A Groovy Kind Of Love (by Phil Collins) - Beauty and the Beast
Show Me Heaven (by Maria McKee) - Beauty and the Beast
Courage (by Celine Dion) - Beauty and the Beast
True Colours (by Eva Cassidy) - STRIKE
I love this wonderful show, as much as I love the books.
So much more than just detective/crime stories...
He Is, She Is
by Michelle
"If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return,
they were always yours. If they don't, they never were."
- Khalil Gibran
※※※※※
Robin glanced into the mirror in her bedroom, more out of a conventional habit than interest. Going on a date had not been something she was accustomed to for years, not since her pre-marital life with Matthew Cunliff, whom she successfully divorced a year before. DCI Ryan Murphy, who invited her for a drink that evening, as attractive and decent as he may have been, didn’t make her adrenaline rise, nor did the upcoming date with him make her nervous out of joyous anticipation or fear of the unknown (or long forgotten).
The simple outfit, comprising of pair of skinny jeans and a flowery blouse, was far off the elegant dresses she wore for business meetings with her work partner. Then again, she and Murphy were meeting in the Goose pub near Walthamstow tube station and not in the Ritz… The pub was Robin’s idea since, for a reason, because in her heart, she was not ready for anything more official in a finer place. Only then she remembered Murphy mentioning he was an alcoholic, though being sober for two years. When she apologised to him and tried to suggest something else, he laughed and said he was long past the stage when even the sight of a pub awakened his craving for spirits. “Besides, the best leads are always to be found in the pubs,” he told her.
She turned off the light in the bedroom and walked over to the front door of her new flat; she grabbed the keys and her handbag and paused for a moment, her hand on the door handle. Twenty-four hours prior, she thought this was a good idea, convenient, logical and natural. However, after visiting Strike at the hospital earlier that day, her imaginary façade of conviction was suddenly full of cracks.
With a shake of her head and a sigh, Robin turned off the light and closed the door behind her, setting off for the Goose.
※※※※※
“So we ended up on the promenade on Playa de la Concha, watching the sunset and digesting the baked seabream from the nearby restaurant. I must say, it was pretty good not having to deal with murder maniacs on the loose for a few days,” DCI Murphy said with a smile, taking another sip of his glass of iced Coke. He was telling Robin about his holiday in San Sebastian in Spain, celebrating his sister’s 40th birthday. The pub was fairly full but not too noisy to disturb their conversation.
“You would have loved it there,” he added, his hazel eyes focused solely on his date.
“Hmm,” Robin said absently, then realising she should say more. “I don’t know… I like the sea, but I like being in London, which is funny because when I first moved here with my ex-husband, it didn’t strike me as a place I could imagine myself spending the rest of my working life in.” She chuckled. “But then…” Her smile faded, and her eyes wandered into the distance behind the window they were sitting at. Then I almost got killed on a shabby staircase...
Murphy watched the almost dream-like expression on her face, trying to decipher the enigmatic smile that reappeared there. He was intelligent enough to recognise that kind of expression. It clearly wasn’t something but someone who changed Robin’s mind about life in the big city. It was a wild guess but…
“But then you found your calling in the detective work,” he tested the ground.
Waking from her brief reverie, Robin looked at him and flashed a smile. “Yes,” she replied simply. “Sticking with it was the best decision I’ve made in my whole life.”
“I can only agree,” Murphy remarked with genuine respect. “I rarely come across such intelligent police help.”
His compliment flattered Robin, and she rewarded him with a small smile, but she was fully aware that neither the warm hazel eyes, the light brown hair waves, nor the sweet smile made her blush as she surely would if another man was sitting in Murphy’s place. A man who had refused to retreat from the forefront of her mind ever since she left the hospital that day.
“We’ve split... Couple of weeks ago. Wasn’t working.”
Robin couldn’t get those words out of her head; they hung stubbornly over her, threatening to crush her. Why didn’t you tell me before? A sudden burning sensation in her eyes made her blink as she stared at her still-barely-touched glass of red wine.
