You mention that you like Marylock once to a friend, you watch a bit too much Sherlock, and before you know it you've 5-7 WIPS (the number constantly grows), and are firmly stuck in rare pair hell.
“Oh my God, that was, like, the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
That was the first thing she ever said to him.
~
Victor Trevor, the bastard, had dragged him out of the lab, then made him drive a car full of giggling idiots for three hours to Swanage, then had abandoned him to get drunk with additional idiots from Birmingham who had driven even further. And now one of the idiots from Birmingham, the American girl with too much hair, was criticizing his stone skimming abilities.
“I’d like to see you do any better,” he said, shortly.
The girl raised her eyebrows and made a face at him, then went to look for a stone of her own.
“The water is too turbulent here,” he said.
The girl kept looking, until she found a smooth white stone, really too large for the purpose, being almost the size of her palm.
“It calls for a calmer day than this,” he said.
Then the girl drew back her arm and lobbed the stone, which skimmed perfectly, touching the water five times before sinking into the water of the bay. Because of course it did.
“If you want to skip rocks in this kind of water you need to pick a bigger one and kind of… loft it over the breakwater. Just like that,” she said, waving vaguely at the sea.
“Skim stones.”
“What?”
“Here we call it skimming stones. Not skipping rocks.”
“And it’s pech blini in Russia and hacer ranitas in Spain. We didn’t pitch your tea into Boston Harbor just to keep doing everything the same way you did.”
The words were bellicose but for once he was able to pick up on the tone, and when he looked through the ringlets that the breeze was blowing into her face, he could see that she was pinching her lips together to keep from smiling.
“I remember,” he said, slowly, “The great skimming stones debate that provoked the revolution. We learnt all about it at school. That’s why we burnt down your White House. That and your willful mispronunciation of aluminium.”
The girl burbled a laugh, and it was not as unpleasant as it mostly was when girls laughed. The “with” not “at” made all the difference.
Because he was eighteen years old and still desperately trying to pass for normal, Sherlock said, “I’m Will.”
She was twenty-one, and Mary Morstan and the rest of her pseudonyms were well into the future. So because it was the simple truth, she said, “I’m Rose. Nice to meet you, Will. I can teach you how to skip rocks properly if you want. Though it’ll wreck your attempt to look all Byronic and interesting.”
Sherlock frowned, though he wasn’t quite sure what Byronic meant, honestly. “I wasn’t trying to look like anything.”
“Oh come on. Alone, staring out over the sunset sea, the wind ruffling your hair. Very ‘Adieu, Adieu, my native shore.’”
“This is my native shore, I just wanted to look at the tide pools. Anyway, why are you here?”
“I,” she said, grandly, “Am way too close to shitfaced and I need to take a break for an hour. And I thought you looked Byronic and interesting. Where are there tide pools?”
He angled his head to their right. “Back that way. Maybe half a mile.”
“Let’s go see them!”
“I’ve seen them. And you aren’t wearing the appropriate shoes for climbing.”
Rose looked down at her cheap flip-flops, shrugged, and said, “God hates a coward. Come on.”
~
They’d looked at the tide pools, and Rose hadn’t complained as they scrabbled over rough Purbeck stone to get to them. Being a small woman, she’d asked for a hand up on two occasions, but she didn’t complain, and she was genuinely interested in the sea slugs and anemones they found.
Then they’d moved on to another section of swimming beach, and now she was trying to teach him to skip rocks.
“Oh! You almost had that one,” she exclaimed, as his latest effort sank.
“What sort of trajectory am I trying for?” he asked. “It really isn’t obvious.”
“Ummmm…” and she pitched another stone, which made four hops before sinking. “I mean, I guess, like fifteen or twenty degrees. But it depends on the rock.”
“Well, that’s helpful.”
“You just take the rock and then you know how you have to throw it. It’s mostly practice.”
“You’re very good at it.”
“It’s what I’m best at,” she said, and the next stone made six skips before it sank. “You got a projectile and need it put someplace specific, I’m your girl.”
“Really?”
