Three Is Company

Do With Them What You Will

John POV: John came home that night with a baseball bat, a solid metal one, on the request of his paranoid wife. It wasn't a weapon to defend the house; no instead she wanted him to carry it around with him in the car just in case he was being followed by the maniac. John thought it was a ridiculous idea, though business was too well to make any legitimate excuses for avoiding the purchase. The handle stuck obviously out of his shopping bag, the one filled with the only household items that could not be supplied through the inventory of his store. There were a couple of air fresheners on the list, a refill of their salt, and of course a couple of chewing rings for the baby. All of this looked quite normal in comparison to the makeshift weapon, though the cashier did not look surprised that he was taking steps to defend himself.
"Just like I had when I was a kid. Though I used to hit baseballs, not smash heads." John admitted with a grin, pulling the cardboard labeling off of the bat and giving it a couple of test swings in the safety of the living room. Mary squealed, trying to wave him away from some of their more expensive pieces of furniture.
"It's for you to have, John. For you to defend yourself with." She pointed out, her voice taking that haughty, protective tone. The sort that she used with Rosie when trying to insist she stop from crawling onto the furniture.
"If this maniac is what they say, then I'm in no trouble." John assured with a little chuckle. "He's going after drunkards."
"You're in the age range, John. The right gender." Mary reminded him, shoving a frozen teething ring into the baby's mouth for her to chew on as an after dinner snack. Rosie pawed at the thing happily, gnawing with a ferocity that John had only seen in small dogs.
"I'm not too afraid." John scoffed. "I'm pretty fit, pretty feisty. And besides, I don't go to bars."
"I'm sure they're not all going to be from a bar. Perhaps this man goes one step farther; perhaps he just snatches another victim off the street?" Mary pointed out, glancing out the window just to make sure they weren't being surveyed by a pair of menacing eyes.
"So you're asking me to carry this thing around all the time? Like a walking stick, but more lethal?" John chuckled in clarification. His jokes didn't seem to make the situation better, not that they had a history of doing so. Mary's frown only deepened, and for a moment she was probably wondering why she didn't ship him off to the local bar with a sign around his neck saying me next!
"I'm asking you to start looking over your shoulder. Asking you to defend yourself. That's not too much trouble, is it?" Mary wondered, trying to act as if this was not a case of growing paranoia about some silly news story. Perhaps Martha had been influencing her some more, telling her all of her conspiracy theories about the local killer's place in history.
"The guy's not some serial killer. He's only gotten two so far, and there's no evidence to say that the murderers weren't motivated by something else than insanity. They were probably business partners, or old friends. I don't fall into league with anyone's vendetta." John corrected, dropping the baseball bat back onto the couch with a shrug of carelessness. Mary winced to watch it roll, though thankfully it stayed still upon the cushions and did not fall towards their already splintered hardwood.
"If this was some woman killer you'd be getting me a pair of armed guards. But just because you're a macho man means you're invincible." Mary pointed out, prodding her husband in the back as he retreated towards the kitchen in dismissal.
"I'm just saying that there's nothing to worry about, not yet at least." John insisted, wiggling around her defenses with his hands up in surrender. "I'm not worried, and I'm the potential victim."
"You're never worried." Mary scolded. "You're always so serious. Like you're made of stone."
"Perhaps I am." John chuckled, wheeling around on his heel to give Mary another passing glance of confidence. "And that will surely keep me alive in times of crisis."
"What about Sherlock?" Mary wondered. John had just grabbed a glass of water, though at the mention of Sherlock's name he felt the need to set it down again. His attention had been captured, so much so that he felt as if his ears were pulled by strings in an attempt to hear all that Mary was about to say.
"What about Sherlock?" John repeated, this time more of an interrogation than a casual remark. He turned back against the counter, keeping the window's darkness out of his range of vision so that he could stare down his wife and her growing conversation. The woman seemed to sense that she hit a nerve, though this particular one did not sit too well. Perhaps she would rather be ignored than see that Sherlock Holmes meant more to John than his own life.
"Well he's got to go to bars. Don't you remember what he said when he was in those high heels? That he'll be going out?" Mary reminded him.
"That was Irene." John insisted, an argument that was so weak it was nearly transparent. Nevertheless he wanted Mary to start addressing the personalities as they came about. It was no use assigning all of Irene's actions onto Sherlock, no less Victor's aggression! If each of these traits was supposed to be displayed under the same name, then John would have some serious tailoring of memories.
"That might not matter to the murderer. If that maniac wants men I don't think he'll stop short at a shade of lipstick and a pseudonym." Mary debated. John sighed, looking off towards the wooden fence built to separate the business of the two neighbors. He was growing increasingly hateful of the thing, so much so that he may very well tear it down with his own hands the moment his patience ultimately snapped.
"I don't know, then. Perhaps she has enough sense to steer clear of anyone suspicious." John offered, hoping that Irene's flirtatious nature would subside when someone approached her in a black ski mask.
"What do you think he does when he goes there? Or when she goes there?" Mary corrected, noticing the disappointed look on her husband's face. John sighed, shrugging his shoulders as his wife gave that little smirk, sinking into one of the dining room chairs with a newfound interest in the conversation. "Think he gets laid?" she suggested at last.
"Mary, watch your tongue." John warned, shaking his head so rapidly that he was beginning to see double.
"I'm serious! I'm actually serious." Mary defended. "I mean, there's got to be a market for that somewhere. Here's some mental guy..."
"Stop using that word." John interrupted, his jaw set and his eyes furious. "And stop treating him like a freak."
"I'm just suggesting the idea that Irene might be getting around faster than anyone expected. Sherlock Holmes might be wiggling under another man every weekend, still under the impression that he's a virgin." Mary chuckled. John covered his face with his hands, feeling the heat between his fingers and trying to manually snuff out the embarrassment. He didn't want to consider such an obscene prediction, one that, if given too much thought, could turn out to be the unwanted truth. In their brief encounter with Irene she had been flirtatious, charming and beautiful in a way that some might take advantage of. She was bound to be someone's taste, despite the wig and lipstick covering a much more vulnerable man beneath. What was the perception of the crowds of the evening? Was there surprise at the end of the night, when that tight red dress was unzipped?
"That's disgusting." John decided at last.
"You're blushing John! God, you don't have to be so squeamish about it." Mary scolded, slapping her hand across the kitchen table so as to call him back to attention.
"I don't want to think about him like that!" John demanded. "He's still...he's still a child."
"He's no child." Mary insisted. "He's an adult, John. With adult wants and needs."
"He's my neighbor. My little neighbor. He's not supposed to be with anyone like that." John demanded, pushing off from the counter to scoop Rosie off of her mat. The baby was an easy way to change the conversation; in fact she was a tool for ending discussion all together. Usually this was a tactic Mary employed the most often, accrediting her sudden need to attend to the baby's needs with some sort of motherly sixth sense. Tonight it was John's turn to use the trick, ascending the stairs quickly with the excuse that Rosie needed to be put down to bed. Mary continued to laugh from the living room, a cruel and humiliating laugh, perhaps not understanding how foul her joke really was.