The only person who takes me for who I am and never tried to change me.
The one who allowed me to pursue my dream.
The only man I’ve ever felt perfectly safe and comfortable with.
The only man I have ever truly loved…
She blinked at the last thought, overwhelmed by the truth, and took a deep breath before exhaling loudly. “He’s my best friend,” she said barely audibly and dared a shy look and a small smile at Murphy.
※※※※※
THREE HOURS EARLIER
She pushed the hospital entrance door open and walked over to the reception. A young, blonde-haired and tiredly-looking receptionist lifted her head, and seeing the tall, good-looking woman in her early forties smiling at her, she asked the inevitable question.
※※
Strike was looking out of his hospital room window, watching a pair of pigeons keeping watch on the nearby tree. Being restricted to the sterile space of his room for weeks after the surgery that saved his life made him more aware of things he didn’t pay much attention to before. Suddenly he found himself missing the sea, washing the shores of his Cornish home county.
He missed the salty smell of the air, the colourful sunsets over the ocean, the once lulling and other times thundering sound of the waves, the walks along the shore that always helped him to clear his head. He closed his eyes and imagined himself in his favourite spot in St Mawes, from where he occasionally watched seals at play. He did it many times in the past, but this time, something was different. This time, Strike imagined himself sharing that spot with someone else…
※※
Thirty-five minutes and a few good jokes later, the man and the woman who shared the same biological father developed a genuine fondness for each other. The detective found out that his half-sister was a kind, empathic, level-headed and positive person with a similar sense of gallows humour that he himself was known for. The fact that she was happily married with two children (a teenage girl and boy) confirmed that she made much better choices in her private life than Strike had so far.
“I know Al keeps badgering you into meeting our father,” Prudence said in a more sombre tone, changing the light-hearted mood from their conversation so far. “I just want you to know, as I told you in the text before, I do understand how you feel about him,” she said, and he believed her.
“I, too, was rejected by him as a child. I, too, have asked myself, Why didn’t Daddy want me? What have I done wrong? For years, I carried the anger and hurt with me, dragging it like a boulder I couldn’t get rid of.” Her chocolate-brown eyes reflected the sadness of the years gone by. “But then I met Phil. “ A wide smile lit up her face again. “He teaches History at the same school as I; that’s how we met. Anyway, he made me see that there’s more to life than resentment and anger. He made me realise that although you will never forget, at some point, you will have to forgive to move on. Otherwise, it will break you beyond the point of repair.”
Strike frowned again, silenced by that simple yet so meaningful word. He sighed and closed his eyes, a lump forming suddenly in his throat. Once, he thought he knew what love was, when he was young and Leda Strike and Charlotte Campbell created his first impressions of this fragile feeling in his mind. But only in his later years, he understood that he had no idea of true love before. The honest, heartfelt and heart-warming, ever-present but never forceful, unconditional love. After all that he’d been through in the past few years, love gained a new meaning for him.
A brief silence between them was interrupted only by the soft sound of raindrops that started beating against the window. Neither of the other two patients sharing the room with Strike was present.
He glanced at his bedside table, where all the bits Robin brought him earlier that day were neatly organised and waiting for his attention, including one of James Ellroy’s crime novels, that his friend added as a welcome surprise.
My best friend.
The light in my darkness.
The other part of my soul I never knew I was missing.
The only person who knows the real me.
The woman that, without realising it then, I have loved since she didn’t threaten to sue me for almost killing her on that bloody staircase…
“She is everything,” Strike breathed eventually, encompassing all his feelings into one perfect word.
Her warm and understanding smile made Strike think that not all of Rokeby’s children were annoying the crap out of him (Al being the only other exception). He returned her smile and suddenly felt very tired. His lung may have been healing, but the wound in his heart was still raw, pounding painfully with uncertainty about the reception he might get if… when he had revealed his true feelings to Robin. Especially now, when she was surely on her way to a date with DCI Murphy. Would he ever get a chance at all?
