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It is late February by the time life has resumed a semblance of normalcy after dealing with Eurus. Mummy insists on gathering us all to belatedly celebrate Sherlock's fortieth birthday and also her and dad becoming Rosie Watson’s de facto grandparents now that Sherlock has taken an active, almost parental, role in the girl's life.
To my surprise, Sherlock is gracious about the matter. The accumulated tension of the last year's stresses has gone out of him and he is absolutely worn down, even docile. He really doesn't have the strength to do more than go along with the festivities as he's still impossibly frail from his latest stint at rehab. I dare to hope that will be the last one.
Mummy serves his favourite, of course, lasagne, and he eats a huge slab slowly, savouring each bite. She keeps fussing about how thin he is and he promises to come for dinner once a week. I really do believe she and Dad will be seeing more of him now, especially with the three of them so involved in Rosie’s life. Sherlock as a parent is something I never thought I would see and how he is blossoming from the experience is a wondrous sight.
After the meal, Sherlock sincerely offers to help Mummy in the kitchen and she has him start on the washing up. Before he does so, he plops the baby in my lap. I have no idea why, but I don’t protest. I’m surprised that I enjoy the weight of the little warm body in my arms, especially when she snuggles against my chest, and I'm almost sorry when John claims her to put her down for a nap.
We have pudding next and again Mummy made Sherlock's favourite, a light sponge with layers of sweet whipping cream and raspberries and covered with chocolate flakes. Sherlock kisses her on the cheek, blows out his candles, and has two large slices. Mummy is delighted.
I never expected my little brother to see his thirtieth birthday. So to see him now at forty is more than a little strange. And I've come to realise something else. Somewhere along the unpredictable and often tragic trajectory of his life, my little brother has become a grown man. The very thing I have mocked him for is what has made this transformation possible, his friends. Friendship is what gave Sherlock purpose, a reason to live, and, yes, a reason to die.
We move to the lounge to open presents. It's not easy to buy Sherlock anything. He acquires for himself the few things he wants. I usually have my PA purchase for him a new scarf or a pair of gloves and I know they are appreciated because he wears them. This year, I selected the present myself and I can imagine a myriad of ways it will be received, most of them unpleasant.
Sherlock examines the plain envelope I pass him. It is standard office stock, nothing special, taken from my PA's desk. He opens it and I can see his brow knit with further curiosity as he pulls out a sheet of plain white A4 paper with text and a few pictures printed on it. He reads the document carefully and then looks up at me. He is surprised.
"A dog?" he asks.
I nod. "I... interviewed candidates at your local shelter. This one seemed best suited to your temperament, lifestyle, and flat. She's yours if you want her, or you can pick out another, or simply refuse, of course."
He quirks his head at me and then looks down at the information page again, obviously trying to parse together what the gift means. I want to tell him that I understand he's lonely and that I think he is now capable of this sort of responsibility, but the words stick in my throat.
"When can I meet her?"
I school my features to mask my relief. "You can stop on the way home tomorrow. If you want her, you'll need to wait a day to bring her home."
He graces me with a genuine smile. "That will give me time to prepare the flat."
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Half a year has passed. I was born in the dead heat of summer, late July, and Sherlock has not acknowledged my birthday since we were children. So I'm surprised when he shows up at my office with a large carrier bag.
"Oh, you brought cake, how delightful," I mock him, because the habit is still engrained in me.
"Don't be absurd." He pulls a large glass bowl out of the bag and I don't even have time to realise what it is before he holds up a bulging clear plastic bag with something orange in it.
He bought me a goldfish.
I laugh so hard my PA bursts in to make sure I'm all right.