.

.

Is it fixation

Is there something about the way my mind ticks

I can't tell anymore

and honestly

it no longer matters

so strange

the way everything revolves so painfully

around that one untouchable slither of life

that abruptly decided

to outshine them all.

.

***on today's news: insect pin finds out how hard it is to let the butterfly go***

a report by anna marcelli palmer

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I've spent an unreasonable amount of time staring at the shopping list, as if it were bound to speak to me in human words any moment now. My eyes follow the handwritten pattern upon the half-torn piece of paper. The letters are tiny, round, and perfectly arranged against the whiteness. As though the writer were reluctant to disturb the notebook's peace.

(Which is, of course, an odd observation. But eerily in character nontheless.)

It's late, my coffee long cold. Without bothering to look away from the thing I stretch my arm towards the ashtray- an instinctive move. The cigarette, however, has already been reduced to ashes. I should be working instead of wasting precious time on an utterly unremarkable shopping list that's not even mine. But since I somehow know no better than this, I keep taking in every tiny detail. The process is meticulous, so much so one would think somebody's life depends on it. Silly thought. But then again, this entire situation is laughable.

With some awkwardness I drag the laptop closer to me. Open a blank word document and fill it with random deductions. My memory is normally impeccable, and my train of thought flows crystal clear inside my mind palace whenever I need it to, so the sudden impulse to type out what floats in my head feels annoying. I momentarily wonder whether or not this is because of the coffee. It is the second one for today. Not being the coffee type, the excessive consumption might have clouded my judgment.

Pffft. Idiot. Bloody idiot. I drink tea, I remind myself. Less caffeine, but still caffeine. The fact that this even crossed my mind offends me. My current predicament offends me. I offend me.

I, Sherlock goddamn Holmes. World's only consulting detective and crime-solving genius. Unable to do what I am best at. Losing it.

Well. Let's face it, shall we. I am, in fact, losing it. And it is not the drugs, never the drugs, at least not for eight months now. It's me. John sees it, too, these days, but chooses not to mention anything. Probably because he deems it only natural, given the agonising moments at Sherrinford, the unbearable revelations about what has been my childhood and what moulded me into the man I am.

(The man I was.)

The remainder of the disturbingly small group of people I call my friends can sense the change, too. Things have been odd; remembering the trauma, the psychological conditioning that turned me into an avoidant shell of an individual, made decades of emotion I was unaware of explode like an over-blown balloon. Nobody discusses it, but sometimes I wish they would. My talents at analyzing feelings amount to zero. I've even stopped seeing my therapist, as having someone of a lesser intellect asking questions in a patronizing tone aggravated me to say the least.

I feel helpless, trapped within my own skull. It's horrific. Without logic, hope is lost. When something happens, I need to know why. And I have no idea why I've been reduced to this.

I hate every second of it.

Anyway. Back to the list. The handwritten, useless shopping list of absolutely no importance. I confirm my observations one by one, as if the verdict will magically change:

1. Small letters, but not tightly grouped together as usual.

(She no longer feels lonely.)

2. Round, neatly arranged characters.

(She was perfectly calm while writing this.)

And the contents of the list themselves:

3. When it comes to food and beverages, numbers one to five on the list are low-fat products. Number six, however, reads, cans of beer.

(She is on a diet, and she doesn't live alone.)

It gets complicated, further along. You see, apart from the times she visits John, or babysits Rosie, our goddaughter, she has excluded me from her life for about eight months. On the rare occasion we coexist in the same space we somehow manage to ignore one another completely, a kind of unspoken arrangement after the catastrophic phonecall.

(That said, I no longer dare deduce her; I'd have to look, and that's something I don't feel entitled to.)

The phone call. Of course. My sister knew long before I did, her ability to see right through people far superior to mine. I sometimes wonder how she managed to find out a thing of that sort from the limited perspective of a secluded prison-island. But then again I am wary of what she found out. Sounds like a joke, however it is terribly unfunny when viewed from the side of the punchline.