No way out now, you moron, and you know it.
He replied quietly. “When the time is right.”
※※※※※
It was already past 10 pm when Strike woke up in his hospital room after one of his PTSD dreams in which he returned to the moment when his leg got blown up. Within the years, he transitioned from waking up with a scream to opening his eyes slowly, as if he had only watched someone else being marked on his body and soul forever.
He squinted in the semi-darkness of the room, illuminated partially only by the city lights penetrating the window. His fellow patients were back in the room and soundly asleep. Suddenly he noticed the presence of someone sitting at his bed. He saw a white surgical coat with an attached nametag that he couldn’t read in the dark, a surgical mask and a veil of long hair. A small detail struck him as odd – the person in the coat held their head in their hands.
”Remember the cheating gynaecologist we had briefly under surveillance six months ago? Let’s say I knew my undercover disguise might come in handy again one day, so I kept it,” Robin replied quietly with a small smile after she pulled down her mask. “I sneaked in through the A&E when another doctor came in after having a smoke outside.”
Robin smiled, her heart warmed by his care. “No, he was perfect,” she answered, confusing him even more because he frowned. “He’s intelligent, empathic, funny, honest, handsome… He’s everything a great guy could be,” she added without a hint of emotion.
He dared to look at Robin again, and his breath got caught at the sight of the serene beauty of her softly illuminated face, crowned by the warm smile she seemed to have reserved only for him… Then he noticed the single tear that ran down her cheek.
“Hey…” he said softly, reaching out inadvertently to wipe it away with his thumb. “Murphy is not the only bloke in the world,” he said, reluctantly letting his hand drop back on the bed – not failing to notice, though, how his touch made Robin close her eyes for a fleeting moment. “You know what they say, plenty of fish in the sea.”
The silence stretched between them as they held hands, smiling, and their gaze got more intense by the minute. A sudden commotion in the corridor outside broke the emotionally charged moment between them; new nurses arrived for their night shift. Robin quickly stood up, still holding her friend’s hand, though.
To anyone else, it would be a friendly remark to laugh about. For Robin Ellacott, his words meant everything. Our thing... Did he, too, think about that intimate talk they had that night waiting for their curry, with a bottle of whisky to share between them? She couldn’t be sure, but seeing how his eyes burned into hers, she felt the ground beneath her feet shake.
“Deal,” she whispered, and before the rational side of her brain could stop her, she leaned over Strike and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on his stubbly cheek. Then she quickly retreated to the door, carefully opening it to check the situation outside, in the corridor. After turning to her partner with a smile one last time, she left the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.
“When the time is right,” he whispered into the darkness, and as he closed his eyes. he realised, he couldn’t stop smiling.
I Am Not There, I Do Not Sleep
by Michelle
※※※※※
The rustling sound of the rain lashing against the windows was interrupted by another sound of thunder in the not-far distance.
London was shrouded in a veil of darkness on that mid-August night. The pouring rain was only fitting to mirror the mood of the tall man in a night robe, standing at the living room window of the 221B Baker Street flat. He was staring through the cold glass pane, out onto the street - seeing but not observing at all.
That night, his eyes were blind to anything happening around him. His ears were deaf to the sounds of the hasty footsteps on the pavement below, rushing and trying to find shelter from the thunderstorm. His heart was heavy as it hadn’t been since his best friend’s wife died four years earlier…
The lightest of touches on his shoulder made him turn his face away from the window. When he looked into her sad, caring, warm brown eyes, a bittersweet smile appeared on his face. She returned it with her own small smile. Her gentle hand ran through his curly dark hair and lingered for a brief moment on his cheek, stroking it with her thumb. His face was pale in the dim light penetrating the room from the street. It had been pale for a few days.
“I’m all right, Molly,” he said, smiling, though his eyes were full of grief. “Go back to bed.”
“I’ll stay with you, Sherlock,” she replied softly, observing him with tired eyes. “I can’t sleep either.”
