Book 3, Chapter 1
Sixteen months ago, my best friend tackled Miriam Sangrave through a top story window. Everything he owned was left to me. I wanted it to be a hoax, for him to have faked his death somehow, but I couldn’t make myself believe it. I wanted to hope he would come back, but the sight of him going through the window was burned into my mind.
I did what I’ve always done, and kept myself busy. Ghost was still living above me, in the attic. I wasn’t going to kick her out, and to be honest I liked knowing there was someone else around, even if I hardly ever saw her. I visited the Irregulars from time to time, checking in to make sure they were doing ok and occasionally patching them up or supplying basic medicines as autumn and winter set in.
Winter is a busy season for rogue medics. Frostbite is just as unpleasant now as ever, there’s a new flu virus every month, and we still don’t have a cure for the common cold. Half the time I end up prescribing holistic ‘home remedies’ rather than meds.
As spring came around, my workload lightened and I started trying to get back into some semblance of a social life. It didn’t work very well. Most of my free time was spent reading medical journals and trying to get Ghost to eat something. She’s worse than Sherlock, which is frightening.
One day, I opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom for the first time since he’d died. I knew I’d been putting it off for far too long. There was a layer of dust on everything. What had started as an attempt to clean out memories turned into an exploration of the man I knew so well, but knew so little about. The small tobacco patch set up by his window had died, though I discovered a small room accessible through his closet that had bunches of tobacco leaves hanging in it. The closet itself held clothes of a wide variety of styles, along with his collection of suits, most black, a few grey, one navy, and one white. The collection of vests was more colorful, with reds, oranges, greens, and even a purple.
All his other clothes were kept in the dresser, and the chest at the foot of his narrow bed held his disguise kits and props. An empty teacup sat in its saucer on the small table by the bedside, left there forgotten in the thrill of a case. The top of the dresser held his cuff links, pocket-watch, combs and brushes, an inkwell and a few fountain pens, and a small case holding a straight razor.
I was marveling at how anyone could shave with an oddly shaped knife when I noticed his violin tucked safely away in the corner of the room. Strains of strange music flew through my memory as I opened the case. I lightly ran my fingers along the varnished wood, and shivered.
Slowly, I closed the case and left the room, closing the door behind me. I went out that night, got utterly wasted, and woke up with a splitting headache in a hotel room I didn’t remember checking into.
Nights out were approached with much more caution after that. If I kept myself busy, I didn’t have to think about the dull ache I felt whenever I was home. If I could stay away, I wouldn’t have to clean out that damn bedroom. I could keep putting it off to when I had some time at home, and then just keep never being home.
It was ridiculous, of course. I knew it was, I knew it was irrational and harmful, that I was just causing myself more grief by not facing it. But then, I've never been very good at dealing with grief. He once joked he’d let me know within a year if he faked his death. I’d been hoping, somewhere deep in me, that he’d been serious, that maybe… well. As the weather turned cold again, I finally stopped hoping, and started packing.
It took a while. One day, Ghost came down and started to help me pack his things into boxes. I was thankful for the help, though a bit embarrassed. The boxes remained in his room, to Ghost’s unspoken disapproval. It wasn't as if I was using the room, so there was no point in renting storage. She liked her set up in the attic, I wasn't going to ruin it with a bunch of boxes, and I wasn't ready to sell anything. I got it put away. That was good enough for now.
Work picked back up with the winter season. I had plenty of patients to occupy my time, and I was finally getting on with life, or so I thought. Ghost informed me I was wrong.
“You should get out more.”
I glanced up at her as I hung up my coat and hat. She’d just come down from the attic as I’d come home from making my rounds. “That’s funny coming from you.”
“I go out. I just don’t leave my room.”
“Exactly.”
She crossed her arms, sweatshirt baggy on her thin frame, “Doc, I’ve been to clubs that you would swear up, down and backwards are just as real as anything ‘real.’ You work, drink, and maybe sleep with the person drinking next to you. At least my social life involves learning names.”
I glared at her. “Names like Ghost?”
She rolled her eyes, “It’s been over a year, Watts. You’ve got a room full of boxed up memories you won’t ever get rid of until you make a damn friend.”
“Please, continue telling me how I need to just move on, it’s not like I heard that every single time someone in my family died. ‘Give it time,’ ‘you’ll adjust,’ and every other sentimental line people who don’t know what to say rattle off just to save themselves the discomfort of saying nothing. I’m well aware of what I’m supposed to do. I don’t give a damn.”
Ghost looked at me a long moment, and swore. She sat down where she stood. “Dammit, Doc. I was trying to help.”
“I know,” I sighed, “I know, and I know you’re right. I thought he’d come back, or at least let me know he was alive…” I cleared my throat, banishing its tightness with practiced ease, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go out tonight if you come with me and eat something.”
“What does me eating have to do with anything?”
“You’re slowly killing yourself, that’s what. Virtual clubs don’t serve food, and you hardly ever eat what I cook. You survive on nutrient-packs and the minimum amount of water required to live.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“It’s my job.”
She frowned, but shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
We found a quiet place on the edge of the Corporate Sector. It was done up in retro ‘diner’ feel, with a small dance floor added. After the first couple drinks I managed to stop glancing at my silent phone, and after the first several bites Ghost seemed to be enjoying her food.
“How long had you lived together?” she asked out of the blue.
I blinked. “A while.” How long had it been? “Maybe a year and a half, I guess.” I shook my head. “Seems like longer.”
She shrugged. “You haven’t talked about him. Just curious.”
I grinned, just a little. “And what about you? How long have you been running?”
