-Emily-
~~~~~~
"Out."
I am forcefully manoeuvred from the back of the police car to the pavement. The chill in the air halts me in my tracks – I've become accustomed to Bronzefield's strictly regulated temperatures – and I look around, eyes smarting. After five weeks in an establishment where lighting is kept dimmed and yellow, the sudden brightness stings. I'm still in my prison jumpsuit and am attracting a lot of unwanted attention – Mycroft's doing, I expect; keep me restrained until the last minute, force me to walk around in this very public reminder of my incarceration knowing full well I can't afford alternative clothing.
One last humiliation.
The street is smaller than the one preserved in my memory, all grey flagstones and ageing terraced houses; the café overhang has faded from its grubby red to a similarly grubby pink, and the iron railings stand with their winter coats of rust, worn, forgotten, much like the inhabitants of Baker Street. I saw the witness protection as we pulled up – a solitary silver car, parked on the opposite side of the road, the windows tinted and driver concealed. Constant surveillance. As if that would stop him. Stiffly, and with some hesitance, I approach the door, its lacquer chipped and brass knocker askew. I lift my fist. I knock twice. The sound reverberates.
There's some disturbance behind me; I can hear footsteps, heels on concrete, an indistinguishable shout – but I don't turn around. Instead, I listen. There's someone humming in the hallway. It gets louder as they approach the door, but is interrupted by the sound of quick feet on the stairs and a harsh 'leave it' – a voice I recognise as Sherlock's. The humming ceases, and its absence is followed by a startled exclamation.
The door swings open.
Sherlock stands in front of me, pale and sleepless in a crumpled silk shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and hair uncombed; snagged curls brush the top of his collar – unturned, creased like the rest of him – and his forearms bear a patchwork of bruises and scratches and something pulped that looks decidedly like baby food. He doesn't blink. His gaze moves in a sweeping motion, intrusively calculating. I see myself through his eyes: a woman with broad shoulders and wide-set hips, equally familiar, equally strange, on the doorstep in a greying jumpsuit, a threat, hair more frizz than curl and face pinched with a bitterness that has established dominance over her expression. She lifts her chin – an unconscious gesture of discomfort – and shifts her weight to her heels. Together we stand. Together we observe.
We regard each other with mutual, speculative apprehension.
"Could you have made your arrival any more dramatic?" he asks, when the silence loses its appeal. "You've brought half of Scotland Yard with you."
"Blame your brother."
"I always do."
The flash of a camera jolts us back to our grim reality: I spin around, panicked by the burst of light, and find myself face to face with an entourage of rapidly-assembled journalists, drawn to my prison gear and unprecedented arrival like blowflies to a corpse; parasitic and hungry.
"Get in," says Sherlock, quickly. He takes my wrist and hauls me inside before I have chance to respond.
"Mr Holmes, just one question about Ms–"
"Is that the press?" The voice takes shape as Mrs Hudson steps into the hallway, wielding an oven glove as if to ward off the unwanted inquisition. "Tell them if they stop me from getting my groceries again, I'm calling–"
She stops. She stares. She lifts a trembling hand to her mouth.
"Emily?"
I make a toneless noise in acknowledgement.
"I thought..." Mrs Hudson looks at Sherlock for an explanation. "She was–"
"Less talking, more beverages. Coffee for me. Black." Sherlock starts up the narrow staircase, only to pause on the third step. "On second thoughts, make it a brandy."
"You know I don't keep alcohol, Sherlock. Gave it up with the dancing."
"No you didn't." He gestures for me to follow him. "Under the sink. I checked."
"Sherlock Holmes–"
"Don't forget the ice."
I stop listening, then. This is an unsettlingly surreal experience, walking up these steps – it isn't nostalgia. Nostalgia is a pleasant word to describe pleasant memories. The memories waiting for me upstairs are far from warm. Dust motes dip in and out of the bands of light that break through the blinds on the landing window; I breathe them in, inhale the musty scent of unwashed fabric and forgotten paperwork. On this staircase I am in a perceptive purgatory: recent memories hiss and spit at the bottom step, unable to reach me here, while older memories of furious injustice and Mary Watson wait for me at the top, ready to welcome me into Baker Street with open arms. I step into their grim embrace. Sherlock pushes the door open with his elbow.
The first thing that strikes me about the flat is its scale. It's so small; the landing is too narrow, the ceiling too low, the living room a cramped mess of sprawling urban poverty. I see the creases in the wallpaper, the cracks in the linoleum, the blistering paintwork. Sherlock's armchair has faded, John's left to collect dust. The sofa sags as if exhausted. Amongst the chaos are glimpses of familiarity; the same kettle in the kitchen – yellowing plastic, its spout warped from exposure to temperature – the same piles of untouched paper, journal articles, torn extracts from books, the same friendly disarray, the same dust-flecked bell jar on the coffee table, the same skull. Memories in miniature.
I rotate on the spot, slowly, processing the remarkable normality of it all.
"It hasn't changed."
Sherlock kicks the gathering heap of laundry to one side. "Working class not suiting you?"
"You know that's not what I meant."
"I suppose you're used to the company of criminal kings." He walks into the kitchen and, after squinting at the sell-by date on a milk carton, returns it to the fridge. "Should I curtsey?"
"If it makes you feel better."
He gives me a small, strained smile, and then reaches for the cupboard. A forced tranquillity ensues. I tread softly, testing the space at my disposal, cautious not to disturb the sad silence that pervades the very oxygen of this place. The curtains haven't been washed in years, and I stir a veritable storm of dust as I part them; outside, the street darkens, the reporters have abandoned hope of a headline and the faint choir has fallen prey to the growl of traffic.
