"Let me know if anything changes, mummy. Yes, I know. I will. I'll be down there tomorrow for a visit. Of course. Goodbye, then."
Sherlock set his phone on the table. Cradling his forehead in his right hand, he exhaled in defeat as he sat at the paper-laden table in front of him.
"Sherlock, you realize this is exactly what Moriarty wants?" John asked, sitting in his armchair and bouncing Rosie on his hip as she sucked on a teether toy. "Mycroft's...being in the hospital...has you distracted, mate."
"Of course he realizes that, Doctor Watson," Irene said, looking up from her novel for a moment. She looked at her husband from where she was lying on the sofa. Reading the frustration on his face was too easy.
"But he's quite set on thinking his way through it all the same. He needs time," she said. John felt reproached by her, and his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.
"I have time," Sherlock spat, side eyeing her and silently barking, "shut up." Her eyebrows flexed. "And I know what I have to do, John," he went on. "I need to see Craig."
"Craig?" John asked. "Craig the hacker? What would you need him for?"
"The Wellington brothers obviously received some type of information from Moriarty that prompted them to tell my brother. If no, then why are they dead? Their personal and work computers have been completely erased of any and all data, as have their email accounts and messaging apps. Nevertheless, there is still a void of stored data that only the most cunning of hackers have access to. That's what I need Craig for."
John pursed his lips. "So...why aren't we already there, then?"
"For goodness sake, Doctor Watson. How insensitive can you be?" Irene breathed, closing her book. "His brother's been shot and is in a coma, his sister has refused to aid him in destroying Jim Moriarty, and this, as you can imagine," she sarcastically crowed, "is a bit of a mental inhibitor. Can you give no account for the shock?"
John's mouth was open. "No, hang on, don't you accuse me of being insensitive. I'm not the one who bloody beat him with a riding crop, drugged him, and/or pretended to be dead, now am I? If you want to talk about insensitive, you ought to examine your own actions before you point a finger at me," he said, his nose bulging with agitation.
"I didn't ask for a whole account of my errors, Doctor Watson, so please don't give me a list. I understand myself perfectly. I'm only speaking in my husband's defense."
"Fine, just don't insult me while you're at it."
"I'm sure I never meant to," she said, nearly rolling her eyes.
"Ugh! Shut up, the whole lot of you! And don't pity me, Miss Adler! I'm fine," Sherlock snapped with insane irritation dripping from his words. "Leave John alone; he's allowed to voice his opinions."
John smiled to himself. Yeah, leave me alone.
Irene retaliated.
"And am I not allowed to voice my opinions? For goodness sake, am I not allowed to defend you, dear husband?" she asked, sarcastically emphasizing the last two words to his extreme annoyance.
"I said not to pity me," he said again, shuffling through some papers and refusing to look her in the eye from where he sat.
"I said the same once," she replied. "But that didn't stop you from feeling it; why should it stop me?" she asked, rising from her place on the sofa and walking into the kitchen. He only followed her with his peripheral vision, determined not to inconvenience his neck muscles for her sake.
"I don't need pity, and I don't need your sympathy," he retaliated. "Please shut up; I find your remarks more of a mental inhibitor than everything else combined. So just please...shut up."
"Fine," she said, rather loudly. "I'm not even here." She fixed a glass of water for herself and returned to the sofa to read. The annoyance on her face was more than self-explanatory. Sherlock huffed furiously.
John took a mental note: he was witnessing Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler have their first "domestic" as a married couple. He decided that history was being made. Eagerly, as though he were at a football match, he waited for who would speak next. When no words came, he sort of just sank back into his chair and dully checked his phone.
At that moment Sherlock's mobile rang, and he answered it after the first ring.
"Hello?"
John still looked at his own phone, but his eyes were vacant circles of fraudulent concentration. He was no longer paying attention to the contents of the screen, but merely staring into it to conceal the obvious crime he was committing: eavesdropping.
Irene was doing the same with her book; her ears were straining to hear the words of the caller, which were loud, rough, and Scottish accented. She took note.
"How long ago was this?" Sherlock asked, rising from his place at the table and walking down the hall towards his bedroom. He shut the door behind him.