For a brief moment, he thought back at times, years before, when solitude was his best friend, when dealing with dramatic events was solely his own private matter. That was back then, though. Sherlock Holmes was a different man now. Different and yet, not so different at all…
He kissed her temple and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. Molly rested her head against his chest, watching the raindrops streaming down the glass pane in streaks.
“Even the sky has been crying for three days,” she remarked quietly, holding him around his slender waist.
His steel-blue eyes blinked several times in a stubborn attempt to focus the slightly blurry vision. In the end, he gave up and closed them, exhaling loudly into the semi-darkness. All at once, the ghosts of the past resounded all around him…
- Would you like some tea? The kettle’s over there…
- A nice murder; that will cheer you up...
- That was the doorbell. Couldn’t you hear it?
- It’s in the fridge. It kept ringing.
- Oh, that’s not a fault, Sherlock!
- I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper...
- Oh, get over yourself! You’re not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes...
- Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall!
Three days earlier, England had fallen… into grief. Mrs Hudson, the heart of 221B Baker Street had left the place she called home and had on and off shared with her beloved Baker Street boys for eleven years. She left it for good, having been called to a place with no return ticket.
Sherlock was re-living the past eleven years of his life. The small but always exuberant figure of his beloved landlady was always there. Always watching from the sidelines, watching over him, scolding him, guiding him with a maternal instinct and her sharp wit, proclaiming that reason was not always the way to solve a problem.
221B will never be the same again... Oh, you damned little woman, why did you have to leave so soon?
He swallowed the unshed tears and opened his eyes again. At that moment, his phone vibrated on the desk nearby. Molly reached for it and passed it on to him. Sherlock opened the received text and read it. His deep chuckle echoed in the stillness as he turned the phone screen towards her.
IF YOU DON’T GO TO SLEEP NOW, YOU’LL BE A USELESS MORON TALKING BULLSHIT TOMORROW AND MRS HUDSON WILL TURN IN HER GRAVE IF YOU START ANALYSING HER EX-HUSBAND’S DRUG CARTEL PAST. JW
“He’s trying to cheer you up.” Molly grinned and shook her head.
Sherlock sighed, still smiling. “Yeah, he knows me more than I should find it appropriate.”
“Oh, he better, after eleven years of bearing with your rather refined behaviour,” she replied with a cheeky half-smile, raising her eyebrows.
“You managed quite fine,” he countered with a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes, making her grin.
He chuckled again, his heart feeling lighter when thinking of his dear friend and looking at the woman who used to be only his pathologist once. His look softened, and his hand put a loose strand of her chestnut hair behind her small ear. Then, his eyes grew sad again.
“What will we do without her, Molly?”
His question didn’t require an answer. It was a mere statement of the undeniable fact that the heart of Baker Street was gone forever. But Molly answered anyway.
“The same as before.” She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Follow her advice.”
Sherlock tried to suppress a smile.
“As if I’ve ever done that,” he said.
“As if she ever gave up on you,” Molly countered, bemused.
His lips finally broke into a heartfelt smile when he lowered his eyes for a moment.
“You and John, you really were like sons for her, you know?” she continued. “It might sound cheesy but, it’s the truth. Anyone could see that, even Greg, and he’s not one of the brightest brains in these matters out there.”
Sherlock chuckled as she scrunched her nose at the last statement. The Scotland Yard’s pride and glory, DI Lestrade, was truly a lost cause in analysing human relations, though his heart was always in the right place.
A distant memory brought an amused smile to the detective’s face.
“The first thing she told me when you and I got together was ‘Don’t screw this up, Sherlock Holmes, or when I die, I’ll come to haunt you every night for the rest of your pitiable lonesome life, and even the poor excuse of your brother won’t help you!’”
His deep laughter filled the dark room, joined by her light, girlish one. Then, they grew silent again.
“Do you know what you are going to say tomorrow?” Molly asked softly.