“Really. What are you best at?”
He thought about it for a minute.
“Deductions. That’s what I’m best at.”
“Like… in geometry? If AB equals BC then A equals C?”
“Sort of. But it’s not just that. I can do it for other things. And people.”
“How?”
“Just like in geometry. You use if-then logic and come to the appropriate conclusion. Except most people aren’t aware of all of the givens, and I am.”
“O-kay,” she said, slowly, “So, like, what can you deduce about me?”
He cocked his head, doubtfully, and asked, “You want me to do that?”
Rose shrugged. “Why not? What have I got to hide?”
Sherlock wished he hadn’t mentioned it, now. It would spoil what had been a surprisingly pleasant afternoon. She was only asking because she’d never seen him do it… nobody really wanted his deductions. Everyone had something to hide.
But she had asked and declining would be nearly as offensive, he supposed. So he let himself really look. Excessive dark-blonde hair, no jewelry, black midriff-baring top with thin straps and no bra (irrelevant, he chided himself), well-developed lean musculature particularly in the shoulders. Mid-priced wide-legged flared jeans clumsily home-hemmed, since she fell between the “petite” and “regular” lengths. He walked behind her, continuing his examination, and smiled. The grey plaid flannel shirt she had knotted around her waist had a great deal of relevant information.
Returning in front of her, he asked, “May I have a look at your hands?” Rose complied, extending them forward, palms up. Her hands, with their emerald-green fingernails and distinctive musculature, had almost everything else he thought he could get, except-
“And a better look at the tattoo, please?”
Rose smiled and raised an eyebrow at that, but complied, slipping a thumb under the waistband of her jeans and tugging them down another inch or two to reveal a small, stylized design of a leafless tree struck by lightning (and incidentally a crest of pale hipbone and just a flash of red plaid underwear).
“Satisfied?” she asked.
“Entirely.” And Sherlock was.
“So what do you deduce?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. You’re an American-“
“Well that was a toughie,” Rose teased.
“From Iowa. You’re a natural linguist but you’re studying chemistry. You played softball seriously, as a pitcher, until a rotator cuff injury which you opted not to have corrected bought your sporting ambitions to an end within the last year. Upper middle class family, strict parents. You currently live with a wire-haired terrier you dislike, you’re sentimental, and you’re a keen amateur cook.”
And that had done it, of course. Her face, which had formerly seemed naturally happy, had closed off and become hostile. She took a step away from him, and said, coldly, “Has Victor been talking about me behind my back?”
“You know Victor Trevor?” Sherlock asked.
“Everybody knows Victor. Answer the question.”
“No, he hasn't. I told you. I looked and I listened. Teeth straightened in adolescence, a selection of newish mid-priced clothes, spending a semester abroad? Well off but probably not rich family, then. You know, at no notice, idiomatic phrases in two separate languages describing an unusual activity? Clearly, there’s a gift for languages. The mild splay of the fingers in your dominant hand and unusual muscular development in your shoulders, along with your obvious aptitude for throwing suggests softball and pitching. The slight pull and hesitation when you draw that arm back would allow any doctor to diagnose a rotator cuff injury, a career-ending one without surgical correction, and yet you lack scars. Thus softball is over.”
Rose cocked her head and looked at him, but at least the anger was gone. So he continued.
“There’s particularly contoured dog hair common to wire-haired terriers on your jeans, meaning it’s fond of you, but none on your shirt, meaning you don’t pick it up, and you aren’t fond of it.”
“Marco’s a drooler and he scratches. Anyway I’m more of a cat person.”
“Cats eat you after you’re dead. They don’t even wait until they’re starving, just mildly peckish.”
“True, but on the other hand, I’m dead in this situation. So who cares?”
Sherlock nodded slowly, “Very practical. You’ve got enough minor knife and burn injuries to your hands to suggest you spend a lot of time cooking but your forearm development isn’t substantial enough to indicate professional work in the field. I can tell you study chemistry because of the marks on your shirt. They never properly clean the lab benches off and you lean into the edges and get some trace amounts of peroxide or acid on the material… which then produces distinctive straight lines of bleaching the next time the shirt is laundered. I have some of the same ones, see?”
