Three Is Company

Bye Bye, Watsons

The meeting the John intended as casual instead turned into a production, as they were two young parents without a regularly scheduled babysitter. With Mary agreeing to come along that left Rosie in for the ride as well, and as John helped strap the chest carrier across her shoulders he began to wonder if Sherlock would think of this as some sort of raid, rather than a friendly wellness visit. Some part of him regretted having mentioned the affair, though he knew that Mary was going to have to start trusting their neighbor. Their history ran deeper than she could imagine, and even though their friendship was cut short John had every reason to believe they would still be as close as before, had the police not gotten involved. He wished their childhood might have been different, though without that luxury he was forced to settle for a chopped up relationship, beginning again at this strange middle portion of their lives. And so the young family would have to arrive as a unit. A complete being or no one at all. Sherlock would understand, surely he would. The best case scenario would be a man who was warm and friendly, who saw his neighbors as friends and invited them in for tea. John hoped that he had been getting some interior decorating tips, for if the inside of the house reflected the outside then Mary would certainly turn and walk away. Sherlock's father had not been neat (not that John had ever seen the inside of their house) and so John hoped that the man had tried to repel all qualities he might have accidentally inherited. Perhaps the inside of the house was clean and perfected, the den of a normal human being, to quote Mary's exact wishes.
"Rosie feels nervous." Mary muttered, petting her hand across the child's bald skull as the family walked carefully down their rickety front stairs.
"She's probably just shivering. Should've put her hat on." John defended. The night was cold, though John had only bothered with a light jacket. He figured they wouldn't be outside for long, no matter which direction this formal introduction might take. The moon was bright but the street lamps filled in the lingering darkness, casting long shadows across the sidewalks as the family breathed small clouds of fog into the night air. Even though John knew he would have to unlatch the gate in a couple of steps he still dug his hands into his pockets. It was more of a nervous response to seeing that the windows of Sherlock's house were still alight. The man was home.
"Creepy. Creepy. Creepy." Mary was muttering under her breath, listening to the squeaking of the gate hinges as John worked his cold knuckles around the latch. The family progressed through the yard, damp but not yet frosted.
"Now be nice. Not intimidating. Use a smile." John suggested.
"Of course I'll be nice. I'm not trying to sabotage." Mary assured, as if that was John's biggest fear. Rosie gave a little noise of agreement, though there was no way she was agreeing to anything she had just heard. Perhaps she was just complaining about her chilled head. John climbed the steps first, wondering if he even needed to knock on the door after the steps had squeaked so loudly underfoot. It was just as decrepit as usual, though there was a lingering sense of unease with the fallen darkness. When John had been here last it had been a bright, cloudless day. Though now the night's moon gave the sense of a dark, forbidding place. It made the orange lights in the windows seem more threatening than they ought to be. It made the moving silhouette being the sheer curtains more villainous.
"I see him." Mary whispered. "No, wait. That's the woman."
"Good, I'd like to meet her too. Officially." John agreed, feeling a strange yet warm fire beginning to spark in his stomach. Yes, he would meet this woman tonight. He would see for himself whether Sherlock Holmes had taken on a lover for the night. John mustered up his courage, wondering if that moving silhouette, the one with the long flowing hair, had already noticed she had visitors. Either way he had to knock, and so John closed his fist and tapped rather loudly upon the door, trying to summon not only the strange woman but also the strange man to the door. As much as John wanted to meet this roommate he was more interested in his old neighbor. Sherlock Holmes was the reason for their trek throughout this winter night. At the knock the silhouette paused, running her hand through her hair as if realizing that she had company to impress. John wondered if she would summon any of the other roommates, though she was silent. Instead the shape moved to the door, wandering through the halls and vanishing for a moment as she passed through corridors. John took a step back, glancing towards his wife who was now skewing her weight upon a bent leg, as if she was just standing here for the due proof she needed. Mary didn't look as if she was expecting to stay.
"One moment!" called an unrecognizable voice, strangely pitched through the door. John swallowed hard, trying to figure out what set that high pitch out against the others. What made it strangely...off. One moment was indeed all it took for the door to begin moving, locks sliding out of place for at least ten seconds. The place was protected like a fortress, though after a long while the door knob turned, pulling open to first reveal the mistress of the house. The light took some getting used to, in fact it was so bright compared to the dull night sky that John took a moment to blink and process who was standing in the doorway. When finally he was able to concentrate the first thing he noticed was the dress, the skin tight red dress that was displaying every curve the woman had to offer. It cut off at the shoulders, though John blushed to notice that there were at least two curves missing. The long black hair fell gently over a flat chest, hiding the shoulders that stood a little wider than he would have expected. High heels, red to match the outfit, were dug into the carpet, forcing the woman to stand even taller than she would have. John had to strain his neck to look up. He had to strain his neck to realize.