“Don’t worry.” He chuckled. “One almost fiasco at John’s wedding was enough for a lifetime. And nope, I don’t need cue cards this time.”
She smiled back at him. “I know you’ll do fine; you’ll do her proud.”
Her trust in him made Sherlock think how grateful he was. For her, for John, for all the people he could call friends. Martha Hudson had been one of them, one of the dearest people on Earth, his second mother, and like Molly, she had often been his walking conscience. And she always would be, wherever her spirit was resting now.
“I hope so, I really do…”
His look wandered to the distance behind the window again. The raindrops were still racing down the pathways, but the thunder was getting quieter; the storm was subsiding…
※※※※※
John found Sherlock standing in the sun-lit garden, outside in the back of the funeral reception venue - his friend was smoking.
“You’re doing it again,” John said, amused, folding his arms over his chest.
The detective was startled and quickly hid the cigarette behind his back as he turned around. When he saw it was ‘only’ his best friend, he rolled his eyes and relaxed, though putting out the cigarette in the nearby standing ashtray.
“Five years,” John shook his head, pretending incomprehension. “You managed to stay off them for five years, and now this…”
“If you had a high-pitched voice, wore a slightly outdated dress, and your hair was back to its original blond colour as opposed to the grey you keep trying to dye - in vain, I must say - you could pass for my mother,” he said dryly, adjusting his black jacket. “Although…” He checked John’s feet. “Yes, I prefer you without high heels.”
The doctor chuckled. No matter how much Sherlock Holmes had changed in the years that John had known him, the most celebrated consulting detective in the world had not lost his sharp wit and his dry, seemingly insulting sense of humour.
“I hope Lestrade and Mycroft are not having another glass of Scotch. Brother mine has already crossed his average daily intake twice.”
“I honestly think Molly is a saint,” the doctor remarked, bemused. “No one else could live with such a git, let alone love him.”
An almost smug half-smile appeared on Sherlock’s face while he looked into the lush green space with colourful patches stretching out before them.
“If my memory serves me right, there was someone, a long time ago.”
“If you dropped that sexual undertone, I might have taken it as a compliment,” John replied earnestly.
They were standing side by side, both leaning against the wall. When they finally slowly looked at each other, all pretence was gone, and they burst into heartfelt laughter, bending over. It was the first lighter moment for both of them in a week filled with loss and grief.
The doctor sighed and shook his head.
“That was pretty impressive back there. I never knew you read poetry,” he said with admiration. “If I didn’t know you, I would even say that it was quite moving.”
Sherlock nodded a little, acknowledging his friend’s compliment with a small smile.
“Even geniuses have their weak points,” he remarked.
“Yes, I remember that from time to time, we might all just be human,” John replied knowingly. “No, seriously, I think she would have loved it,” he added with a subdued smile, looking at the face of the best friend he had ever had.
The steel-blue eyes of the detective found his eyes, and for the first time since the day the sad news had reached them, Sherlock’s eyes were glistening.
The emotional moment was interrupted by the thumping sound of little feet.
“There they are!”
Both men turned around at the sound of a child’s voice, and Rosie Watson ran into her father's arms.
“This garden is a paradise, but she was still missing you,” said Molly, following the little girl. “I guess fresh air and lovely flowers can’t replace Daddy and uncle Sherlock.”
She moved to take place next to the detective. One look at him made her smile fade away. He noticed her worried expression and quickly wiped away the unexpected stray tear before taking her hand into his with a smile. Then he turned his attention to his god-daughter.
“So, Watson, how many kinds of bees did you see in the garden?” he asked earnestly in his deep velvety baritone.
“Two,” replied the girl eagerly. “White-tailed bumblebees and common carder bees.”
“Male or female white-tailed bumblebees?” Sherlock inquired, raising John’s eyebrows.
“Male. They will be looking for females soon,” Rosie replied knowingly, and she started giggling while adding, “For mating.”
