Three Is Company

Doctor's Orders

Sherlock seemed to be doing his usual ritual of hiding. Perhaps the man had been scared out of his house again, running away to Musgrave's when he felt too overwhelmed by his neighborhood. It wasn't fair to just hide, especially when John was depending on Sherlock for some sort of follow up, something to know that their night spent together was not a fluke, a one time thing, or a mistake. He would hate to see Sherlock's brain twisting the evening into all sorts of negative connotations, barring them from ever speaking again. Certainly it had progressed quicker than some might consider normal, though it was the heat of the moment, the heat that had been so quick to burn them both to ash. Was he hiding, then? Afraid of what he'd done, afraid of what he was so excited to do again? Was he ashamed, ashamed to look Mary in the face knowing that he had a personal hand in defiling her wedding vows? As time wore on John spent more and more time looking out of his window, trying to catch any sign of movements within the windows opposite. With the fence gone he had the advantage of looking into each story of the house, able to watch when the lights turned on and off, sometimes catching fleeting glimpses of a shadow running past. And yet there was never any clear indication of who was in control in the opposite house. Those silhouettes only matched one body type, and it wasn't as if Victor or Irene had any defining characteristics! At one point John thought he saw the long hair flowing behind the shadow, but in such a fleeting glimpse he couldn't even be sure he saw someone at all. It was a mind game, a challenge to see just how much teasing he could handle before he went crazy as well. If Sherlock was over there, why did he not say hello? And if he wasn't over there, was John partially responsible for his lack of control? Perhaps an overload of a particular emotion could subject Sherlock to an eternal personality; just as too much anger spawned Victor indefinitely perhaps too much lust made it impossible to chase Irene away. Was that who was across the way? Was her silence accredited to her ignorance? Mary finally took notice of John's preoccupation, for he had taken Rosie into his arms only to cradle her and stare out the top window, staring into what he now knew to be Sherlock's bedroom. It was dark outside and dark in the room, though that did not mean he was not being watched in return. John had made a habit of keeping as many lights on in his home as he could, trying to ensure that his windows offered clear pictures of his presence at all hours of the day. If Sherlock was looking over he might take comfort in the fact that John had not forgotten about him. This was how Mary found him, her curlers stuck into her hair and her nightgown dangling just below her knees.
"John, are you coming to bed?" Mary wondered, lingering in the doorway of the nursery and leaning gently against the frame. John blinked, coming out of his usual trance. At this point he had been rocking the baby perhaps too harshly, nearly throwing her from side to side as his mind wandered out the window and into the growing darkness.
"Oh, yes. I was just putting Rosie to bed." John turned away from the window, reluctant to allow any motion to go undetected on the other side of the yard. Perhaps as soon as he looked away was when Sherlock chose to make himself known? Or worse still, perhaps Sherlock thought they had been maintaining eye contact this whole time, only to be interrupted by Mary. What would that say about John's priorities?
"You keep watching his house as if you expect it to go up in flames." Mary pointed out, her voice stiff as it was when she was upset. John squinted defensively, settling the baby back into her crib and swaddling her up with the numerous fuzzy blankets.
"I'm just worried about him, that's all." John defended.
"You're always worried about him. Twenty four hours a day you worry about him." Mary growled. "It's like that's all you think about, all you care about."
"He's sick, Mary. He needs someone to watch out for him."
"No, it's more than that. You're not just watching him, you're obsessed with him! You know you talk in your sleep, right? And there's only been one word out of your mouth for the past week!"
"I don't..." John sighed, figuring he was in no position to defend himself against that point. "Well yes, perhaps I'm preoccupied. But he's going down a dark path. I can't...I can't explain it."
"So what is there to gain from this, huh? Are you going to watch that house until it disfigures itself into a giant red flag?" Mary snarled.
"Yes! Maybe...I don't know! I'm looking for anything, I suppose." John muttered, crossing his arms and trying to play the part of the concerned neighbor, not the aching lover. How much could Mary decipher from his dreams? How much did she already know, to be confronting him on this? The woman took a deep breath, casting her eyes almost embarrassingly down to the floor. She didn't seem to like this conversation any more than John did.
