Part One

1: Cup of Tea

5.37 pm

"Oh I thought we were just hanging out."

"Molly will be here in 20 minutes."

"I think I can last 20 minutes without supervision."

"Well if you're sure…"

I hold the cup more tightly, caressing its cheap earthenware as I would hold a talisman, a lifebelt. Purple, raised strokes; primitive and mass produced: a sunburst? A firework? A flower burgeoning forth from a pasty ceramic meadow? However many times previously Mrs Hudson has provided china cups and saucers to present her tannins, I now feel safe with the purple starburst. It's basic; sub-standard, poorly executed and poorly received. I want it because I deserve it. I am fragile yet redundant and sub-standard. I hold my breath as I hold the cup and as I receive John's news - and I take it as I took his blows.

His shoulders telegraph a horrendous cocktail of awkward, devastation and pity and I find I am unable to bear it. If John had hesitated one moment more, I would not have been responsible for what came next, but I need not have worried.

He turns, (Grateful? Relieved? Disappointed?) so I grip the cup and I do not know, because all the bravado I ever had has dissipated, like flotsam in an endless ocean.

He turns (not knowing about the missing house keys) and only hesitates once more before his hand grips the newel post. There is pale sunlight emerging from a reluctant sky and consequently dappling his forehead, his chin, the dimple in his cheek with fragile shadows. Even the air is suspended, tremulous and weak with the faintest tang of sweetness (?) and I fantasise about him turning back, shrugging and dropping his bag, making to stay:

"It's still twenty minutes. Put the kettle on."

But he doesn't, and my hand shakes slightly as I raise the cup to my mouth.

The tea is cold.

The drumming of his footfall down those seventeen stairs manages to punch its way around the cavity in my chest and I find I am greedy for air like a landed guppy as I clutch at the mug, leaning forward in my chair.

The door slams shut (he always slammed it, even when the catch had been fixed; force of habit, a human condition I suppose)

And he's gone.

Nineteen minutes to go.

~x~

2. A Battlefield

6.04 pm

The bloody Tube.

You can't, I suppose, live in London for long without blaming some of your daily inconveniences on the underground, but this time really was … inconvenient. Both Baker Street and Marylebone stations were closed, leaving Edgware Road and a very unreliable bus link to make up the time I had already lost in the lab after a friendly, helpful but ill-timed paternal chat with Mike Stamford. He's worried about me, you see. I am seen as bereaved, and bereaved in a morgue isn't always an entirely tolerable situation. So, Mike worries for me, and I worry for everyone else, which is why I'm fumbling around the uncharted Bermuda Triangle of my bag to find an unfamiliar set of keys as I half walk, half run along Baker Street, skirt clinging to my legs and sweat trickling down my back. Lovely.

The hallway is cool, dim and slightly musty, tiny motes floating around in bright afternoon winter sunlight. It is both familiar and comforting, but I can feel the weight of its silence, lying heavy as the coats on the rack, with the absence of one, showing John has left early. I try so hard to keep the edge of uncertainty from curling around my voice as I shout up the stairs (isn't it polite to give warning? Doesn't everyone do it?):

"Sherlock!"

My voice is weak, and slightly self-conscious.

"Sherlock, I'm here! The trains are rubbish today, so … sorry."

A good friend (as well as a good traveller) always plans their journey well, to recompense for any imagined delays or diversions. A good traveller (and friend) checks Google for station closures and potential roadworks and designs their journey accordingly. A good person does not stare awkwardly at the clock on the wall behind their head of department when he is offering words of advice and condolence because their friend is … gone.

I hear no answer (which isn't entirely unexpected) as I trudge up the familiar stairs and wonder about trudging through the daily battlefield that comes after a loss too great to bear.

But I wish that John had stayed, and my heart quickens as I see the sitting room door ajar and hear no violin, no footsteps, no telly, nothing. Pushing it slowly, the light from large windows floods out into my darkened hallway, silhouetting a tall, dressing gowned figure holding a teapot, and I step gratefully into the room and Sherlock's smile.

"I'm late!"

"Nonsense, you're just in time, for tea."

"Lovely, shall I…?"

"Sit down Molly, one station closure is bad enough, but two borders on the intolerable."

And I slump gratefully into John's chair and offer a little prayer for normalcy.

Unfortunately however, although I do see, I sometimes do not observe, and the difference is clear.

~x~