“A while,” she smirked.
I chuckled. “Alright.”
We didn’t talk much, but we didn’t need to. Then the evening turned from pleasant to interesting.
I did what I’ve always done, and kept myself busy. Ghost was still living above me, in the attic. I wasn’t going to kick her out, and to be honest I liked knowing there was someone else around, even if I hardly ever saw her. I visited the Irregulars from time to time, checking in to make sure they were doing ok and occasionally patching them up or supplying basic medicines as autumn and winter set in.
Winter is a busy season for rogue medics. Frostbite is just as unpleasant now as ever, there’s a new flu virus every month, and we still don’t have a cure for the common cold. Half the time I end up prescribing holistic ‘home remedies’ rather than meds.
As spring came around, my workload lightened and I started trying to get back into some semblance of a social life. It didn’t work very well. Most of my free time was spent reading medical journals and trying to get Ghost to eat something. She’s worse than Sherlock, which is frightening.
One day, I opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom for the first time since he’d died. I knew I’d been putting it off for far too long. There was a layer of dust on everything. What had started as an attempt to clean out memories turned into an exploration of the man I knew so well, but knew so little about. The small tobacco patch set up by his window had died, though I discovered a small room accessible through his closet that had bunches of tobacco leaves hanging in it. The closet itself held clothes of a wide variety of styles, along with his collection of suits, most black, a few grey, one navy, and one white. The collection of vests was more colorful, with reds, oranges, greens, and even a purple.
All his other clothes were kept in the dresser, and the chest at the foot of his narrow bed held his disguise kits and props. An empty teacup sat in its saucer on the small table by the bedside, left there forgotten in the thrill of a case. The top of the dresser held his cuff links, pocket-watch, combs and brushes, an inkwell and a few fountain pens, and a small case holding a straight razor.
I was marveling at how anyone could shave with an oddly shaped knife when I noticed his violin tucked safely away in the corner of the room. Strains of strange music flew through my memory as I opened the case. I lightly ran my fingers along the varnished wood, and shivered.
Slowly, I closed the case and left the room, closing the door behind me. I went out that night, got utterly wasted, and woke up with a splitting headache in a hotel room I didn’t remember checking into.
Nights out were approached with much more caution after that. If I kept myself busy, I didn’t have to think about the dull ache I felt whenever I was home. If I could stay away, I wouldn’t have to clean out that damn bedroom. I could keep putting it off to when I had some time at home, and then just keep never being home.
It was ridiculous, of course. I knew it was, I knew it was irrational and harmful, that I was just causing myself more grief by not facing it. But then, I've never been very good at dealing with grief. He once joked he’d let me know within a year if he faked his death. I’d been hoping, somewhere deep in me, that he’d been serious, that maybe… well. As the weather turned cold again, I finally stopped hoping, and started packing.
It took a while. One day, Ghost came down and started to help me pack his things into boxes. I was thankful for the help, though a bit embarrassed. The boxes remained in his room, to Ghost’s unspoken disapproval. It wasn't as if I was using the room, so there was no point in renting storage. She liked her set up in the attic, I wasn't going to ruin it with a bunch of boxes, and I wasn't ready to sell anything. I got it put away. That was good enough for now.
Work picked back up with the winter season. I had plenty of patients to occupy my time, and I was finally getting on with life, or so I thought. Ghost informed me I was wrong.
“You should get out more.”
I glanced up at her as I hung up my coat and hat. She’d just come down from the attic as I’d come home from making my rounds. “That’s funny coming from you.”
“I go out. I just don’t leave my room.”
“Exactly.”
She crossed her arms, sweatshirt baggy on her thin frame, “Doc, I’ve been to clubs that you would swear up, down and backwards are just as real as anything ‘real.’ You work, drink, and maybe sleep with the person drinking next to you. At least my social life involves learning names.”
I glared at her. “Names like Ghost?”
She rolled her eyes, “It’s been over a year, Watts. You’ve got a room full of boxed up memories you won’t ever get rid of until you make a damn friend.”
“Please, continue telling me how I need to just move on, it’s not like I heard that every single time someone in my family died. ‘Give it time,’ ‘you’ll adjust,’ and every other sentimental line people who don’t know what to say rattle off just to save themselves the discomfort of saying nothing. I’m well aware of what I’m supposed to do. I don’t give a damn.”
Ghost looked at me a long moment, and swore. She sat down where she stood. “Dammit, Doc. I was trying to help.”
“I know,” I sighed, “I know, and I know you’re right. I thought he’d come back, or at least let me know he was alive…” I cleared my throat, banishing its tightness with practiced ease, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go out tonight if you come with me and eat something.”
“What does me eating have to do with anything?”
“You’re slowly killing yourself, that’s what. Virtual clubs don’t serve food, and you hardly ever eat what I cook. You survive on nutrient-packs and the minimum amount of water required to live.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“It’s my job.”
She frowned, but shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
We found a quiet place on the edge of the Corporate Sector. It was done up in retro ‘diner’ feel, with a small dance floor added. After the first couple drinks I managed to stop glancing at my silent phone, and after the first several bites Ghost seemed to be enjoying her food.
“How long had you lived together?” she asked out of the blue.
I blinked. “A while.” How long had it been? “Maybe a year and a half, I guess.” I shook my head. “Seems like longer.”
She shrugged. “You haven’t talked about him. Just curious.”
I grinned, just a little. “And what about you? How long have you been running?”
“A while,” she smirked.
I chuckled. “Alright.”
We didn’t talk much, but we didn’t need to. Then the evening turned from pleasant to interesting.
