Work Text:
Eyes fly open. Feet on the stairs: not Mrs. Hudson’s. Male. (Danger? An enemy?) Brain fuzzy for a moment, as if interrupted mid-conversation, mid-deduction, ultimately distracted; caught in the act, asleep. An odd dream. (Fire? Great expanse of snow, something about a handgun and a piece of plaster, brick?) Gone now. Shoes on the stairs, one step at a time. Cautious in the dark. Trying to be quiet. A man, in rubber-soled shoes. A limp.
John. (Deduced in less than three seconds; I have memorized the cadence of his gait, complicated as it is with the variations of his psychosomatic disability. Regardless, I can recognize John by the sound of his feet as he walks, even up stairs, even while half asleep, at each stage in the progress of his limp.)
It’s some time after two o’clock in the morning. Closer to three. (Why is he limping? It’s only been three days since our last exposure to danger (a case, a fleeing suspect, a knife). Three days is not enough time for the limp to return naturally.) No moon tonight. Only the rough yellow glow of the sodium lights outside to see by. Sit up, feet on the cold floor boards. Rise. No time to pull on a dressing gown. (Is John hurt?) Burst of adrenaline.
Hand on the doorknob as the door opens. I feel the cold air in my lungs like I’ve been holding my breath. (Have I?) John. Shoulders hunched, limp pronounced, but not as bad as it comes to be. No cane. He’s been stumbling through the city, making it worse. He is startled to see me there; he barely can, in this light. Startled look, his eyes blinking rapidly (sign of agitation, strong emotion, distress). His face turned sallow in the faint sodium glow.
He is not clutching a wound, or nursing a broken nose or facial fractures, or staunching blood from a bullet wound or knife slash or puncture, or splinting a broken rib with his hands, or spitting out teeth and blood, or otherwise displaying signs of recent violence. Not hurt. Blinking rapidly; face slightly damp around the eyes. Hurt in another way. Complicated. Mary. (Did he discover her secret?) My heart is beating far too fast.
“I woke you.” Not question, of course. John lived with me long enough to recognize the bleariness of me when I’m only just awake. Pyjama bottoms. t-shirt (his). No dressing gown. Bare feet. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to...I...”
He wants to come in (obviously). I pull open the door and make way for him; he limps inside.
The limp. Curious. Did the discovery of Mary’s infidelity bring it on (fast)? Emotional danger, emotional wounds; these things cause a spike in adrenaline too (or can do). Risk of emotional damage doesn’t trigger the same kind of vitality and confidence in John that physical danger does. Emotions and their effects: not a subject on which I will ever feel confident enough to compose a monograph. Cigarette ash: yes. The impact of intense emotional states on the human body, on human motivation: no. Too varied. To many variables. Unpredictable. Personal. (Interesting challenge, however. Total confidence is dull.)
“All right?” My voice is scratchy with sleep. I can hear my own concern in my voice; unguarded (half-asleep). A kind of an echo chamber, hearing one’s own feelings like that; hall of mirrors amplifying it, underscoring it, twisting it into shapes. The pain on his face is obvious. I feel helpless. I dislike seeing him in pain. Feels like a hot and pulsing weight resting on my chest, holding back my breath.
He looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot and damp. He looks haunted. I put my fingers on his shoulder, my palm on his chest. He smiles.
“All right.” He puts his hand over mine. “I’ve never seen you look so...worried.” His smile looks strange against the pain in his eyes. “Trying out that caring lark, are you?”
“It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning.” Immediately defensive. Flash of hot embarrassment. “I thought you might be hurt.” Glance down at his leg. “You’re...” About to say, you’re limping, but think better of it. The verbal dancing that goes on when you’re trying not to cause more pain. A strange act, but strangely necessary. John.
He looks down. He knows what I was about to say. His hand drops to his side; I remove mine, cross my arms over my chest. Chilly. Body is trembling slightly. Waking up to strange sounds, potential dangers; body on alert. John rubs his fingers over his eyes. I reach behind him and close the door lightly. Keep him inside. Keep him.
“You’re not all right.” Also not a question.
He sighs. There’s a pause. He might not respond. He is neatly hiding his eyes with his fingers, the part of him that makes his distress most visible. He doesn’t want to tell me (why not?). His mouth: tight, small, as if holding something back. Something in him that wants to spill out, but he keeps it in. “Argument.”
