The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

Designed for Poetry, not Accuracy

She’s wrong, you know that. SH

Too many people in the street. All walking too slowly. Dodge them. Run. Burst of energy like a cocaine high combined with one too many nicotine patches and a cup of coffee. Zigzag through side streets. Adrenaline (like chasing a serial killer) making my heart beat too quickly. Euphoria (endorphin induced? Or merely circumstantial? Hard to tell. Both. Don’t care). On the edge of something (toppling over it). Up to the main road. Catch glimpse of myself in a shop window: weird smile plastered across my face. Stare. Barely recognise myself. See motion from the corner of my eye. CCTV camera. Swivelling to focus on me. Mycroft. Flip off the camera. Can’t pull the smile off my face. Don’t want to. Nothing else matters. Have to get to John.

Hail a taxi. Breathing hard. Check phone. No response. (Strange.)

You know she’s wrong, don’t you? Certain you do. You know me. SH

Give the address of John’s surgery. Lean back, stare outside. Bit of rain from the morning petering out. Clouds part and the sun comes out: startlingly bright. Feel jittery. Feel late. (Over a year late.) No idea what I’m going to say when I get there. Phone buzzes. Burst of anticipation in my stomach; sharp shards of it extend out into my chest, down my arms. Check phone. Text. From Mycroft. (Punch of disappointment.) Ignore it. Compose new text to John instead. (Why isn’t he answering me?)

Wasn’t ready. Haven’t been ready. Ready now. Think I’m ready now. Want to be. SH

Jittery feeling underneath my skin. Tap the bridge of my nose repeatedly (if only that would make the taxi go faster). Damn traffic. Check phone. Check again. John? (What am I going to say?)

Phone vibrates in my hand. Look at the screen. Mycroft again. (Damn him.) Read his (bloody) messages out of sheer frustration.

Well aren’t you chipper this afternoon. Have a nice lunch with Mary? Such a lovely woman.
With all that extra energy, perhaps you can help me with some legwork that needs doing. For Queen & country.

Mycroft. Boring.

Respond: text filled with profanities. Press send. Response almost instant. (Had his response written before I sent mine, of course. Probably dictated it to his assistant. Knew exactly what I would say.) Bastard.

Wouldn’t Mummy have been proud, such creative use of language. Will drop by this afternoon with details.

Growl in frustration. Doesn’t matter. Ignore him. Not going home anyway. Must see John. Watch London slide by the window. Grip phone. (Will John to respond to me. Agony.) Vibrates. Check screen. John. Pleasure centre of my brain pitches and tilts, working in overdrive. Can feel it all the way to my fingertips. John. (Mummy would, indeed, have been proud.)

Where are you? Who are you talking about? You all right?

Must make no sense to him at all. Not enough words in the world. (What will I say?)

Am fine! Better than fine. On my way to the surgery. Will explain. SH

Pause. Consider. Decision: yes. Of course. (Have to.)

(Want to.)

I love you. SH

Odd rush of panic on pressing send. Why? No reason. Not even news. And yet, and yet. Uncomfortable: extreme vulnerability. (Is this what it’s like?) Open like a flayed rodent pinned to a dissecting tray. Hard muscle of the heart on display. (Always thought it was such a trite association, the heart with love. Love is a psychological and physiological phenomenon, made of synapses and hormones, endorphins and dopamine receptors, pheromones, experiences, commonalities, mutual attraction. Not the muscle of the heart. Inexact metaphor. Designed for poetry, not accuracy.)