"I'm uh...well I think I'll be going home now." Mary muttered. John swallowed hard, only to find that his throat was not working. He choked for a moment, coughing and sputtering on the front porch, trying to make polite eye contact with the eyes that were very familiar. Too familiar.
"Can I help you?" asked that deep voice, that voice which was hiked up to an octave so uncomfortable it appeared to split the vocal chords that attempted it.
"Sherlock?" John whispered once he finally got his voice back. The face worked its way into a smile, the delicate hands leaning gently against the doorframe to reveal the rest of the unkempt, unfinished house.
"He's not here at the moment, but I can leave a message."
"No message." John managed, blinking rapidly.
"I don't think we've gotten the chance to meet yet, handsome." The woman purred. "I'm Irene. The roommate."
"Yes...yes Sherlock had mentioned." John stammered. "He mentioned roommates."
"I'm sorry to have gotten caught at an awkward moment. I'm not usually so dolled up, but tonight I'm going out. Tonight I just feel the club is missing me." Irene insisted, throwing her hair over her shoulder and giving a smile with bright red lipstick.
"I didn't know there were clubs around." John admitted.
"You gotta know where to find them." she insisted. John nodded, looking back towards Mary, who was currently covering Rosie's eyes with her inconsiderate hand.
"And are you his wife? Beautiful girl, just look at those locks of gold." Irene chuckled, lunging towards Mary to run one of her fingers adoringly through the dangling strands of hair. Mary was frozen cold, obviously unable to cope with the idea of Sherlock Holmes in front of her, dressed in women's clothing. And yet John was able to understand. For some odd reason Irene felt like a relief compared to his other theories about his neighbor.
"Thanks." Mary whispered. "You know, we were just checking in. We...we smelled gas. Or we thought we did. Wanted to see if it was a neighborhood problem or just our old stove."
"I haven't smelled anything." Irene admitted, tapping her toe against the door mat in a talented act of balance. Those heels were about as tall as Rosie, and still she looked able to walk a tight rope with them on.
"Oh good. Well, I guess it's just us. Just us, John. That's all for the evening." Mary muttered, clapping her hand upon her husband's shoulder with a large, sarcastic smile. John knew he was in for a lecture. In fact he was so afraid of his wife's scolding that he felt safer on the porch with this new character of Irene.
"Have you lived here long?" John wondered.
"Oh yes. Sherlock and I have known each other since he moved away. We met at his aunt's house, and when he moved back home he just had to take me with. Me and Victor. But Victor doesn't come out of his room very often. Nasty man, I don't know why we've bothered keeping him around." Irene scoffed.
"At his aunt's. That makes sense." John agreed. "What age was he, if I could ask?"
"Well I think...I think it was about the time he found out about his mother. She was sick, you know. Very sick. Maybe seventeen? Sixteen?" Irene guessed, tapping her fingers against her exposed upper thigh. This seemed to bother Mary, who refused to take her eyes off.
"I didn't know he had a mother." John admitted.
"Well that's a stupid thing to say. Everyone has a mother. Not everyone can be one, though. Darling, consider yourself lucky." Irene muttered with a sigh. Mary hugged Rosie closer to her chest, nearly asphyxiating the child against her chest in an attempt to protect her from the large, dominating figure of Irene.
"Was his mother close by, and just never talked?" John presumed.
"Yes. Yes, in the hospital I think. You know...the loony bin." Irene muttered, dropping her voice as if there was someone listening that would take offense.
"Oh really? I wonder why he didn't inherit that." Mary chuckled. John made a mental note to squash her toes under his foot when they got back home.
"He doesn't talk about her much." Irene admitted.
"I never knew. We were neighbors from before. From childhood." John added, finding it strange to recite his history with Sherlock back to the man himself. And yet he wasn't a man, was he? Not in this form.
"John, I think the baby's getting cold." Mary whispered.
"Looks like it. Oh she's so cute, isn't she? Rather bald for that size, though." Irene commented.
"Don't comment on my child." Mary snapped. Irene withdrew, flexing her fingers as if she could finally sense the offense.
"Not trying to be rude, dear. Just being real."
"I suppose we should get back. It was nice to meet you, Irene." John muttered, figuring Mary would start faking an illness just to get off this porch in one piece.
"Nice meeting you too. I'll have to tell Sherlock you stopped by. He'll be thrilled."
"Oh ya?"
"Ya. He talks a lot about you. All the time, actually." Irene admitted.
"That's nice." Mary snapped.
"It was nice to meet you as well, madam. It's so nice to see a girl my age around here. We should have a lady's night some time. I've got lots of wine. Lots of music." Irene suggested.