"You've been distant, John." she whispered at last. "I have to wonder if he...if he's somehow involved."
"Involved in what? My life?"
"In your change! In this terrible metamorphosis! In which you don't look me in the eye, you leave for work early and come back late...it's like you're guilty!" Mary exclaimed, stepping forward with enough power to make John step back. In the meantime, Rosie began to cry. John's confidence wavered, seeing that Mary was not as ignorant as he hoped. She realized there was something the matter, after only one affair she could sniff it out! And here John thought he might be away to get away with an entire relationship on the side, in which he balanced his dedications to Sherlock and his wife.
"What do you want me to say?" John whispered. "I can't apologize for something I'm unconsciously doing."
"I want you to..."
"Wait...shh." John insisted, cutting his wife off with a quick flick of the finger. Somehow his ears had caught something, something irregular in their quiet neighborhood. Something that seemed to come from the other side of the window.
"What do you mean, shh?" Mary snarled, nearly leaping upon her husband as he turned back towards the window, smearing his face against the glass to catch a quick glance of a moving figure. There was someone in Sherlock's driveway, a silhouette that seemed a bit too tall for the usual man. John strained his eyes against the darkness, wishing the street lamps would provide a bit more illumination on the strange figure below. But no, there it was! A hair flip.
"Irene." John declared, his voice rising substantially as he turned to push past his wife, starting down the stairs without taking a moment to consider how rude he was being.
"John, JOHN!" Mary screamed, giving him a great shove as he moved past before turning to follow angrily down the stairs. "We're talking, I'm yelling at you!" Mary exclaimed.
"I'm sorry, honey I'm really sorry. But if Irene's going out then I have to go too." John explained, pulling on his coat and shoving his wallet into his pocket. Mary's eyes had grown so wide they nearly engulfed her forehead, with her mouth dropping to an almost comical exasperation.
"You're leaving? LEAVING?"
"I'm sorry. Musgrave told me that if Irene's going out she needs a partner." John explained quickly.
"I'm sure she'll find a partner soon enough!"
"No, we can't let that happen. She...she goes to the bar where the men are being killed. And she can't get hurt, she just can't." John whispered, trying to keep Irene within the victims category rather than imply she was the one doing the killing. It was like walking in broken glass, hoping that the shards will crunch under your feet instead of stab you straight through the sole. Mary pulled away, her anger dissipated and began to melt into remorse. What was he supposed to do...there was a car engine! Starting in the driveway, Irene was mobilizing! Mary was crying, folding into her arms and crying. John bit hard on his lip, wanting to hold Mary and promise her everything was going to be okay, though if he chose that he might be responsible for a man's death! Even worse, he might be responsible for Sherlock's eventual arrest. How could he choose...no...how could he not?
"I'm sorry." John said again, leaping upon his wife and planting a quick kiss upon the top of her head, trying to force a mournful look upon his own face as he pulled away and raced out the door. It wasn't a contest in the end. Mary's feelings could be repaired, though life, and life in prison, was a onetime deal. John could fix things with his marriage, though he could never help Sherlock if he failed him now. And so, racing through the slick ice and nearly tripping over himself in the lawn, John raced to meet the reversing car.
"Stop, stop! Irene!" John exclaimed, racing behind the red taillights and jumping as madly as he could, trying to distract her enough to at least press on the break. Thankfully the street lamps were enough to illuminate him, and as the back end of the tiny Volkswagen came within a couple of inches of crushing him it finally halted with a great, sickening grind. The wheels struggled upon the slippery cement, though John was saved from being pummeled. What a tragic way to go out, killed by the woman you were trying to save. John raced around to the driver's side window, knocking upon the glass and prompting the woman behind the wheel to grab hold of the crank, laboring to manually descend the window to a conversational level. It was Irene alright. The wig was planted very convincingly, and her face was done up with as much makeup as could be allowed in this country. She looked beautiful of course, owing not only to the facial structure but to that terrifying look in her eyes. A look of seduction that had never been found in Sherlock's eyes, a glance that radiated enough confidence to make anyone her lover for the night.