That leaves me with a worn piece of paper as my sole evidence. Slowly bring it under my nose, inhale its scent. Written inside her house, not at work. One can safely assume it was on a Sunday. The letters are neat, so she had plenty of time at her disposal, which suggests weekend. But people tend to write their shopping lists one day before actually doing the shopping, which is, in general, on Mondays.

It also gives off a very particular fragrance, reminiscent of after-shave balm.

A simple scenery comes to mind; a couple, sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast (I say breakfast because there is a marmalade stain on the backside, where her forefinger must have touched the paper). She rips a page off a notepad and scribbles a list of all the things she will need for the week to come. He is seated beside her. At one point, she leans forward and caresses his face- a gesture of intimacy. The fragrance of his after-shave remains on the skin of her right hand. The hand she writes with.

The paper has been folded twice, under different circumstances. The first time it was folded, it was into a rather tidy rectangle, the resulting grooves clean and parallel to the outline of the scrap. The second folding is asymmetrical. The new creases intersect the previous ones at a peculiar angle. The result of a hasty, almost desperate move. A thing someone in a hurry would do.

There are no other creases, so it is almost certain that the second folding took place when, exiting the grocery store and loaded with shopping bags, she noticed me cross the road. I'd already seen her, of course, but kept walking towards her general direction as though it were inevitable. I didn't mean to cause an awkward situation, which is what ultimately happened. But it was early in the morning, and something about the position of the sun, combined with her freshly washed hair, framed her face like a halo. For a split second, amidst the lively hum of busy passersby and the otherworldly scent of morning dew, paranoia overtook my brain; I thought she was unreal.

She was still arranging change inside her wallet, when she recognised me. An unwitting reflex: her free hand began to crumple the first available piece of paper there was. Since people, even those in momentary distress, avoid destroying banknotes, her fingers fiddled with the now useless list.

I am no longer that great at controlling these things, you know? I'd planned to walk right past her. But there's all those questions left unanswered, and I hate unanswered questions, because I hate not being able to figure others out. After Sherrinford I'd explained everything surrounding the phone call, apologies and all. It was to save her. I had thought there was no choice. I risked our frienship, I told her, because I would never risk her life.

I understand, said she. Thank you.

.

.

(But this cannot go on anyway. You are a good man, Sherlock, but to me, you are toxic. It's not entirely your fault, but do realise it is not mine either. I am sorry, but I cannot do this friends thing anymore. Please forgive me. And one more thing. Don't do drugs just because I won't be around to check on you. John won't take it, especially after Mary's death.)

.

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So, I was saying. I wasn't supposed to raise my hand and wave hello. But it sort of happened anyway. I vaguely wondered, with some remorse, whether this dreadful absense of control was what I'd been putting her through during the past seven years. Then she timidly greeted back. The shopping list, forgotten and reduced to a ball, slipped from between her fingers and landed on the pavement. Unnoticed, but not by me.

We exchanged a few impersonal words. I asked how she was doing. She replied in monosyllables, "Good", and from the timbre of her voice I could tell she meant it. Something weird happened. Instead of her, now it was me who kept avoiding eye contact, glancing sideways as if I needed to flee. She must have noticed, but feigned obliviousness. She is very observant, always has been. But, unlike me, she keeps her deductions to herself.

My head hurts, thoughts jumping from one place to another without reaching a conclusion. I feel defeated, but no battle has taken place and I don't even know who the enemy is. I recall, after she left (saying she was needed early at St. Bart's, despite being loaded with shopping bags she, for some reason, chose not to dispose of by returning to her flat first), I was petrified, staring at the blank space she had occupied moments ago. As though a cosmic anomaly with her shape resided there. At one point, I remembered the crumpled ball of paper, and picked it up.

There is, I reckon, a certain amount of masochism within every individual.

