The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

What we Know about Mary

Obvious what’s going to happen. So obvious anyone would be able to see it (even bloody Anderson). John: pitched forward, hanging on her every word. She smiles at him, flirts. Reaches out, pats his hand; grabs on to his fingers once in a while. His hands move closer and closer to her, he’s willing her to take them. He licks his lips; I know what that means. Rubs his fingers through his hair. He’s anticipating. She touches his shoulder, he smiles. He laughs at what she says, even though it’s not very funny. For future reference: bringing a client along for dinner with John is not a terribly good idea.

I can still remember with perfect clarity the feeling of his lips on my forehead. His fingers in my hair. Sense memories are powerful and can hurt. (Make a note.)

Fifteen minutes into this case, and I can already see where it will end. An empty box, a solved case, and a new woman in John’s life. A perfect excuse, a perfect solution. Better than mine, I must admit. A more complete distraction, a barrier. Something to remind John of his total normality, his perfect heterosexual future. Relegate me (whatever he felt for me, feels for me, might have come to feel for me) to its rightful place in the shadows. Not as invigorating as cocaine. Just as many nasty side effects (probably).

So: return to the cocaine, Y/N? I’m suddenly undecided. Lounging high and contented on the sofa still seems appealing, but in the state he’s in John may not even notice my altered state.

She flirts a lot, this one; more than most. More than she realizes. Flirts with me even, and no one flirts with me. (Why would they? My default reaction to flirting is to glare. Flirting is a form of manipulation, and I will not be manipulated. Insulting.) She knows she’s flirting with John, though, she’s doing it on purpose, and John is flirting back. Tight feeling in my chest. It hurts. Emotions are useless. Get in the way. (I never imagined it would go any way but this.)

(It was going to happen sooner or later. I suppose sooner is better than later.)

If I am the exception, the one he would consider, the one he might have come to love, to make love to, to fall in love with (all so very hypothetical, mythological, thought experiment) I would have failed, miserably. I couldn’t be her, I couldn’t be him. I can’t smile and giggle and bat my eyelashes like that. Act fascinated by boring conversation. Laugh at nothing. (Well, I can. Of course I can. But only playacting, only for a part. Only to confuse, manipulate, obfuscate. It would never be genuine, or honest. Are they always playacting, ordinary people? Or am I missing a piece?) I would have failed, it would have been awkward and uncomfortable.

This is for the best, really. (It is. Definitely.)

(Find a distraction. Heart thumps painfully. Distraction.)

What we know about Mary: her father disappeared six years ago under mysterious circumstances. That much she’s told us. What she didn’t tell us is that her mother died when Mary was very young. She was raised by her father, barely; he was largely absent from her life, engrossed in his job, didn’t know what to do with a daughter. Possibly blamed her for her mother’s death. A guess: she probably looks just like her mother, a painful reminder. (Once we see her flat: remember to check for pictures of her mother. Prove deduction correct. Stab of pride would be nice, amidst all these other emotional stabbings.) She grew up with a long series of her father’s pretty, glamorous girlfriends paraded in front of her. Learned to flirt with men, learned that flirting (and, of course, seducing) men results in male approval. In short: Daddy issues. No end of them.

“I’ve read your blog,” Mary says to John. “It’s so fascinating!” The kinds of words people use when the flirt; always superlatives. “You’re a really great writer.”

Have to give her credit for knowing how to pet John’s ego. He wouldn’t respond so well to talk about his past bravery or heroism; women who are impressed by his profession are usually interested primarily in money and John knows that. Talk about his soldiering past or his hours at the surgery are likely to leave him bored and uncomfortable. But his writing; that’s something he’s actively interested in getting better at. Praise John’s writing and he will turn slightly pinkish. (Useful to note.)