in my chest go away.
John must have returned to his house without us knowing, because this memory stick is the one Mary described to us on her unconventional deathbed. It's small, compact, silver – with A.G.R.A printed on the plastic in thick marker.
I glance at Sherlock. He's not looking at me. John sits down in his armchair, takes a swig from his drink – something pale orange and sharp-smelling – then pulls the laptop onto his lap.
"Maybe you should wait," I say, tentatively. "It's only been a week–"
"No." His voice is rough, gritty, and I watch in silence as he takes another drink. "Now."
Addy is currently examining my phone, testing its durability between her teething gums. I let her keep it. Sherlock stands grimly beside the armchair. John pulls the cap off the memory stick and pushes it into its assigned port, inhaling sharply as it flashes in recognition–
The screen lights up.
~~~~~~