That and John’s shocked expression made Molly laugh. His stern look at her silenced her, though, and she shrugged innocently, suppressing a grin.
”You know I’m grateful for any form of education for my child, Sherlock, but isn’t it a bit too early for her to talk about flowers and bees?” the doctor asked, mildly alarmed.
“Relax, John, Rosamund is in many ways far more advanced for her age than you are,” his friend replied nonchalantly and ruffled the girl’s blond curls. “That is a trait undoubtedly inherited from her mother.” Suddenly, he narrowed his eyes, looking at the doctor. “By the way, when was the last time you had a date?”
“That’s it,” John said abruptly. “Come on, little lady,” he put Rosie down to her feet and took her by the hand. “Time for more tea.”
Sherlock and Molly chuckled while watching the father and the daughter disappear inside.
“Flowers and bees, huh?” she asked, teasing him. “I wonder how you explained the core of that topic to Rosie.”
He looked at her from the side with an almost seductive smile, pulling her closer.
“If you manage to get me a few fresh male thumbs, I might show you…” he whispered in her ear before looking at her again.
Molly laughed and laid her head against his chest, embracing him.
Sherlock’s smile reached his eyes, and when his arms locked around her, he exhaled deeply.
I won’t screw this up; I promise…
He lifted his head towards the deep-blue sky, seeing two turtledoves fly by. And then a soft breeze picked up and caressed his cheek, almost as if touched by an invisible hand. He shivered lightly but then smiled, and something deep inside of him told him that everything would be all right in time.
＊＊＊
“Aww, isn’t that a sight for sore eyes?”
“It certainly is, Mrs Hudson. If anyone had told me five years ago that Sherlock Holmes would be in a relationship, let alone a serious one, and for four years and counting, I would have thought they were high on something.”
“You mustn’t judge a book by its cover, my dear. My boy has always been a softie inside; he only hates admitting and showing it. He used to repeat some nonsense about romantic entanglements distracting him from work or something. Had it not been for all the horrible things happening back then... Oh, I’m so sorry, Mary, I didn’t mean to awaken bad memories...”
“It’s all right, Mrs Hudson. It is what it is. And you’re right. I always knew there was more to Sherlock than meets the eye.”
“He was very fond of you, Mary; he still is in his heart. It took him a long time to forgive himself for your death, though even John told him it wasn’t his fault. But that boy has some balls; you have to admit. He never gives up. Just like your dear doctor.”
“They are some pair, aren’t they? I’m glad Molly is there for them and for Rosie, too. My goodness... Have you seen how big my girl is already? John is doing a wonderful job with her. She’ll turn six soon, so beautiful...”
“She is as lovely and clever as her Mommy and has a big heart like her Daddy. And with Sherlock and Molly around, what could go wrong?”
“I suppose you’re right, Mrs Hudson.”
“I know I am, my dear; they call it life experience down there.”
“We just have to trust them and enjoy watching them from our place up here.”
“Oh, Mary, I certainly shall enjoy it! I’ll miss them all, but there’s one thing I’m glad I won’t have to do.”
“What is it, Mrs Hudson?”
“Haunt Sherlock for the rest of his life! And don’t you think it’s time you called me Martha? Who cares about formalities up here?”
“Damn right! Oops… I apologise… You’re right… Martha…”
“That’s better. Shall we leave the children to play and go stretch our legs, my dear?”
“Absolutely. Let me show you around; it’s positively marvellous and very peaceful up here.”
“Good! After all the dramas in those eighty-four years that I spent down on Earth, I could do with some peace and quiet.”
”And Martha, the best thing is, no one shoots in the walls here…”
“Splendid! Listen, Mary, do you know what is really strange?”
“What?”
“I can’t feel my hip at all, no pains and aches... This is truly... Heaven...”
※※※※※
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
(Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!)
-Mary Frye
※※※※※
In loving memory of Una Stubbs.
______________________________________________________________________________
Note: This was my first Sherlock story in 5 years, I wrote it in 2022...