"Oh, well...well we'll see." Mary forced. "With the baby and all, I'm quite busy."
"Bring the baby along. I'd love to put things in the food processor for her. I'm always looking for new ways to use that ridiculous thing."
"Delightful." Mary muttered. "Bye then."
"Bye bye, Watsons." Irene purred. "I'll be leaving here just moments after you. Just gotta get my purse."
"Have a safe evening, Irene." John offered. The woman winked in response, as if she could already promise that she would be getting into her fair share of trouble tonight. Thankfully she closed the door before they could say their third round of goodbyes, and as soon as Mary felt it was polite to leave she turned and nearly ran off of the porch and through the yard. She didn't even wait for John to catch up before she scampered up their own steps and raced into the house, nearly locking the door on her husband before he was able to push his way back into the warm, safe confines of their home.
"What the f**k was that, John? What the actual..."
"Hold on, hold on!" John defended, shutting the door as securely as he could and turning the deadbolt.
"Did you know he was batsh*t crazy, or is this Irene a new development?" Mary demanded, flailing so wildly that Rosie began to cry in her harness.
"I did not know about Irene." John admitted truthfully. "Though crazy is not a polite way to put it."
"I don't care about being polite. Oh my god, John, the was the most ghastly experience of my entire life. I want to move. I don't want to be here any longer."
"Stop talking like that! It's rude, and it's offensive. What are you living in, Mary, the dark ages? It's 1977, have a little respect. People can be whatever they want to be."
"That's not your classic case, John! That's some sort of schizophrenic drug trip! I don't care what year it is, I don't even care if Sherlock likes to wear a dress once in a while. But that man, he's in a delusion! What the h*ll, he was talking about himself as if...as if he was someone completely different!"
"I'm going to call his Doctor in the morning." John assured. "I think I know what we might be dealing with, but I can't be sure."
"His Doctor? You know his Doctor?" Mary clarified. John shrugged his shoulders, moving past his wife so that he could collapse upon the sofa. From this angle he couldn't see the outside world, though from Mary's position she could probably just see over the fence. Perhaps she could even watch the woman descend from her front porch for her evening out.
"A psychiatrist came in, changing some prescriptions. He said it was for Sherlock Holmes." John agreed.
"So you knew he was crazy? Legally crazy. But you did nothing?" Mary pointed out, as if she was just trying to get things straight within her head.
"I didn't know what he was diagnosed with! People have all sorts of things, and given his past, well there's a fair chance he could have had anything! I wasn't expecting anything this drastic. This rare." John admitted.
"What do you think it is?" Mary wondered, her voice slacking as she moved towards the couch. Her eyes looked serious now, as she began to grasp the big picture of this situation. It wasn't some humorous escapade, not some practical joke. It wasn't even a simple matter of a hidden identity, of a man who did not feel right within his skin. It was deeper than that; it was more serious than that.
"Given the evidence...it could be multiple personality." John admitted.
"Multiple personality? So what, he's got some mood swings?" Mary wondered. Rosie's crying began to hit a pitch that was impossible to ignore, so while Mary processed this new theory she began to unstrap the child from her chest.
"No, it's more like...multiple identity. He's got entirely different lives inside of him, and when something triggers them they take over. That's why he doesn't realize that he's still Sherlock. He's living as if he's Irene, because his brain suddenly flipped over to her. I take it these 'roommates' aren't living in the house, but in his head." John guessed. Mary shuttered, cradling Rosie within her arms and staring dismally out of the window.
"So...so he's crazy?" she presumed.
"It manifests from severe childhood trauma. I don't think we have to guess too much about that one." John admitted miserably. He scratched at his chin for a moment before sinking his face into his hands. For some reason this was painful to process, as if it would be preferable to avoid the matter all together. John didn't want to realize the root cause of Sherlock's disorder. He didn't want to be responsible for yet another thing that went wrong in that poor boy's life.
"John this is...this is weird." Mary admitted. "Is it dangerous?"
"No. But it makes sense. Really it does." John pointed out. "He complained of amnesia. I don't think any of the personalities even know what's happening."
"Well then we should tell him!" Mary decided.
"No, no! We'll leave all the decisions to the therapist. Right now I know he's insisting silence upon the matter. We can't let Sherlock know, we can't let Irene know." John insisted. "You've got to swear to that."
"Oh don't worry about me, John. I'm a woman of my word. I told you before we left that if he's weird I'm never talking to him again." Mary pointed out, giving a quick, flashy smile as if that was the end of this conversation. John grumbled to himself, watching his wife's retreating back as she went to heat up a warm bottle of formula for Rosie. It was too late in the evening to argue, even if John's brain was prepared to do anything but sizzle with television static.