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Sherlock swirls the Belstaff around him like a cape. Collar up, buttons swiftly fastened; another layer between him and the celebratory throng at his back. Moving at an unnecessarily brisk pace--headed for the main road in search of a taxi--he reaches into his left coat pocket for the cigarettes and lighter he’d stowed away this morning.
The sudden chest constriction when his fingers grasp nothing is irrational. He has more at the flat ( inside the skull;in the kitchen cupboard in an expired package of Oolong tea; in Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room buried in a basket of knitting yarn; also in his third dresser drawer within a pair of argyle socks left behind by John). Nevertheless, his fingers fan out to frantically cover every centimeter of pocket space and the irritating muscle beneath his sternum begins to beat at an unnecessarily rapid rate.
Empty.
Sudden sense of vertigo.
Stop.
Panic attack. He is familiar with the symptoms: palpitations, shortness of breath, slight dizziness, trembling.
Think.
He knows he stashed them in a pocket. He’d double and triple checked this morning. Knew he’d need this.
Must be the right. He shoves his hand into the right pocket and--ahh, yes. Fingers curl around the soft paper packaging, plastic lighter encased within. Still, it is with shaking fingers that he extracts one from the pack, and fumbles it between dry lips. Once placed, he thumbs the lighter--once, twice--nothing but a spark. Tremor makes it hard to hold it steady. The third attempt produces a flame long enough to catch. Inhale, exhale.
Still, the trembling.
He reminds himself it takes up to seven seconds for nicotine-rich blood to pass from the lungs and into the rest of the body, releasing chemicals--acetylcholine to numb pain; beta-endorphins to reduce anxiety.
Inhale, exhale.
Image in the forefront of his brain: John. Disappointed look on his face; arms crossed. Joined by another: Mary. Eyes full of sympathy.
He shakes his head; breaks them up; resumes walking.
Breathing evens out. The heart rate slows. Nicotine--a rare chemical in its ability to provide the simultaneous effects of stimulation and relaxation. The shaking subsides; the chest constriction does not.
Relaxation: heart rate descends; stimulation: remnants of nostalgia-inducing pop anthem insistently weaving its way through his mind palace--sneaking under doors and between window panes, insipid lyrics filling the spaces like trite fog.
Oh, I
I got a funny feeling when she walked in the room
As I recall, it ended much too soon
Another drag. Inhale, exhale. One foot in front of the other. After a hundred yards the narrow wooded lane joins the main road. Then, taxi, distraction of urban street scenes; perhaps the radio. Anything to chase away the tune. Worse, the faces. John’s face, before the dance.
John.
Did he know? His masked cracked a bit; he could feel it as the chink opened up--only for a split second. Had it been enough? There had been a moment--
Irrelevant.
Inhale, exhale.
Main road. Taxi. Easily hailed.
“No smoking in the car.”
“Baker street, 221.” Muttered, barely audible. Door closes, they are in motion.
Eyes closed. Behind them, a flicker of memory--like a black and white film: Bart’s. John with his ridiculous cane. Stamford and his smugness. A smile, a wink, a quick exit to generate interest.
Oh, what a night
You know, I didn't even know her name
But I was never gonna be the same
Should delete; can’t delete.
Eyes flick open.
“Radio?”
“Sorry, mate, broken.”
Head shakes and settles against the window.
Next scene: shot fired through a window; metro-filled parking lot; flashing lights;discarded blankets; illicit laughter. Dinner?
Oh, what a night
Hypnotizing, mesmerizing me
Stupid tune.
Streetlights blurred by motion. Scores of tiny street gatherings--walking from the pub; heads thrown back in laughter. Headlights, tail lights.
Nicotine is wearing off.
Trembling resumes.
Surely they must be close. What circuitous route was the cabby taking him through?
Idiot.
Mycroft. Smug.
I warned you.
“Shut up.”
Concerned eyes in the rear view.
“Excuse me?”
Head shake.
“Not you.”
Mind palace still not functioning correctly. Information out of place; rooms that weren’t there before. And this incessant tune. Beat pounds through the walls, shaking the floors. Head pounds in rhythm. The East Wind blows up the stairs. A gruff voice shouts in Serbian: why are you here?
A jolt.
Why indeed?
The car stops.
“Here you are, mate.”
Sherlock opens his eyes. When had he closed them?
Hands the cabby a note. Must have been enough; he doesn’t complain, drives away.