He gestured to his trousers, where the bleaching effect occurred on him, given his greater height.
“Huh,” Rose said, “I never really thought about that. So why Iowa?”
“Ah, I was right!”
“Not really. Nebraska. But just across the river from Iowa.”
Sherlock sighed. “Accents are difficult with anyone young enough to have watched television as a child. But the Iowa accent is marked by monopthongs and “T”-glottalization, and you have it.”
“I have no idea what those things are,” Rose said, musingly, “But since most people around here think New York and L.A. are the only two cities in America that’s actually really good.”
Sherlock felt the blood rushing to his face with pride, and so he kept on, “You’re sentimental because that flannel is battered and you’ve fixed three different tears rather than just discarding it, even though it was never terribly expensive.”
“I saw Nirvana in this shirt.”
Sherlock frowned, wondering if she meant she was Buddhist, and then recalled the band.
“That tattoo,” he wrapped up, “Is a Marius Cook, done about five months ago. I’ve made a bit of a study of the major tattoo artists of the United Kingdom, you’d be surprised at how often it’s useful. You’ve been of legal age to get tattooed for some time but waited until you were well away from home and then did it instantly but kept it someplace easy to hide, thus: strict parents.”
~
It was dark, now, and someone had pulled out a guitar and was strumming amateurish chords. Sherlock and Rose had looked at one another and, in a moment of pure intoxicated understanding
~
The semen had more or less dried on her thighs by the time Rose decided that Will wouldn’t be back, even to collect his shirt. She sighed and rubbed her stubble-burned face. Then she pulled on her underwear and jeans, and sat and looked up at the stars, which were slightly more mobile than they ought to have been.
She’d liked him. He wasn’t handsome, but five years and twenty pounds of weight gain would probably have made him so. And he was sweet. Clumsy and inexperienced, yes, but intelligent and fun to talk with… essentially, she’d been very happy with the encounter and now she felt…
Cheap. Which was undoubtedly what her mother would have said about anyone who fucked a man who she’d just met and was expecting to never see again. So Rose had a bit of a self-pitying snivel, and cried about her troubles.
Eventually her natural good humor resurfaced (she had the beneficial confidence of someone who had taken a birth control pill every day for the last three years) and she said, smiling to herself, “Jilted by a gentleman. If I can get ruined and discarded by a redcoat I can have my own Gothic novel.”
She collected the blanket and Will’s shirt, then ambled back to the party, which was still in full swing, although the Oxford contingent seemed to have gone. Her flatmate Magda spotted her and called out, “There you are, you whore. Where’d tall dark and skinny run off to?”
“I think I frightened him away,” Rose replied, lightly, “English boys are all prudes. Are there any more of those screwdrivers?”
Magda gestured wildly at the five gallon drinks cooler behind her. “About half.”
“Good. About half sounds just about right.” And she wadded Will’s shirt up, tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin, and poured herself a drink.
~
They both forgot all about it. The vodka helped Rose do a great deal of this within the first twenty-four hours. Then there was the fact that Byronic-and-interesting Will was neither the first nor the last of a long string of men that would eventually span four continents, some of whom would disappoint her in far more spectacular fashion. By the time she buried Rose and became Mary, she could skim stones without even vaguely recalling that summer afternoon.
Sherlock didn’t forget much, and so deleting Rose took an effort of willpower. He performed a few subsequent experiments with sex and came to the conclusion that it was unlikely to be productive of any good and indeed, subjected him to undesirable sentimentality. Cocaine was a far more efficient euphoric and asked much less of him, in the end. The choice to purge his files on the subject en masse was therefore simple logic and had nothing to do with wishing to shed the recollection of a callow, prematurely-ejaculating version of himself.
When, much later, he plugged the memory stick marked AGRA into his laptop and began reading the files, the name Rose Addison didn’t stir even the faintest reminiscence.
~
“Oh no. Oh my God, you’re- You died! You jumped off a roof!”