Sherlock's voice was now far out of earshot, and Irene, with an air of defeat, disappointedly returned to reading And Then There Were None. John sighed as he picked up where he had left off on his phone. Rosie cooed, trying to push buttons with her slobbery fingers.
Sherlock's voice could still be heard in a muffled tone from behind the bedroom walls, but neither the doctor nor the woman was desperate enough to put their ears to the door...especially in front of each other. If they were alone it might have been different, but...they decided it was best not to think about that.
After five minutes of excruciating patience, Sherlock returned wearing his coat and scarf. In his gloved hands was his violin case. Stopping at the door, he slipped on his shoes.
"Where are you off to, darling?" Irene asked, sitting up and putting her book down.
"So I'm 'darling' again now, am I? What happened to five minutes ago?" he asked, grinning like a boy who's just gotten away with terrible mischief.
"Say no more, or I might grow cross again," she said with an artful turning of the lips. John's face was splitting into a smiley mess in spite of himself. He silently chuckled into his phone...to an onlooker, it might have looked creepy. But he was only pleased with the domestic life his friend now seemed to live. This was so good...too good.
"I thought I recall you saying you fancied it when I grew cross," Sherlock remarked, almost to himself. She mocked an indignant expression.
"Don't be trivial, dear; there are more important matters at hand," she said. "But do tell me: why are you off to Sherrinford so soon? Don't think I didn't notice that Scotch accent on the phone or the violin case in your hands," she said, throwing her head back in triumph. Sherlock almost laughed.
"Apparently Eurus is demanding she see me. She says she'll kill herself if she doesn't; whatever that means, I don't know. But they tell me she's frantic and keeps repeating it over and over again. Quite possibly she just wants me there as soon as possible."
"Probably right," John said. "She's mental, that one. No offense, Sherlock, but..."
"None taken," Sherlock replied; John had every right to hold negative opinions of Eurus. She had almost killed him once, so spiteful emotions toward her were fair and warranted.
"John, keep my wife out of trouble until I get back," Sherlock teased, offering Irene a playful expression. "I'm afraid neither of you can come on this one."
She laughed.
"With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, I've no inclination of meeting my sister-in-law just yet; as charming as she seems, I'm still deciding how I'll make her acquaintance. Nevertheless, do send her my love if she asks after me," she said, plunging back into her book.
"You can count on it," he said, straightening his coat collar once to John's annoyance before heading out the door.
...
"Eurus, stop this. Stop this at once!" Sherlock hollered as he stormed out of the elevator with lengthy strides. His voice penetrated through the glass, and he was determined to have her attention.
She had her long black hair wrapped in two strands twice around her neck, and each hand held the ends of her sectioned hair: ready to pull at any moment and thus suffocate herself.
"Love the tone of urgency, Sherlock. Heartwarming...almost," she eerily sneered.
"Eurus, enough. Look at me," Sherlock demanded, his fist pressed up against the glass. She turned with the hair still around her neck, a horrific grin on her fleshy lips. Her black eyes glowed.
"Nervous for me, Sherlock? You must have come here quickly. Did they tell you I was threatening to kill myself? I told them to make sure they told you that."
"Yes, they told me."
"Well, good," she said, abruptly. She untied the hair from around her neck and plopped down onto her stool with both legs crossed. "You're here. That's what matters now."
"What did you want to see me for?" he asked. He was more than irritated at the frightening gimmicks of his childishly psychopathic little sister.
"I wanted to see you about our little chat yesterday. It didn't end the way I had wanted it to. I'd finished with Paganini, and you were gone. Where did you run off to, Sherlock?"
She went over to the little cubby where she kept her violin and pulled it out, admiring it and tightening a few of the strings. Retrieving the bow, she began rubbing resin on it to prepare it for her daily dose of music.
"I was determined to believe your mind was made up," he said. "You gave me no reason to stay, and I assumed you were quite resolute in your decision to refuse me your assistance."
"And what, may I ask, Sherlock, gave you that inclination?" she asked, rubbing the little block of resin up and down along the bow strings. "I don't remember stating myself clearly." She laughed a moment and threw her hands in the air before adding, "There you go, jumping to those silly little conclusions again."