"John, what are you doing chasing down my car?" Irene snarled, speaking in such a sharp tongue that John wondered if she would have preferred to run him over with the car. John was still out of breath, half flustered from his arguments and exhausted from his sudden gymnastics routine. When he spoke it was hardly understandable, all of the words squished between giant exhales of fog.
"I'm...I'm supposed to come with you." John panted. "Doctor's orders."
"The h*ll you are! I'm not letting you ruin my night." Irene scoffed.
"Sorry, but Musgrave insists. I'm to be your chaperone."
"What does he think I need a chaperone for?" Irene snarled.
"Don't you know about the murders? They're all from this bar, and we can't risk you getting hurt." John insisted. Irene shook her head, keeping one hand on the wheel as she went to smooth her bangs out of her face with a huff.
"He cares about me that much, huh?" Irene sighed. "That poor fool is smitten."
"He just has your best interests in mind. As do I." John insisted. He tried the handle for the backdoor, finding that it was locked from the inside. He would need Irene's firm commitment to this plan if he would ever get the chance to come along. Unless of course he hung onto the back bumper, which at this moment didn't seem so impossible.
"Promise you won't get in the way?" Irene wondered with a sigh, her long, familiar face dropping into a most exhausted expression.
"Of course not. Unless of course you're about to be murdered."
"I just take them back to my place. What are you going to do, watch?" she wondered, at first with a look of disgust that began to morph into an acceptable shrug. "Perhaps I'd let you."
"I don't...I don't want to watch. I just want to make sure you get home alive."
"Fine, whatever. We could go back and forth forever, but you're wasting my time." Irene slammed her finger upon the locks, allowing each to pop from their positions and allow each of the handles to pull open. John flung himself into the backseat, figuring he wouldn't be offered the time it would take to scramble around the vehicle into the passenger seat. By the time he fell into the leather seat she had already hit the gas, reversing nearly half way down the street before pulling a complete one eighty spin, almost toppling the car in the process. John wrestled with the seatbelt, pulling it across himself for dear life and hoping that it strapped in securely. She drove like a madwoman, which in a sense, she was.
"So what are you going to do all night, hm? Waste away at the bar and then ride in the passenger seat with my man on the way home?" Irene chuckled.
"I'll just be a chaperone. I don't think I should drink." John admitted.
"You're in as much danger as I am, John. What if you get taken by this murderer, out back, where no one can hear you scream?"
"He's probably seducing them first. I'll just...well I'll hold my ground." John insisted.
"So loyal, aren't you? That wife of yours must be so grateful." Irene teased. "One drink in you and maybe I'll let you come home with me instead."
"I'm not looking for that, Irene." John snapped back, shuddering at the compliments which were instead perceived as insults. What could she know about his marital strife? Could she smell Mary's tears on John's skin? Could she smell Sherlock's saliva, still caked into his pores? The woman just laughed, as if she didn't believe a word of it, and switched on the radio instead of responding. Perhaps she could tell that John wasn't interested in a conversation, and today's top hits seemed to ease the silence better than any continuation of small talk. John mourned in the backseat; twisting his wedding ring all the while he stared at the back of her false hair, wondering where in his life he went wrong. Had he lost Mary for good this time? Was she packing her bags as he rode away in the backseat of another woman's car? John ducked his head, feeling mixed emotions considering such a possibility. If Mary left him that would leave him free, free to pursue the man he began to love. But then he'd have some sort of obligation, taking on the love and all its implications. All of its challenges. Was he using Mary as an excuse, as a safety net to keep this relationship from progressing into a chore? When she was gone those shackles would fall away, though so too would that net disappear. Would he be forced to drop into something much more strenuous, much more stressful? Could he ride in the backseat of Irene's car when he shared a wedding ring with that same finger that clutched the wheel? They drove for about ten minutes, passing through the darkened city and running through all of the stoplights, whether they were green or red. Irene cruised dangerously, sometimes hitting the gas to an extreme effect or occasionally neglecting to accelerate for miles, eventually slowing to a stop before she finally slammed the pedal once again and send John flying nearly into the back window. They passed out of the city lines and drove for another couple of minutes through long country roads, twisting and turning before a sudden outcropping of decrepit buildings sprang up from the horizon. They loomed in the moonlight in a menacing fashion, so neglected it seemed possible that they'd fall down the moment the wind blew. There was a large parking lot which separated the bar from the laundry mat, perhaps serving the scarce population of farmers who tended these fields. It was a mini downtown, though one which couldn't possible generate enough tax money to avoid a condemned look. The Volkswagen fit snuggly into one of the many available parking spaces, the engine cutting as Irene looped the car key around her finger with a great, exhausted sigh. For a while she stretched against the car seat, hooking her arms around the headrest and leaning this way and that.
