The Emotional Children

XXII

"You know you aren't obligated to know everything, don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, I am," he responded. There was only one way to describe his present state of mind: pissed off. "I need to know why Wellington was murdered. Schreiber gave us no clue during the confession. I shall have to listen to his questioning session. I'll have Lestrade send me the audio file. I need to understand why he had to die. Of all the people, why Arthur Wellington? Why him? Why?"

"Jim told me it was because he likes to watch us work together, but I can tell that you—as well as I—hardly find that an acceptable motive."

"You catch on quickly," he said, his breathing growing faster as his thoughts spiraled out of control. Possibilities whirred in front of his mind's eye, and not knowing which was true and which was false drove him to mania.

"As you said before," she reminded him, "listen to the audio file of his questioning session. Until then, why aren't you at liberty to enjoy the present? You've been distant . . . at least most of the time, that is. God knows I won't say all. You seemed quite at your leisure last night, if you'd like me to be specific."

Irene stroked his hand compulsively from her side of the dinner table. Sherlock didn't understand why they were here. His wife had insisted on a night downtown, and he had merely shrugged when she dragged him into one of Reykjavik's finer restaurants.

"Don't pretend you haven't enjoyed yourself," she teased, playing with the ring on his finger. He stared at her toying. "I hope I've not disappointed you," she cooed further.

"Please," he breathed, his eyes tipping upward. "Don't make this about you." He took an exasperated drink of his wine.

"You misunderstand me," she replied. "I was asking about your satisfaction."

"I just don't know."

"Already getting cold feet, are we? It's only been four days."

"No, not about—I mean about the Wellington case! I don't understand the motive. And I don't like . . . not knowing," he whispered, taking an angry stab at his lifrarpylsa. Irene's face shivered as he sadistically stabbed his fork into the fat, oval-shaped lump of meat sitting on his plate. She could still see the stitches holding the meat's casing seams together.

"You do know what you're eating, don't you? I didn't want to say anything initially, but I did hope you knew what lifrarpylsa was when you ordered it," she said, her blue eyes widening with sarcastic curiosity.

"Of course I know what it is," Sherlock snapped, avoiding eye contact and violently cutting off a piece with his knife. The casing ripped and some . . . innards bulged out. It was just as he had suspected, and that aggravated his gag reflex.

To tell the truth, Sherlock had no clue what he had ordered. He had eaten fairly decent food so far in Reykjavik, so he decided that whatever lifrarpylsa was couldn't be much different. The menu descriptions weren't specific, and he was too bored to ask someone what it was.

Then they brought the plate.

After he made a few clever deductions, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to eat this great big ball of sheep intestine, blood, and fat. It was like haggis, which he could never stomach as a child. Whenever his mother made haggis, he always gave it to the ever-hungry Mycroft.

Irene was watching expectantly for him to put the fork in his mouth.

He was about to put it down, but he noticed her examining him. She raised an eyebrow, provoking him to taste it.