Deducing Tragedy Part Two: Speak No Lies

Sherlock stood in the entry way of Baker Street. John was visiting Mary for the night and would not return. Mrs. Hudson was down stairs watching her programs so she wouldn’t be coming up any time soon. So he had the flat to himself, exactly what he wanted.

Upon entering the living room visions or flashes of memories surrounded him like a mob. Everywhere he looked there was another version of her, all talking and moving, demanding his attention. In the past he had learned to tune them out until they were just a soft buzz in the background. Now, alone in a quiet flat, he would face them. He took a deep breath and allowed his mind to focus on one memory.

“Sherlock help me with this!” she said. She was crouched down on the floor, struggling with a small brown tabby cat. In her hands was a cluster of fabric of all shades of purples and pinks.

“What are you doing?” he asked confused and she looked in his direction, but her eyes just drifted over him, smiling.

“I told you before,” she giggled, “when I'm bored I dress Babs up as a pretty princess. Well I'm bored, Lestrade hasn’t got a case for us, people still don’t trust you and there is nothing to do. There for Babs gets beautified!”

“And you want me to….?” He trailed off sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Help me!” she said tossing the fabric at him. “He’s fighting especially hard today, I suspect it’s because you’re here. He’s never gotten dressed up when other people were around before. He’s a little shy.”

“He’s a cat,” he sighed heavily as he sat down across from her. “He doesn’t think that way.”

“Yes but it’s fun to pretend,” she smirked; her blue eyes almost seemed to lock with his before they started drifting away again.

“Then what should we put on princess Babs first?” he asked looking through the cloths. “The tutu?”

She giggled again, “Yes, let’s start with that then we’ll put on the cape and the crown!” she faded but Sherlock was still on the floor. Hanna had cats, three of them. Bab’s was her favorite and she liked to dress him up in ridicules costumes when she was bored.

He stood up and turned to see her sitting in his chair. She was dressed in a set of pink pajamas and was twirling a thin letter in her fingers. “I told you today was not a good day,” she said, her voice weak, lacking conviction to get him out. “Why are you here?”

“You told me to go home,” he sneered. “This is home.”

“I suppose I should have been more specific.” She nodded slowly, her unseeing eyes turning down to the letter in her hands.

“You’re clever,” he frowned, “really clever.”

Her voice was soft when she spoke, “Yes.”

“You would have known to be more specific,” he said tilting his head to the side. “You wanted me here.”

“I suppose you’re right-“

“I'm always right,” he cut her off in a cold and cruel voice. “The question is: why?”

The letter stopped twirling and she looked up at him. Her face was a mask of calm, but fear and sorrow bubbling just behind her sightless eyes. “Do you believe in monsters Mr. Holmes?”

He frowned, “Monsters?”

“Monsters, Demons, Evil so pure you confuse it for good?” She asked with a joyless smile on her lips before she stood up and crossed the short distance between them. She placed her small hands on his biceps and pulled him down to her level so she could whisper in his ear. “I got confused; and when I'm alone, The Monster comes back.”

The memory faded again and Sherlock stood up straight. This was Sherlock’s first conversation with The Little Blind Girl.

The next morning when John came home Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his head in his hands. “Sherlock?” the Doctor asked in a low tone. “Are you okay?”

“Far from it,” Sherlock muttered. “While you were away having your fun with Mary, I was here surrounded by memories. Did you know memories could attack you? Overwhelm and even destroy you? I didn’t.”

“You remember?”

“I had to go through each memory, one by one,” Sherlock continued. “To focus and play it out. You would have thought I’d finally cracked; wandering about the place talking to myself. Sally wouldn’t have hesitated to put me in the loony bin. She’d finally be rid of me.”

“Sherlock,” John said walking up to his eccentric flat mate. “Are. You. Okay?” Sherlock looked up then, his eyes red and shining from tears.

“No, John,” he said slowly. “I am not, okay. I thought knowing she was alive would ease this… pain. I'm in pain because of her John! My chest it aches with a pressure I don’t understand. I told you before that I always thought myself to be above emotion, to divorce myself from them. But once again my body betrays me…”

“You’re heartbroken,” John breathed in realization a Sherlock let out a short laugh.

“Heartbroken? Is that what this agony is?” he muttered bitterly. “I don’t much like it, too distracting. I can’t focus on… anything really.”

“That’s part of love Sherlock,” John said carefully. “When you love someone they make you happy, but they also cause you pain. Being in love can feel like soaring, or it can hurt, like there is an immense weight on your chest and you can’t breathe. You live for the good times and wish away the bad.”

“It seems this relationship was destined for the bad,” Sherlock huffed.

John laughed, “You and Hanna have not had it easy. But don’t you think maybe it means that much more because of it. You two have hit very nearly every bump in the road but you still stood strong.”

“How can we be standing strong when Hanna no longer exists?” he asked standing up suddenly and walking over to the window. “There is only Ann Arsvitae now.”

“Are you sure about that?” John asked tilting his head to the side. “Because you were once afraid that if you flipped the switch, turned off your emotion, you would never get them back. And yet here you are, crying in our living room.”

“Shut up.”

“Sherlock, Hanna is still in there,” John said with an amused smile, “it will only take the right man to bring her out again.”