"Driving always tenses me up." she complained, kicking open her door and sliding carefully out onto the concrete. John couldn't help but wonder if it was her method of driving which was the issue, though he held his tongue for the sake of their cooperation. Carefully he stepped outside, following in Irene's wake as she strode through the lines of cars, tapping her long fingernails against each of the bumpers and guessing the driver of the car.
"I've had him. I've had him. Yes, this one was in my driveway as well." She was muttered, letting her fingers slide across particular hoods, perhaps those who had treated her best. John felt his jaw clench, hating the idea that Sherlock's body had been used so freely. That poor man was under the impression that his first kiss had been shared just the other night, that his first bout of intimacy had been a special, cherished occasion with the one he loved. What would Sherlock do if he found out so many people recognized him? What would he do if he walked into this bar in his right mind and was greeted by a whole horde of those who had loved him? Irene strutted all the way to the front door of the bar, one which was lit with the typical neon signs advertising their most popular beers. The entire sidewalk smelled of cigarette smoke, and with the chorus of her high heels John already felt that he was walking into trouble. What was he going to do in there, if not sit soberly and stare like a creep? He hoped that Irene would at least stay by his side, to give the illusion of company.
"Now behave yourself in there, John. And above all...let me misbehave." Irene insisted, turning back to push John in the chest before latching her elbow through the door handle and falling through the door. Somehow she maintained her balance, and upon spinning back around she was met with what could only be described as a victory cry. So she really did know these men, didn't she?
"I'm back, boys!" Irene shouted, pulling one hand through her hair while she meandered the other down the curve of her side, as if to demonstrate how wonderful it was to caress her. John grumbled in her wake, stepping into the dark bar without so much as a whisper. He closed the door behind them, and by the time he turned to latch it properly Irene had already vanished into the mix. There was an uproar from the counter, and from here John could only see her pointed shoe dangling from one of the barstools, now being surrounded by the drunken clientele. John sneered, turning away towards the more remote sections of the place and sinking into one of the booths. He wasn't even pretending to be interested; in fact he merely crossed his arms and stared into the mess of the crowd. For some reason John felt a severe superiority to all of these men (and yes, save for Irene there were no women in the bar). He felt that they had loved a strange imitation of the real thing, a flirtatious version of the most delicate flower underneath this rough shell. Irene wasn't the real prize to be had; no in fact it was Sherlock Holmes to be most desired. No matter who she set her heart on tonight it would always truly remain with John. And in that way he was better than all of these men. However in that way he was almost furiously jealous, to the point where he couldn't stand to watch where their hands were going. For a long while he festered in his rage, picking his fingernails through the wooden table that had already been defiled with engravings from various pocket knives. Initials, little symbols, and obscene drawings. John tore at the splinters, wondering if he could find any that read IA. Even worse, perhaps SH. Had Sherlock ever gone here in his right mind? Did he even know the place existed? John slunk even farther down into his chair, mourning the loss of his evening and perhaps even his wife. Irene was in no trouble here, it would seem as if she was in the company of those who cared more about her than even Musgrave. What could go wrong now?