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After eight months of blissful matrimony, a singular coincidence occurred in that the Holmes household ran out of milk and tea the selfsame day that John Holmes née Watson was confined to bed with a bout of influenza. Thus it was that Sherlock Holmes found himself in Tesco, trying to remember if the herbal tea John had requested was cardamom or chamomile.
“Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? My god, it's been ages, how are you?” Sherlock spun around. He stared at the slim woman in front of him for a moment, trying to match the familiar, gaunt face with a name, but no name was forthcoming. “I seem to--” I seem to have deleted you, he was going to say, but then he remembered what John had said the other week, about how most people found the concept of being deleted from memory to be at best impolite and at worst an invalidation of their existence. Which, according to John, was Not Good. “I seem to be experiencing aphasia,” Sherlock finished weakly.
The woman in front of him smiled. “You've deleted me, eh?”
“Not... not quite.” Then Sherlock noticed the tattooed chemical running from knuckles to wrist on the woman's right hand.
“Why glyceryl trinitrate?” Sherlock asked as they were leaving the lab.
“What?”
“Graduate level student, specialising in chemistry, with a minor or possibly double-major in physics, dressed for functionality, living in a flat that is, or recently was, infested with bed bugs, so – academic, practical, and little to no expendable income. Not the sort of person who would typically be tattooed, especially not in such a noticeable area as the hand – therefore, the simple structural formulation for glyceryl trinitrate has some important meaning to you. You could easily memorize the formula or look it up online, so, not practical but sentimental--”
“And you can't figure out why someone would have a sentimental attachment to TNT?”
“Well – yes, more or less.”
“I've heard about you, you know, and your deductions, but seeing it for the first time, well, that's pretty damn impressive. Here.” She tore a page out of her notebook and scrawled an address on it. “Be here at 8 tonight, and maybe I can impress you.”
Despite Sherlock's misgivings that his colleague was engaging in flirtation with the end goal of establishing a sexual relationship, he went to the address – an empty lot outside of the city – at the appointed time. She was already there, carefully arranging a row of cardboard tubes on the broken asphalt in the centre of the lot. “Hey,” she said.
He nodded in reply. “What's this, then?”
“Just watch.” She took out a lighter and touched it to the fuse trailing out of one of the cardboard tubes. It lit, triggering a chain reaction of neon coloured explosions that soared into the sky before bursting into a ring of sparks. They stood side by side, silently watching the fireworks until the last glittering spark had faded away.
“So, what do you think?” she said. “Made it all myself.”
“I think you're absolutely mad.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
The next day in class, Sherlock approached her, inquiring about the maximum range of a pipe-bomb made only with ingredients available at the local Tesco.
“I'm not a terrorist,” he added quickly. “Scotland Yard is butchering a case, and if I can prove their suspect wouldn't have been able to build the explosive, I can prove he was innocent.”
“Cool.” she said. “So let's go to Tesco after class and find out.”
“No, I haven't quite deleted you, Victoria.” Sherlock said. Although he had tried to forget parts of their relationship. The physical intimacy she had forced on him, and the way he desperately wanted to please her, wanted to impress her in a way he hadn't felt about anyone since age ten, when he had realized Mycroft was far from perfect. “Ah. How have you been?”
“Fairly well, thanks. I've been working with NASA, actually. We're just in London for a few days because Charles – my fiancé – was invited to give the Croonian Lecture, you know, for the Royal Society.”
“How nice. Give him my congratulations.”
“Of course.” Victoria smiled. “And how are you getting on? Found an explanation for the Mpemba effect yet?”
“Not quite. I've found, ah, forensics to be more fulfilling than laboratory science. Greater risk, of course, but that's the fun of it.”
“Oh. Bit of a shame to waste such talent, if you ask me. You could have really made an impact.”
“I find that catching serial killers is more than enough of a contribution to society for me. But I must be going; my husband is home sick and--”
“Sherlock Holmes is married? I don't believe it.”
“Yes, well, we've been married for eight months, so-”
“No, no, no, no,” Victoria laughed. “There's no way someone would – I mean, for god's sake, the sex would have to be bloody amazing for someone to willingly share a house with you, and believe me, I remember what you were like in bed.”
“Well. John and I get on just fine--” “Oh, his name's John? Bit generic, isn't it? Really, Sherlock, you've done stupid things to impress me, but making up a fake husband – well, this is even more ridiculous than that time in Budapest.”
“Whatever would make you think I'm trying to impress you?”
“Dilated pupils, increased pulse – I'm sorry, Sherlock, but it's obvious that you still have feelings for me. You only mentioned John after I mentioned I was engaged, ergo, you're either trying to make me jealous, or trying to impress me with the fact that you've finally managed to manipulate someone into thinking they love you.”
Sherlock flushed. He couldn't deny that a small part of him had wanted to mention John so as to prove that he, Sherlock, wasn't … wasn't whatever Victoria thought he was. Emotionless. Broken. A failure.
“Look, it was great seeing you, Sherlock, but I've got to get going. Maybe we can meet up later for drinks or something? You
can meet Charles and,” Victoria smirked, “introduce me to 'John'.”
“Right.” Sherlock said quietly as she walked away. He remained standing, silent, for a few moments. Then he put a package of chamomile and cardamom tea each into his shopping basket and went to check out. Sherlock put the groceries away, then fixed John a cup of tea. He brought it to his husband, who was wrapped in blankets on the sofa. John muted the telly and grateful accepted the tea.
“So, you made it back from the shops alive, I see,” John said as Sherlock took a seat next to him. “It was a wretched experience that I wish to never again repeat.” “Mmhmm. I'm sure it was. But you did it for me and I love you.” Sherlock glanced at John, and John read the look of worry in his face. He leaned over and planted a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. “I love you,” he said again. Sherlock felt the tension begin to fade from his body. He drew his legs onto the sofa and curled up next to John. “I love you, too,” he whispered, and returned the kiss.