The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

Surplus Data

Sirens. A woman shouting in the street: an argument with a boyfriend. (She’s drunk.) A slick night in London, black sky, wet street. Clap of cheap heels on the pavement, dull thump of a bass line from the bowels of a club. Sounds seem so much more prominent when I’m alone. Harder to ignore. Pressing in on me. No easy distraction at hand. Was John’s flesh absorbing the surplus data around me? (Ha!) In any case. Different. (How can one person, one, make the world seem so different to me? One man against the six billion nameless. It makes no sense.)

John: in Clapton with a change of clothes and a bottle of wine. He’s haunting Mary’s dingy little flat tonight; back to Baker St. tomorrow while she’s on the night shift. Possibly also the night after that, depending on Mary’s other various commitments. John: A shared asset, like a child shifting between not-entirely-amicably divorced parents. A toothbrush left with each. Appeasement. Half the week, every other weekend. A satisfactory truce.

Nights without John are dismal. Dark (no one there to switch on the lights), cold (no one to switch on the heating and complain loudly about the radiators, or to shove open the flue and build a fire in the grate, or drop a blanket on my lap with a concerned look or an exasperated sigh) and quiet (no terrible telly, no random conversation, no soft sounds of steady breathing; no throat-clearing or pages turning; no rumbling kettle or offer of tea; a complete absence of the unmistakable sound of denim rubbing against denim as he crosses one leg over the other). For the first time in years, I feel no desire whatsoever to pick up my violin. Not when he’s gone. The absence of an audience (other than me) used to be a gift. That is no longer the case.

My bottle of cocaine has vanished; not entirely certain who to thank for that, John or Mycroft. (At a guess, Mycroft; John probably unable to avoid admonishing me immediately had he found it, while Mycroft, clearly more capable of finding my most secret hiding places, unlikely to admit to breaking into the flat under any circumstances. Silent disappearance of an illegal substance: reads Mycroft.) Probably for the best. The high is far more short-lived than I remembered and the day after is extraordinarily unpleasant. I had forgotten. Pain is not something of which the human brain takes a lasting imprint. (I take some cold comfort in this fact.)

Could always get more (if required). Biding my time.

Taxi rides without John are familiar, but uncomfortable. Empty seat next to me makes the universe feel oddly canted to the right (the left is missing in action, awkwardly deleted): a constant reminder of loss. (Temporary. I get him back tomorrow. Tomorrow: he will sit next to me, the universe will right itself, he will listen to me, tell me I’m amazing and extraordinary and the dull but persistent ache in my gut will recede.)

Taxi is moving marginally faster than the top speed the accompanying traffic has mutually agreed upon (significantly over the posted speed limit, but we all know that’s merely a suggestion). Acceptable; arriving sooner is worth the increase in risk to my health and safety. All risks, both minor and major (leaping off rooftops, pursuing gun-wielding criminals down dark alleys, breaking and entering, injectables) feel significantly more acceptable when John is no longer next to me. Had not noticed the degree to which his mere presence was modulating my behaviour. (Do I take more risks now because I no longer feel responsible for his safety, or because I care less about my own? Or both? Will I develop a fear of danger on the days when he’s with me, and foster a dangerously risky lifestyle on the days he’s not? Russian Roulette.)

There is no strict schedule posted on the fridge. John appears sometimes out of the blue, a surprise (the very best). Mary works nights three days a week (true; verifiable); she has a book club (true, though infrequent) and a bridge night with her friends (also true; sporadic). There are book sales, charity events, taking shifts from peers, calls from struggling faculty members, a small amount of private tutoring (the ultimate in inaccessibility). She volunteers at a homeless shelter (Strictly true, but with no posted hours and very little direct oversight, difficult to confirm precisely in retrospect). Her life is full, (full of potential excuses, plausible alibis) and the complex mess of it leaves John ample time to return to Baker St. (to me) to satisfy his need for the battleground of London (his need for me). Mary lives the life of a serial philanderer, even when she isn’t unfaithful. She is a woman who would never lose track of her phone, and will never let John see her incoming texts without looking at them first. She cannot be pinned down, cannot be scheduled, cannot be (so she thinks) traced or questioned.