"What else was I to do?"
"Well, let me ask you this: remind me of your question, once more, dear brother. I've longed to hear you ask it just one more time. Say it again for me—nice and loud, now."
"Eurus—" he retaliated.
"Sherlock—" she whined, like a three-year-old fighting to stay up late.
"I asked that you choose to play on my side. Eurus, don't let Moriarty play you again. Because he will, and you'll never be anything to him, no matter how much he says otherwise. Are you even listening to me, little sister?" he asked exasperatedly. She was focusing on her bow strings and he wondered if she was even paying heed to his words.
"Well, first of all," she mused, "who says I'm letting him play me? Who says I've agreed to play on his team? I never said anything like that. If I did, would you care to refresh my memory? And when did you start calling me 'little sister?' I rather like that."
Sherlock realized that she never had exactly said that she wouldn't help him; she only showed indifference. He stifled a chuckle. With Eurus, indifference so often seems like refusal.
She saw his mouth open as he tried to find words to speak. She liked puzzling him, perplexing him, shocking him. It made her laugh on the inside when he realized that he'd jumped to conclusions; jumping to conclusions was always one of his greatest weaknesses, and she loved playing with it. She decided to end his vexation.
"Well, if you want my help," she said, her voice suddenly dropping to an inquisitive note, "which I think is what you're asking me for...then I will help you. But you must remember, Sherlock...I don't work for free. Mycroft always sent me my treats. I would expect you to do the same."
"Then what do you want, Eurus?"
"I want to see her. Let me see her, Sherlock. Let me see Irene Adler, and then I will give you whatever information you want. But first...I want to meet my brother's wife. My dear sister-in-law."
"You wouldn't like her."
"What's the matter? Scared? Are we?" she asked, smiling almost sadistically at him. "But don't worry. I don't think I'll hurt her. As long as she doesn't hurt me. If everything I've heard about her is true, then I think I'll like her very much. In fact," she said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, "I think she'll like me, too."
Sherlock said nothing. Eurus saw him swallow once or twice.
"But she must come on her own, Sherlock. I won't have you standing there and monitoring our discussion. I also don't want anyone listening in. No cameras; unsupervised, if you please, dear brother."
"The last time you had an unsupervised discussion, things didn't end well," Sherlock spat, referencing her conversation with Moriarty.
She smiled mysteriously; he wasn't sure what to make of that frightening grin.
"I promise, Sherlock. Pinky promise...it'll be for your good. I have information for you...loads of information. Just let me speak to her...alone...and I'll tell you anything you want. I'll even try to help you with this funny little case."
Sherlock was quiet a moment, his studious gaze silently surveying his sister's innocent face; the more innocent it was, the more trouble he feared. She was beginning to remind him of Irene more and more.
"Why did you need to see me so urgently? Why did you threaten to kill yourself if you didn't see me?"
"Well..." she mused, "it brought you here, didn't it, Sherlock?"
"Yes...but no, that's not how you work, little sister."
"Quite clever...you always were," she said, admiring him. "You'll find out soon enough. I don't think now's the time for you to know. But don't worry. You'll know; not yet, but soon."
"Why should I trust you?"
"Jim was here last night," she said, ignoring his question. "He told me lots of things. I can tell you one of them. He has plans for this nation that are beyond anything we have ever dreamed, and if you want me to disclose this information, I will tell you once you have let me meet with your wife. Do you understand, Sherlock?"
"Mycroft told me I could trust you. He told me that I could trust you, Eurus. Don't make our brother regret his final words to me."
"Ah, well, I shall do my best to conform to his understanding of me."
"Eurus—" he said, breaking off.
"You have to trust me, Sherlock. Why would I let you down? Please? I promise."
"A promise, sister?"
Eurus cocked her head and grinned with an odd sort of expression.
"A promise, dear brother," she replied, picking up her violin and beginning to play their duet. She waited for her brother to join her, and once he did, a slight smile spread across her face.
There was a worm in his throat, but he tried to smile as he played.