"Mycroft said John had left."
Sherlock grants me a non-committal noise in response, sweeping the stained mugs from the counter.
"Will I be in his room?"
"No. Addy sleeps there." He finishes stacking the mugs into the sink, then points at the sofa. "I hope such measures won't be too jarring, your majesty."
"Who's Addy? New roommate?"
He gives me a strange look. "You have missed a lot."
"Addy?"
"The baby."
Recollections of Mary's pregnancy begin to resurface. I turn to Sherlock, eyebrow raised. "You're looking after a child?"
"Don't sound so shocked."
"I am." I smile at the faint memory. "You and I were never the parental types."
"It's a case of mathematics and time management. Millie printed–"
Sherlock cuts off mid-sentence. His indignation fades. He turns away, the barriers reconstructed.
"Millie printed what?"
"There are instructions," he says, simply.
"Where is she now?"
Sherlock gestures to the corridor. "Sleeping."
"I'm not talking about the baby."
"I know."
I look up at the wall clock.
"It's four o'clock."
Sherlock continues as if he did not hear me. I'm beginning to suspect that he's reliant on delusion too; a self-built world of denial that blocks out any third-party attempts at highlighting the reality. I don't think I'm in any position to shatter his illusion, so I change the subject.
"What are we going to do about the press? They'll come back."
He slams the drawer shut. "Stop you from parading around in a prison jumpsuit."
The venom in his tone catches me off guard.
"Do you think I picked this ensemble personally?"
"I think you enjoy the attention."
"Of being spat at in the streets? I adore it. My favourite pastime."
"The way you walked when you came in, your body language. Anyone could see you were revelling in the publicity."
With some effort, I stop myself from lashing out. I take a deep breath. I remind myself why I'm here.
"I'll need different clothes, then."
"What would you like me to do? Send a message to James Moriarty and ask him to mail me some Westwood?"
He succeeds in severing my limited restraints.
"What's your problem?"
"My problem? My problem is you. Being here."
"It's not by choice, trust me."
"Was your marriage by choice?"
"I'm here to do what you failed to finish six months ago," I snarl, taking an advancing step towards Sherlock. "This is as much your fault as it is mine. If you hadn't been so preoccupied on inflating your swollen ego, maybe you'd have made some real progress and caught him before this mess–"
"I have some clothes."
We turn around.
Millie stands in the doorway, holding onto the wooden frame for support. I feel something congeal in my stomach: if guilt could wear a face and manipulate a body, it would choose Millie Shon as a vessel. She watches me through reproachful eyes, her lips pale and thinned, cheeks hollowed. She's lost weight. A lot of weight. Her chest is flat, her wrists brittle, the notches of her elbows and ribs and hips visible beneath the clothes she wears – of which have been meticulously folded and ironed, creased regimentally at the seams. Her grip tightens on the doorframe as she acknowledges my horror – a compression of her fingers, a whitening of her knuckles – but she keeps the paper veil in place, concealing the torment from view.
"You might have to buy the trousers. Mine would be a little..."
"Small for me?"
"Long in the leg," she says, politely. She nods her head once. "How did you get out of prison?"
"Mycroft."
She looks a little surprised. "Are you visiting?"
"Staying," I say, uncomfortably. There is a stilted, unnatural formality between us. "Until John comes back."
"Oh." She smiles. "That'll be nice."
"Yes," I say, cautiously.
"Why here? Isn't it a bit risky?"
I feel myself falter, and look at Sherlock helplessly. He struggles with words for a while – he hasn't prepared a response – and then sighs, softly.
"She's going to help us find him."
"John...?"
Sherlock presses his lips together. I brace for impact.
"Yakovich."
The paper veil is torn in two.
The change in her countenance comes about so rapidly and so forcefully, I take a cautionary step backwards; it is a virulent cocktail of conflicting emotion that makes her fold in on herself, recoil, away from me, from Sherlock, from the name that hangs between us. There is something inherently disturbing about watching a full-grown woman fall victim to child-like vulnerability. Instinctively, I reach out in an apologetic gesture – and in doing so, my fingers brush her wrist.
Millie snatches it away as if my touch scalds her skin.
"Don't."
The volume of her voice startles us all. Sherlock regards her warily.
"Millie–"
She makes a strange noise, a drawn-out whimper, half pain, half groan, her fingers clasped around her wrist with bruising force. All is silent – and then, after two, long minutes, she straightens up. I watch her attempt to patch up the breaches in her defences. She manages a fleeting smile, but I can see the beginnings of wet, fresh blood bead beneath the pads of her fingers.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to shout. Did you want a shirt?"
I glance at Sherlock. He gives me the briefest nod of his head.
"Yes. Please."
Millie hesitates, then slowly, reluctantly, releases her grip. She's dug grooves into the white underside of her wrist. She presses it to her stomach, concealing it from us, and retreats back into her room.
We listen to her broken breathing through the walls.
"Does that happen a lot?"
"Don't touch her," says Sherlock, flatly.
"What?"
"Don't touch her." He looks up at me, his face impassive. "She doesn't like to be touched. Trauma-induced haphephobia. Triggers the neurological pathway in the brain responsible for memory."
"Haphephobia?"
"Don't let her near the painkillers either. She'll try."
"Sherlock–"
"I'll contact Mycroft tonight. He'll send over a decent laptop. You can use John's in the meantime. Password's Morstan, lower case."
"There's got to be something I can do."
"I just told you–"
"For her." I point to Millie's room. "Something to help her."
Sherlock's expression is utterly blank. There is no pain, no disturbance, no hurt.
It is more unsettling than anger.
"Find him."
~~~~~~