Ah. Not (just) discovery (if it were that), not just facts and evidence. Confrontation. Did he find out about James Carstairs, the man with the wife and two daughters at school, with the posh town house? Or did he discover that (once, twice?) Mary was not where she’d said she’d be: caught in another, smaller lie? Her lying is pathological; she lies whether she needs to or not. Book Clubs and Bridge and night shifts and volunteering and whatever else she’s picked up recently to play a shell game with John’s life. Could have been anything, any small betrayal. (Could have been over money: those blue heels weren’t cheap. The perfume: a gift, but would she admit that to John?) These petty tensions that come with married life incite the limp, as well as distance from me. Easy to imagine what John might argue over with Mary. Best not to ask (if he doesn’t want to tell). The secrets married couples keep to themselves (or think they do).
It only hurts him this much because he loves her.
He motions to the sofa. “D’you mind?”
He wants to stay here for the night. Wants to curl up on the sofa (not in my bed, not against me, his hair against my cheek, his breath warm against my (his) t-shirt, calming and obvious and real). Small spike of hurt in the pit of my stomach; feels like a rejection. Shake my head clear.
“Of course not.” I wouldn’t say no. To John? Never. He doesn’t pay half the rent anymore, but I still consider him my flatmate. “Stay.”
He hesitates for a moment. So do I. Teetering on the edge. It’s late. I’m shaking with interrupted sleep. His eyes: sore and bloodshot and full of sadness. Anger. Hurt. I take his hand. Lead him through the dark. I pull back the bedclothes on my bed (the left side; the left side for John) and motion for him to sit. He does. Pulls off his shoes, his jacket, his jumper, dumps them on the floor. He is so tired his hands are trembling (like mine). Stands: hands hesitate for a moment on the buckle of his belt. He looks at me. A question on his face I don’t entirely understand. (We’ve done this before. Many times. Why a question now?)
Realize suddenly that I’m standing in front of him, watching him (staring). Revealing something. What? Desire? Affection? Concern? (Love? Would that be a surprise? I think it would be. I’m showing him my hand, the one I didn’t know was hidden.) I move over to the other side of the bed, climb in. Cold feet. John has pulled off his jeans and folds himself into my bed. He lies on his back: tense. (Why? Am I propositioning him? No different than any other night, curled up together. Him asleep on my chest. Innocent. (Mostly.) Is it?) He rolls toward me, puts his (left) hand on my shoulder, then my neck (cold fingers). He moves closer and kisses me.
His lips, his tongue. His cheek under my hand (fine stubble); smoothness of the back of his neck. Heat. His body: so close. Pressed against me. Solid. Real. Aching desire for him; very nearly overwhelming. Cold hands, heat rising from him, his stomach, his waist, the small of his back. My wandering (right) hand. His (left) knee on my thigh. His (left) hand tangled in my hair. John.
He breaks away from me, rolls away (why?). He exhales. “Sorry.”
Why is he sorry? (For stopping, or for starting in the first place?) Want to ask. Instead: “It’s all right.” I rest my hand on his stomach (warm). Feel his breathing. Sudden need for air (not enough air in the room).
“I’m just...” He breathes in, out. “Confused. Upset. Exhausted.” Puts his hand over mine. Trembling.
“Sleep, then.”
When I wake up, he’s already gone. How did his leaving not wake me? (Body has gotten so used to him.)
*
Need your help. Come if convenient. Or if not. SH
When John arrives, he’s brought Mary with him. No more limp. Argument settled in the passing of a couple of days? It appears so. Domestic bliss (such as it is): returned. The sitting room dotted with plastic crates of various sizes, each filled with garden implements from three separate garden sheds (all from the same street in Loughton). Working on an extremely cold case with only a handful of photos and a cracked skull to go on. A murder is a murder: any, even a ten year old case, will do in a pinch.
I want the distraction.
Saturday morning; the blissful couple have been out shopping. John carrying bags that are clearly Mary’s. Mary looking chipper in bright red lipstick. (Bright red lipstick on a Saturday morning? How deliberate. How earnest. A statement in itself: of what? Warning? Inviting? Red: complicated.) A tentative reconciliation. Her face (as always) is friendly, pleasant, engaged, and resolutely blank behind the eyes. Like a china doll on a shelf; a single expression deliberately engraved, and nothing more. John looks resolute. Not unhappy, not filled with tension. His shoulders: relaxed. He plans not to raise the subject of the argument again; trusts that Mary won’t either. The eerie quiet after a violent storm. His eyes: trouble sleeping. He drops the bags (clothes? Possibly shoes) by the door.
“What have we got this time?” John eyes the crates.
“Looking for a murder weapon that could cause this wound.” Show the photograph to John. Measurements written on it in pencil. “I already deduced that it was certainly a garden implement. In one of these crates.”
“I see.” John rubs his forehead. “It’s good you’re starting early in the day.”
“My god.” Mary has stopped dead in at the entrance to the kitchen. “This place is a health hazard.”
“Don’t look in the fridge.” John is amused. “It will terrify you.”