221b. The knocker is askew. No unwelcome visitors, then.
Disappointed?
Of course not.
Key in the lock, difficult to turn with shaking fingers, but the knob is not so hard to navigate. He enters, pulls it closed behind him.
They are on the stairs; the two of them. Giggling, dozing, drunkenly indulgent.
Heel of his hand to the side of the head. They dissipate.
He thrusts his hands back into his pockets. Packet still there. Its presence propels him up the stairs. 17 steps; he counts each one.
The door opens on the sitting room; he kicks it closed.
The curtains are drawn. Furniture and detritus pushed against the walls; rug rolled up to expose the wood floor. To dance properly one must have the right surface. And, there they were again--center of the room: John standing far too stiffly despite the scotch; Sherlock’s hands barely touching the cross-section of hip and waist. They are moving in rhythm. The memory Sherlock is counting in time: 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3.
Round the room in steps of three. One spin that nearly ended in a twisted ankle; one dip that brought his head nearly to the floor.
Spinning my head around and taking my body under
Oh, what a night
Laughter. Always the laughter.
Enough.
Sherlock blinks it away but the stupid tune. It won’t stop. Keeps repeating.
The furniture is as it should be. Sofa table covered in books and remnants of wedding planning; two chairs facing each other in the center. They are empty.
He closes his eyes and they fill with bodies. John’s--sprawled and langid with the scotch. The press of his feet into the cushion next to his leg; the heat left behind when his hand paused on his knee to steady himself.
Am I pretty?
Gorgeous. Perfect. Beautiful. Amazing.
Stop. Delete. Delete. Delete.
Chest restriction increases--like a wrap of bandages for a cracked rib, holding everything back; keeping everything in place. Of course. Except it wasn’t holding. It would come pouring out. All of it.
Remember Redbeard?
Stupid, stupid dog. Only a terribly stupid dog would run out in the lane in front of a lorry. So excited to greet him after holiday. Stupid stupid dog.
Stupid John.
No.
The panic comes again; crashing over him. Wave after wave. It was coming out, all of it. The flat spins. Can’t breathe. John’s voice.
Panic attack, Sherlock.
Not helping.
Pain.
Chest might explode; head pounds. Shaking hands clench on the cigarettes. Crush them. Hardness of the lighter is bruising. They wouldn’t help either. Legs consistency of jam.
Jam. John prefers raspberry. Seedless but not sugar free. On toast.
Body slides down the door. Tears streaming. Breathing in gulps.
Ridiculous.
Frankie Valli still screeching in his ear.
Why'd it take so long to see the light?
Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right
Stop. Make it stop.
Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)
Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)
Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)
Please.
Mycroft’s voice again.
Get a hold of yourself.
Deep, shuddering, breath. Arms wrapped around knees.
This is stupid.
I’m not stupid!
Prove it. Stand up.
Another deep breath. He does.
There? You see?
But the music, it won’t stop.
Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)
Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)
Why won’t it stop?
He turns in a circle, surveying the room. Breathing still ragged, tears dripping from his chin.
Pathetic.
Distraction.
Computer on the sofa table.
Boring.
Experiment on the kitchen counter: effect of heat exposure on decomposition rate of fetal pig tissue.
Obvious.
Another turn, stops half-way round: John’s chair.
Empty.
Of course.
Sherlock.
John’s voice. A warning.
Sherlock shakes him out of his head. He crosses to the center of the room, bends down, and shoves the overstuffed chair against the wall.
Perfect hiding place; perfect for so many reasons. The bare space in its wake houses a single loose board. It lifts up easily.
The case inside fits perfectly into its nook. Its lid opens with the tiniest of squeak of hinges. The syringe is always already prepared; for emergencies. This constitutes.
Just the once; just to make it stop.
Yes.
Still-trembling hands and fingers unwind the scarf, undo the buttons. The Belstaff drops to the floor. Discarded scarf lands on top. Suit jacket next.
Syringe in hand, he turns the chair--his chair, not the other one--around to face the windows and sits down. Shirtsleeves roll up easily. Finding a vein is not difficult. The pinch as the tiny needle sinks into the flesh. One push. The plunger goes down.
Warmth spreads up the vein.
Trembling stops. Music begins to fade--although it’s not so bad now. Not so bad at all.
I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder
Spinning my head around and taking my body under
Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)
Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)
Mycroft--muted and barely detectable over the descending bliss: I warned you.