Sadly, I do not comprise an exception. (I hardly ever do. I am not even that special. My sister colored this in a pretty vivid manner.)

I am trying to picture that new guy, the mysterious Mr.X that sleeps in her flat often enough to keep his shaving paraphernalia in her bathroom. Wonder if he looks anything like me, but something makes me reject the idea as soon as it surfaces.

All this seems irrational, useless. There are things to do, cases to examine. There's work. Work as in what I am at ease with, as in what I am supposed to be doing right now. My mind is stuck. I know we hadn't seen each other in a long while, but her decision was ultimately for the best. I wouldn't be able to give her what she expected of me, to share a tedious Sunday morning with her, doing things normal people do. Exchange tender words, do intimate gestures. And I would despise that kind of life, for a multitude of reasons. They say I am married to my work, and that's accurate enough; I don't need her, and after everything that transpired between us, she no longer wants me.

And she is happy. Looks happy.

Must be happy.

Everything is as it should be, I remind myself. Everything except for the fact I sacrificed two days of work for the sake of a stupid shopping list. Matters of importance, of actual importance are at hand, and in any case, all of this is futile. I'd never, ever, pursue that kind of involvement, like that new partner of hers, romantic and with nothing better to do than roam in her kitchen, doused in that annoying, expensive, flashy aft-

-wait.

WAIT.

The after-shave. I take the scrap and smell it anew. How could I be so unfocused? Annoying. Expensive. Flashy.

England's best detective my bloody arse.

I am laughing maniacally, only I am alone in my office and the joke's on me. I remember her, brown eyes damp with accumulating tears, as she explained how harmful meeting me had been for her. How toxic I am. And yet she goes and finds a boyfriend who wears the same exact-

-unless-

.

.

I am trying to reminisce what kind of things I used to keep in her flat, back when it was my favorite bolthole and things were different. Some things I got back, others I forgot. My memory is usually photographic, when I need it to, and the fact that I am struggling irritates me. Am I remembering facts or my unconscious expectations? Am I really that selfish, to prefer this version of the story, to feel elated that she might still be alone and...and...

I look back at the computer screen, trying to fit the new data somewhere. But the letters no longer convey meaning; instead, they look like random drawings scattered across the document.

What was it that I wanted to say?

Check the hour. Calculate what time remains until her lunch break. She has to be at work.

I grab my cell, fingers form her number of their own accord. Everything is as it should be. It was all for the best, I say out loud, but the words are void of meaning and come across as random sequences of sounds. I call her flat anonymously and listen to the answering machine talk to me with her voice. The recorded message is the same it has always been. I try to construct a mental image of the girl she once was, quiet yet content, lonely yet colorful, a delightful combination of contrasts. In my mind palace, she briefly becomes the thirty-year old pathologist with the shy smile and the cheerful sweaters, and she is actually speaking to me, asking me to leave a message.

I consider the prompt but hang up all the same. The daydream fades, as does the girl, as does the smile. I don't need her and she no longer wants me, but right now an agony boils within me, an unknown new kind of anguish that washes everything else away. I put the phone in a drawer as if it has suddenly become revolting.

I am worn, exhausted. Looking for the solution to the riddle that is Sherlock Holmes. Searching for a thought, a single thought that will make me feel better, but there is nothing of the sort, so I push the chair back and stand up, intent on leaving this place, on getting out, into the cold morning air.

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A.N.: I know, I know. But I wanted to offer an alternative version to the post-TFP resolution that has been done a thousand times, by far more skilled authors than I am. This is my very first legit attempt at the fandom, and my first fanfic in over a year, so there. I am glad to become part of one of the most rich and skilled fandoms out there.

Τhis is meant to be an one-shot, considering I am fairly busy, but if a ridiculous amount of inspiration, or a warm reaction make me, there might be a second entry. But don't expect your typical sherlolly, because i am fundamentally against writing what has been done many times before.

Cheers!

~Anna

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