“Avoid the microwave as well, if you have a delicate constitution.” Seems fair to warn her. The screaming can be so unsettling, and Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t like it.
“...Are these...” The beginnings of a question. What could she be looking at? The pigeons (preserved in formaldehyde; not that interesting)? The sliced asphalt? Oh of course: the fingernails.
“Yes.” Best nip that in the bud. “Yes, they are, human fingernails. Don’t worry, they were removed postmortem.”
John, opening up a crate, is stifling a laugh. “So, how shall we do this?”
“Honestly, James, do you eat food that’s come out of this kitchen?” Mary, the hard heels of her shoes (heels, not blue) pecking at the tile as she walks around the kitchen table. She hasn’t noticed. James. An amateur’s mistake. Switching out names. Names placed in the same mental category: loved ones, children, pets, colleagues, friends, lovers to whom I am lying. Still hasn’t caught it. “You must need regular doses of penicillin.”
John: his face moved from amusement, contentment, tired but resolved peace, to absolute agony in the space of a few seconds. His whole body is tensed up. His hands in fists, his mouth squeezed tight into a sharp white line. The colour is gone from his face. Even his knees are tense. That was like a physical blow; John wasn’t prepared, didn’t have his guard up. Mary can’t see him; there’s a stack of crates between them. She is wandering through the kitchen like its some kind of department store display, and John is self-destructing.
He knows.
Of course he does. (How could I have thought otherwise?)
He knows about the infidelities; the reasons why her marriages ended, probably even about the therapist. He’s known all along. He knew when he married her; is it, in part, why he married her? An attraction to her basic brokenness, something he understands so intimately, both of them being fundamentally broken by events in the past? He knows: her self-esteem issues, the destructive influence of her father, her guilt and shame. He even knows about James Carstairs. Down to the specifics; his name. I didn’t tell him; Mycroft surely didn’t. Mary herself is careful: did she choose to tell him herself? Of course she did. Guilt. She wants to do better. To be absolved. She wants to be honest; honest like John’s honest face, John’s agonized face. Honest back to him the way he has been honest to her (about me, about his feelings for me). Tit for tat.
Is it? Is James Carstairs a form of revenge?
Is she punishing him for spending time with me? For that kiss? (Does she know?) For (innocent) nights in my bed? For being an honest house divided from the very start, partially hers, partially (mostly?) mine? (She is attracted to that quality but also frustrated by it.) Could Mary be that spiteful? Hard to say. Maybe not deliberately, but unintentionally. Subconsciously. Bringing up his name now: clearly an accident (but not unexpected; could be anticipated). Mary’s brokenness spilling over and breaking John. She wants it to be controllable, as John’s is controllable. It isn’t.
John’s face: this isn’t even the first time.
Of course it's not. They have been married a little over a year and this isn’t the first time Mary has confessed to an infidelity. It’s written all over his face. The first was hard; the second (third?) even harder. His breath: deliberate inhale, exhale. He’s shaking. It’s everything he can do to stay standing. The agony of it. Why this? Being called by his (James’) name. John: erased, painted over, removed. (Mary, what have you done?)
She still hasn’t noticed. She’s not going to. She’s looking into the sink now. “Do you wash dishes in this cesspit?”
Open up a crate and pull out a trowel (definitely not the murder weapon). Show it to John. His eyes (dark with anger, shame, agony) lock with mine. He doesn’t move.
He even knows that I know. (Of course he does; how could I not?) He is not hiding his anger from me, not even trying. What a delicate dance this has been. Moreso even than I realized. I reach out and hold one of his shaking fists. He doesn’t resist.
“One of the corners of the blade, perhaps? What do you think? Possible?”
He just looks at me. He can’t respond.
“Agreed.” I drop it back into the crate with a clang. “Not the trowel.” I remove my hand from his and he shifts. Gets down on his knees, his right leg suddenly useless. He needs to shift it underneath him, place it. He opens a crate. Keeps his face away from the kitchen. A moment of privacy.
“How long do you think this is going to take?” Mary is leaning against the wall, looking into the sitting room. She is clever, but not clever enough. Can’t read the tension in his back. The sudden loss of function in the leg. Can’t hear his awkward, deliberate breathing. Can’t feel the tension filling the room.
“Oh, well into the night, I expect.” My voice: evenly paced. Unreadable. That alone should be a clue. She doesn’t hear it. John looks up at me. Gratitude.
She sighs. “I’ll go home then, all right?” She picks up her bags. “See you later, John?”
“Could it be the shovel?” I pull one out with a flourish. (It clearly isn’t.)
“Later,” John grunts through layers of pain. He coughs, as if the crates are dusty (they aren’t). “Sure. Later.”